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Title: The Catholic World, Vol. 20, October 1874‐March 1875

Author: Various

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***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CATHOLIC WORLD, VOL. 20, OCTOBER 1874‐MARCH 1875***





                            The Catholic World

           A Monthly Magazine of General Literature and Science

                                 Vol. XX.

                        October 1874 to March 1875

                     The Catholic Publication House.

                                 New York

                                   1875





CONTENTS


Contents.
The Catholic World. Vol. XX., No. 115.—October, 1874.
   Matter. III.
   Hope.
   The Veil Withdrawn.
   September—Sabbath Rest.
   The Present State Of Anglicanism.
   Antar And Zara; Or, “The Only True Lovers.”
   Assunta Howard. III. In Extremis.
   A Discussion With An Infidel.
   A Legend Of Alsace.
   Fac‐Similes Of Irish National Manuscripts.
   Congress Of The Catholic Germans At Mayence.
   Switzerland In 1873. Lucerne.
   Roger The Rich.
   The Poem Of Izdubar.
   New Publications.
The Catholic World. Vol. XX., No. 116.—November, 1874.
   Church Chant _Versus_ Church Music.
   A Vision.
   On The Wing. A Southern Flight. VII. Concluded.
   The Three Edens.
   A Discussion With An Infidel.
   Destiny.
   The Veil Withdrawn.
   Fac‐Similes Of Irish National Manuscripts. Concluded.
   Annals Of The Moss‐Troopers.
   Assunta Howard. IV. Convalescence.
   Inscription For The Bell “Gabriel,” At S. Mary’s Of The Lake, Lake
   George.
   Switzerland In 1873. Lucerne. Concluded.
   A Legend Of Alsace. Concluded.
   Wind And Tide.
   Matter. IV.
   New Publications.
The Catholic World. Vol. XX., No. 117.—December, 1874.
   The Persecution Of The Church In The German Empire.
   The Veil Withdrawn.
   Church Chant _Versus_ Church Music.
   Assunta Howard. V. Sienna.
   Swinburne And De Vere.
   Requies Mea.
   Ontologism And Psychologism.
   Reminiscences Of A Tile‐Field.
   The Ingenious Device.
   The Rigi.
   Church Song.
   A Discussion With An Infidel.
   The Ice‐Wigwam Of Minnehaha.
   A Russian Sister Of Charity.
   New Publications.
The Catholic World. Vol. XX., No. 118.—January, 1875.
   The Persecution Of The Church In The German Empire.
   Christmas‐Tide.
   The Veil Withdrawn.
   Another General Convention Of The Protestant Episcopal Church.
   Assunta Howard. Concluded.
   Matter. V.
   Christmas In The Thirteenth Century.
   The Civilization Of Ancient Ireland.
   Robespierre.
   The Better Christmas.
   English And Scotch Scenes.
   The Future Of The Russian Church.
   The Leap For Life.
   The Year Of Our Lord 1874.
   New Publications.
The Catholic World. Vol. XX., No. 119.—February, 1875.
   Church Authority And Personal Responsibility:
   The Church In F——.
   Are You My Wife? Chapter I.
   Religion And State In Our Republic.
   Release.
   The Veil Withdrawn.
   The Brooklet.
   The Colonization Of New South Wales By Great Britain.
   A Summer In Rome.
   Matter. VI.
   Robespierre. Concluded.
   Robert Cavelier De La Salle.
   Birth‐Days.
   The Future Of The Russian Church.
   The Bells Of Prayer.
   New Publications.
The Catholic World. Vol. XX., No. 120.—March, 1875.
   Italian Documents Of Freemasonry.
   Crown Jewels.
   Are You My Wife? Chapter II.
   The Colonization Of New South Wales By Great Britain. Concluded.
   The Veil Withdrawn.
   A Bit Of Modern Thought On Matter.
   The Blind Student.
   Turning From Darwin To Thomas Aquinas.
   The Future Of The Russian Church.
   Burke And The Revolution.
   Robert Cavelier De La Salle. Concluded.
   The Log Chapel On The Rappahannock.
   New Publications.
Footnotes






                               [Cover Page]





CONTENTS.


Anglicanism, The Present State of, 41.

Annals of the Moss Troopers, 222.

Another General Convention of the P. E. Church, 465.

Are you my Wife? 596, 738.

Assunta Howard, 62, 234, 332, 474.

Bit of Modern Thought on Matter, A, 786.

Blind Student, The, 802.

Burke and the Revolution, 823.

Bussierre’s A Legend of Alsace, 91, 260.

Christmas in the Thirteenth Century, 502.

Church Authority, etc., 578.

Church Chant _vs._ Church Music, 145, 317.

Civilization of Ancient Ireland, 506.

Colonization of New South Wales by Great Britain, 650, 759.

Congress of the Catholic Germans at Mayence, 109.

Craven’s Veil Withdrawn, 15, 193, 297, 446, 630, 767.

Discussion with an Infidel, A, 73, 175, 405.

Eighteen Hundred and Seventy‐Four, 561.

English and Scotch Scenes, 529.

Fac‐Similes of Irish National MSS., 102, 213.

Future of the Russian Church, The, 544, 703, 810.

German Empire, The Persecution of the Church in the, 289, 433.

Ice‐Wigwam of Minnehaha, The, 424.

Infidel, A Discussion with an, 73, 175, 405.

Ireland, The Civilization of Ancient, 506.

Irish National MSS., 102, 213.

Italian Documents of Freemasonry, 721.

Izdubar, The Poem of, 138.

La Salle, Robert Cavelier de, 690, 833.

Legend of Alsace, A, 91, 260.

Log Chapel on the Rappahannock, The, 847.

Lucerne, 123, 245.

Matter, 1, 272, 487, 666.

Matter, A Bit of Modern Thought on, 786.

Minnehaha, The Ice‐Wigwam of, 424.

Moss Troopers, Annals of the, 222.

New South Wales, The Colonization of, 650, 759.

On the Wing, 158.

Ontologism and Psychologism, 360.

Persecution of the Church in the German Empire, The, 289, 433.

Personal Responsibility, 578.

Poem of Izdubar, The, 138.

Present State of Anglicanism, The, 41.

Protestant Episcopal Church, General Convention of the, 465.

Religion and State in our Republic, 615.

Reminiscences of a Tile Field, 374.

Rigi, The, 388.

Robert Cavelier de La Salle, 690, 833.

Robespierre, 519, 680.

Russian Church, The Future of the, 544, 703.

Russian Sister of Charity, A, 428.

Scotch Scenes, 529.

Southern Flight, A, 158.

Summer in Rome, A, 658.

Swinburne and De Vere, 346.

Switzerland in 1873, 123, 245.

Tile Field, Reminiscences of a, 374.

Tondini’s A Russian Sister of Charity, 428.

Tondini’s Russian Church, 544, 703, 810.

Veil Withdrawn, The, 15, 193, 297, 446, 630, 767.

Year of our Lord 1874, The, 561.




Poetry.


Antar and Zara, 55.

Better Christmas, The, 528.

Bells of Prayer, The, 713.

Birth‐Days, 702.

Brooklet, The, 649.

Church in F——, The, 595.

Christmas Tide, 443.

Church Song, 404.

Crown Jewels, 737.

Destiny, 192.

Episode in the Career of Pres. MacMahon, 557.

Hope, 14.

Ingenious Device, The, 387.

Inscription on the Bell Gabrielle at S. Mary’s of the Lake, Lake George,
            244.

Leap for Life, The, 557.

Release, 629.

Requies Mea, 359.

Roger the Rich, 135.

September—Sabbath Rest, 40.

Three Edens, The, 174.

Turning from Darwin to Thomas Aquinas, 809.

Vision, A, 157.

Wind and Tide, 271.




New Publications.


Alzog’s Universal History, 287.

Anecdote Biographies of Thackeray and Dickens, 143.

Augustine, S., The Works of, 575.

Avancinus’ Meditations, 714.

Bateman’s Ierne of Armorica, 720.

Bric‐a‐Brac Series, 143, 576.

Caddell’s Summer Talk about Lourdes, 288.

Catholic Family Almanac for 1875, 429.

Characteristics from the Writings of John Henry Newman, 860.

Charteris, 288.

Complete Office of Holy Week, The, 860.

Cumplido’s The Perfect Lay‐Brother, 859.

Curtius’ History of Greece, 288.

Didiot’s The Religious State, 859.

Dodge’s Rhymes and Jingles, 576.

Excerpta ex Rituali Romano, 716.

Father Eudes and his Foundations, 839.

Fleuriot’s Eagle and Dove, 575.

Greenleaf’s Testimony of the Evangelists Examined, 718.

Harper’s Peace through the Truth, 860.

Hewit’s King’s Highway, 574.

History of Greece, 288.

History of the Catholic Church in Scotland, 287.

Holland’s Mistress of the Manse, 430.

Holy Week, The Complete Office of, 860.

Ierne of Armorica, 720.

Illustrated Catholic Almanac for 1875, 429.

Katherine Earle, 288.

King’s Highway, 574.

Leguay’s The Mistress of Novices, 859.

Lessons in Bible History, 715.

Letters of Mr. Gladstone and others, 716.

Letter to the Duke of Norfolk on Gladstone’s Expostulation, 857.

Library of the Sacred Heart, 576.

Life of Anne Catherine Emmerich, 142.

Margaret Roper, 860.

Maria Monk’s Daughter, 430.

Marvin’s Philosophy of Spiritualism, 860.

Meditations on the Life and Doctrine of Jesus Christ, 714.

Meline’s Charteris, 288.

Mill’s Three Essays on Religion, 575.

Milwaukee Catholic Magazine, 720.

Mistress of Novices, The, 859.

Mistress of the Manse, 430.

Montgomery’s On the Wing, 860.

Montzey’s Father Eudes, etc., 859.

Morris’ Prisoners of the Temple, 714.

Murray’s Manual of Mythology, 287.

Newman’s Characteristics, 860.

Newman’s Letter, etc., 857.

Nobleman of ’89, The, 714.

Notes on the Second Plenary Council of Baltimore, 430.

On the Wing, 860.

Ordo Divini Officii Recitandi Missæque Celebrandæ, juxta Rubricas
            Breviarii ac Missalis Romani, Anno 1875, 719.

Oriental and Linguistic Studies, 573.

Outlines of Astronomy, 717.

Peace through the Truth, 860.

Perfect Lay‐Brother, The, 859.

Personal Reminiscences by Barham, Harness, and Hodder, 576.

Philosophy of Spiritualism, The, 860.

Prisoners of the Temple, The, 714.

Protestant Journalism, 288.

Purgatory Surveyed, 715.

Quinton’s The Nobleman of ’89, 714.

Ram’s Life of Anne Catherine Emmerich, 142.

Réglement Ecclesiastique de Pierre Le Grand, 719.

Religious State, The, etc., 859.

Rhymes and Jingles, 576.

Sadliers’ Catholic Directory for 1875, 720.

Searle’s Outlines of Astronomy, 717.

Sins of the Tongue, 718.

Smith’s Notes on the Council of Baltimore, 430.

Stewart’s Margaret Roper, 860.

Summer Talk about Lourdes, 288.

Testimony of the Evangelists Examined, etc., 713.

Three Essays on Religion, 575.

Tondini’s Réglement Ecclesiastique de Pierre Le Grand, 719.

Torrey’s Theory of True Art, 288.

Trafton’s Katherine Earle, 288.

Universal Church History, 289.

Valiant Woman, The, 718.

Walsh’s History of the Catholic Church in Scotland, 287.

Whitney’s Oriental and Linguistic Studies, 573.

Works of Aurelius Augustine, 575.

Young Catholic’s Illustrated School Series, 143.





THE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XX., NO. 115.—OCTOBER, 1874.




Matter. III.


The plain philosophical and scientific proofs by which we have established
the _actio in distans_, although sufficient, in our judgment, to convince
every unbiassed reader of the truth of the view we have maintained, may
nevertheless prove inadequate to remove the prejudice of those who regard
the time‐honored doctrine of action by material contact as axiomatic and
unassailable. It is true that they cannot upset our arguments; but they
oppose to us other arguments, which they confidently believe to be
unanswerable. It is therefore necessary for us to supplement our previous
demonstration by a careful analysis of the objections which can be made
against it, and to show the intrinsic unsoundness of the reasonings by
which they are supported. This is what we intend to do in the present
article.

_A first objection._—The first and chief argument advanced against the
possibility of _actio in distans_ without a material medium of
communication is thus developed in the _Popular Science Monthly_ for
November, 1873 (p. 94), by J. B. Stallo:

“How is the mutual action of atoms existing by themselves in complete
insulation, and wholly without contact, to be realized in thought? We are
here in presence of the old difficulties respecting the possibility of
_actio in distans_ which presented themselves to the minds of the
physicists in Newton’s time, and constituted one of the topics of the
famous discussion between Leibnitz and Clarke, in the course of which
Clarke made the remarkable admission that ‘if one body attracted another
without an intervening body, that would be not a miracle, but a
contradiction; for it would be to suppose that a body acts where it is
not’—otherwise expressed: Inasmuch as action is but a mode of being, the
assertion that a body can act where it is not would be tantamount to the
assertion that a body can be where it is not. This admission was entirely
in consonance with Newton’s own opinion; indeed, Clarke’s words are but a
paraphrase of the celebrated passage in one of Newton’s letters to
Bentley, cited by John Stuart Mill in his _System of Logic_, which runs as
follows: ‘It is inconceivable that inanimate brute matter should, without
the mediation of something else which is not material, operate upon and
affect other matter _without mutual contact_.... That gravity should be
innate, inherent, and essential to matter, so that one body may act on
another, at a distance, through a vacuum, without the mediation of
anything else by and through which their action and force be conveyed from
one to the other, is to me so great an absurdity that I believe no man,
who in philosophical matters has a competent faculty of thinking, can ever
fall into it.’ ”

Before we enter into the discussion of this objection we must remark that
it is scarcely fair to allege Newton’s view as contrary to _actio in
distans_. For he neither requires a material contact of matter with matter
nor a material medium of communication; he says, on the contrary, that the
inanimate brute matter needs _the mediation of something else which is not
material_; which amounts to saying that his inanimate brute matter must
have all around a non‐material sphere of power, without which it would
never reach any distant matter. This assertion, far from being a denial of
_actio in distans_, seems rather to be a remote endeavor towards its
explanation; and it may be surmised that, had Newton been as well
acquainted with the metaphysical doctrine about the essential constituents
of substance as he was with the mathematical formulas of mechanics, he
would have recognized in his “inanimate brute matter” the potential
constituent of material substance, and in his “something else which is not
material” the formal constituent of the same substance and the principle
of its operation. The only objectionable phrase we find in the passage now
under consideration is that in which he describes action and force as
_conveyed_ from matter to matter. But, as he explicitly maintains that
this convection requires no material medium, the phrase, whatever may be
its verbal inaccuracy, is not scientifically wrong, and cannot be brought
to bear against the _actio in distans_. We therefore dismiss this part of
the objection as preposterous, and shall at once turn our attention to
Clarke’s argument, which may be reduced to the syllogistic form thus:

“A body cannot act where it is not present either by itself or by its
power. But _actio in distans_ is an action which would be exerted where
the body is not present by itself, as is evident; and where the body is
not present by its power, as there is no medium of communication.
Therefore the _actio in distans_ is an impossibility.”

The objection, though extremely plausible, is based on a false
assumption—that is, on the supposition that there can be distance from the
active power of one element to the matter of another. The truth is that,
however far matter may be distant from matter, no active power can ever be
distant from it. For no distance in space is conceivable without two
formal ubications. Now, a material element has undoubtedly a formal
ubication in space by reason of its matter, which is the centre of its
sphere of activity, but not by reason of its active power. Distances, in
fact, are always measured from a point to a point, and never from a point
to an active power, nor from an active power to a point. The matter of a
primitive element marks out a point in space, and from this point we take
the direction of its exertions; but the power of an element, as
contradistinguished from its matter, is not a point in space, nor does it
mark a point in space, nor is it conceivable as a term of distance. And
therefore to suppose that there may be a distance from the active power of
an element to the point where another element is ubicated, is to make a
false supposition. The active power transcends the predicament _ubi_, and
has no place within which we can confine it; it is not circumscribed like
matter, and is not transmissible, as the objection supposes, from place to
place through any material medium; it is ready, on the contrary, to act
directly and immediately upon any matter existing in its indefinite(1)
sphere, while its own matter is circumscriptively ubicated in that single
point(2) which is the centre of the same sphere. Prof. Faraday explicitly
affirmed that “each atom extends, so to say, throughout the whole of the
solar system, yet always retains its own centre of force”;(3) which, in
metaphysical language, means that while _the matter_ of a primitive
element occupies a single point, _the form_ constitutes around it an
indefinite sphere of power. And for this reason it was Faraday’s opinion
that the words _actio in distans_ should not be employed in science. For
although the matter of one body is distant from the matter of another, yet
the power that acts is not distant; and therefore, although there is no
contact of matter with matter, there is a _contactus virtutis_, or a
contact of power with matter, which alone is required for the production
of the effect.

We are far from supposing that the adversaries of the _actio in distans_
will be silenced by the preceding answer; as it is very probable that the
answer itself will be to many of them a source of new difficulties. Still,
many things are true which are difficult to be understood; and it would be
against reason to deny truths sufficiently inferred from facts, only on
account of the difficulty which we experience in giving a popular
explanation of them. Those who, to avoid such a difficulty, deny action at
a distance, expose themselves to other difficulties which are much more
real, as admitting of no possible solution; and if they reject actions at
a distance because their explanation appears to be difficult, they are
also bound to reject even more decidedly all actions by material contact;
for these indeed admit of no explanation whatever, as we have already
shown.(4)

To understand and explain how material elements can act at any distance is
difficult, for this one radical reason: that our intellectual work is
never purely intellectual, but is always accompanied by the working of
that other very useful, but sometimes mischievous, power which we call
imagination; and because, when we are trying to understand something that
transcends imagination, and of which no sensible image can be formed, our
intellect finds itself under the necessity of working without the
assistance of suitable sensible representations. Our imagination, however,
cannot remain inactive, and therefore it strives continually to supply the
intellect with new images; but as these, unhappily, are not calculated to
afford any exact representation of intellectual things, the intellect,
instead of receiving help from the imagination, is rather embarrassed and
led astray by it. On the other hand, the words which we are generally
obliged to use in speaking of intellectual objects are more or less
immediately drawn from sensible things, and have still a certain
connection with sensible images. With such words, our explanations must,
of course, be metaphorical in some degree, and represent the intelligible
through the sensible, even when the latter is incompatible with the
former. This is one of the reasons why, in some cases, men fail to express
intelligibly and in an unobjectionable manner their most intellectual
thoughts. True it is that the metaphysicians, by the definite form of
their terminology, have greatly diminished this last difficulty; but, as
their language is little known outside of the philosophical world, our use
of it will scarcely help the common reader to understand what it conveys.
On the contrary, the greater the exactness of our expressions, the more
strange and absurd our style will appear to him who knows of no other
language than that of his senses, his imagination, and popular prejudice.

These general remarks apply most particularly to _actio in distans_. It is
objected that a cause cannot act where it is not, and where its power is
not conveyed through a material medium. Now, this proposition is to be
ranked among those which nothing but popular prejudice, incompleteness of
conception, and imperfection of language cause to be received as
axiomatic. We have pointed out that no material medium exists through
which power can be conveyed; but as the objection is presented in popular
terms and appeals to imagination, whilst our answer has no such advantage,
it is very probable that the objection will keep its ground as long as men
will be led by imagination more than by intellect. To avoid this danger,
Faraday preferred to say that “the atom [primitive element] of matter is
everywhere present,” and therefore can act everywhere. But by this answer
the learned professor, while trying to avoid Scylla, struck against
Charybdis. For, if the element of matter is everywhere present, then
Westminster Abbey, for instance, is everywhere present; which cannot be
true in the ordinary sense of the words. In fact, we are accustomed to say
that a body is present, not in that place where its action is felt, but in
that from which the direction of the action proceeds, and since such a
direction proceeds from the centres of power, to these centres alone we
refer when we point out the place occupied by a body. Prof. Faraday, on
the contrary, refers to the active powers when he says that matter is
everywhere present; for he considers the elements as consisting of power
alone.(5) But this way of speaking is irreconcilable with the notions we
have of determinate places, distances, etc., and creates a chaotic
confusion in all our ideas of material things. He speaks more correctly in
the passage which we have already mentioned, where he states that “each
atom [element] extends, _so to say_, throughout the whole of the solar
system, yet always retaining its own centre of force.” Here the words “so
to say” tell us clearly that the author, having found no proper terms to
express himself, makes use of a metaphor, and attributes _extension_ to
the material elements in a sense which is not yet adopted in common use.
He clearly wishes to say that “each element extends _virtually_ throughout
space, though it _materially_ occupies only the central point from which
its action is directed.”

This latter answer is very good. But people are not likely to realize its
full meaning; for in speaking of material substance men frequently
confound that which belongs to it by reason of its matter with that which
belongs to it by reason of its substantial form. It is evident, however,
that if the substance had no matter, it would not mark out a point in
space; it is, therefore, only on account of its matter that a substance is
formally ubicated.

As to the substantial form (which is the principle of activity), although
it is said to have a kind of ubication on account of the matter to which
it is terminated, nevertheless, of itself, it has no capability of formal
ubication, as we have already shown. Hence the extent to which the active
power of an element can be applied is not to be measured by the ubication
of its matter; and although no cause can act where it is not virtually by
its power, yet a cause can act where it is not present by its matter.

The direct answer to the argument proposed would, therefore, be as
follows:

“A body cannot act where it is not present either by itself or by its
power.” _Granted._

“But _actio in distans_ is an action which would be exerted where the body
is not present by itself, as is evident.” _Granted._ “And where the body
is not present by its power.” _False._

To the reason adduced, that “there is no medium of communication,” we
simply reply that such a medium is not required, as the active power
constitutes an indefinite sphere, and is already present after its own
manner (that is, virtually) wherever it is to be exerted; and therefore it
has no need of being transmitted through a medium.

This is the radical solution of the difficulty proposed. But the notion of
an indefinite sphere of activity, on which this solution is grounded, is,
in the eyes of our opponents, only a whimsical invention, inconsistent, as
they think, with the received principles of philosophy. We must therefore
vindicate our preceding answer against their other objections.

_A second objection._—A sphere of power, they say, is a mere absurdity.
For how can the active power be there, where its matter is not? The matter
is the first subject of its form; and therefore the form must be in the
matter, and not outside of it. But in a primitive substance the active
power is entitatively the same thing with the substantial form;
accordingly, the active power of a primitive substance must be entirely in
its matter, and not outside of it. And the same conclusion is to be
applied to the powers of all material compounds; for in all cases the form
must be supported by the matter. How is it, then, possible to admit a
sphere of power outside of its matter, and so distant from its matter as
is the sun from the planets?

This objection, which we have often heard from men who should have known
better, is wholly grounded on a false conception of the relation between
the matter and the form of a primitive being. It is false, in fact, that
the matter _supports_ the substantial form, and it is false that the
substantial form exists in the matter as in a subject. The accidental act
requires a _subject_ already existing; but the substantial act requires
only a potential term to which it has to give the first existence. This is
evident; because if the substantial act ought to be supported by a real
subject, this real subject would be an actual substance before receiving
the same substantial act; which is a contradiction in terms. And therefore
the form is not _supported_ by the matter, but only _terminated_ to it;
and the matter is not the _subject_ of the form, though it is so called by
many, but is only the substantial _term_, to which the substantial form
gives existence. “Properly speaking,” says S. Thomas, “that which is
potential in regard to some accidental actuality is called _subject_. For
the subject gives actuality to the accident, as the accident has no
actuality except through its subject; and for this reason we say that
accidents are in a subject, whereas _we do not say that the substantial
form is in a subject_. ‘Matter,’ therefore, and ‘subject,’ differ in this:
that ‘subject’ means something which does not receive its actuality by the
accession of anything else, but exists by itself and possesses a complete
actuality (as, for example, a white man does not receive his being from
his whiteness). ‘Matter,’ on the contrary, means something which receives
its actuality from that which is given to it; because matter has, of
itself, only an incomplete being, or rather no being at all, as the
Commentator says. Hence, to speak properly, the form gives existence to
the matter; whereas the accident gives no existence to the subject, as it
is the subject that gives existence to the accident. Yet ‘matter’ is
sometimes confounded with ‘subject,’ and _vice versa_.”(6)

From this doctrine it is manifest that the matter is not the subject of
the substantial form, and consequently that the form, or the principle of
activity, is in no need of being supported by its matter. It is rather the
matter itself that needs to be supported—that is, kept in existence—by its
form; as it has no being except from it. The matter is potency, and the
form is act; now, all act is nobler than its corresponding potency. It is
not, therefore, the potency that determines the conditions of existence of
its act, but the act itself determines the conditions of existence of its
potency. And thus it is not the matter that determines the range of its
form, but it is the form that determines the being of its own matter, in
the same manner as the form of a body determines its centre of gravity.
These considerations, which will hereafter receive a greater development,
suffice to show that the range of the elementary power is not determined
or circumscribed by its material term. And thus the objection is
substantially destroyed.

Those who make this objection suppose that the activity of a material
element is entitatively enclosed, embedded, and merged in the matter as in
a physical recipient by which it must be circumscribed. This supposition
is a gross philosophical blunder. The matter of a primitive element is not
a physical recipient of the substantial form; for it is nothing physically
before it is actuated. The substantial form gives to the matter its first
being; and therefore it cannot be related to it as the enclosed to the
encloser or the supported to the supporter, but only as the determiner to
the determinable. This is an obvious metaphysical truth that cannot be
questioned. Moreover, the form can determine the existence of a material
point in space without being itself confined to that point. This is very
clearly inferred from the fact already established, viz., that a material
point acts all around itself in accordance with the Newtonian law; for
this fact compels the conception of a material element as a virtual
sphere, of which the matter is the central point, while its virtual
sphericity must be traced to the special character of the form. Now,
although the centre of a sphere borrows all its centric reality from the
sphericity of which it is the intrinsic term, yet the sphericity itself
cannot be confined within its own centre; which shows that, although the
matter of an element borrows all its reality from the substantial form of
which it is the essential term, yet the substantial form itself, on
account of its known spherical character, must virtually extend all around
its matter, and constitute, so to say, an atmosphere of power expanding as
far, at least, from the central point as is necessary for the production
of the phenomena of universal gravitation.

Nor can this be a sufficient ground for inferring, as the objection does,
that in such a case the form would be distant from its matter as much as
the sun is from the planets. The form, as such, cannot be considered as a
term of the relation of distance; for, as we have already remarked, there
is no distance without two formal ubications. Now, the form, as such, has
no formal ubication, but is reduced to the predicament _ubi_ only by the
ubication of its own matter. Hence it is impossible rationally to conceive
a distance between the matter and its form, however great may be the
sphere of activity of the material element. When the substantial form is
regarded as a principle of accidental actions, we may indeed consider it,
if not as composed of, at least as equivalent to, a continuous series of
concentric spherical forms overlying one another throughout the whole
range of activity; and we may thus conceive every one of them as
_virtually_ distant from the material centre, its virtual distance being
measured by its radius. But, strictly speaking, the radius measures the
distance between the agent and the patient, not between the agent and its
own power; and, on the other hand, as the imagined series of concentric
sphericities continues uninterruptedly up to the very centre of the
sphere, we can easily perceive that the substantial form, even as a
principle of action, is immediately and intrinsically terminated to its
own matter.

_A third objection._—What conception can we form of an _indefinite_
sphere? For a sphere without a spherical surface is inconceivable. But an
indefinite sphere is a sphere without a spherical surface; for if there
were a surface, there would be a limit; and if there were a limit, the
sphere would not extend indefinitely. It is therefore impossible to
conceive an indefinite sphere of activity.

This objection is easily answered. A sphere without a spherical _form_ is
indeed inconceivable; but it is not necessary that the spherical form
should be a _limiting_ surface, as the objection assumes. We may imagine
an indefinite sphere of matter; that is, a body having a density
continually decreasing in the inverse ratio of the squared distances from
a central point. Its sphericity would consist in the spherical decrease of
its density; which means that the body would be a sphere, not on account
of an exterior spherical limit, but on account of its interior
constitution. Now, what we say of an indefinite sphere of matter applies,
by strict analogy, to an indefinite sphere of power. Only, in passing from
the former to the latter, the word _density_ should be replaced by
_intensity_; for intensity is to power what density is to matter. And thus
an indefinite sphere of power may have its spherical character within
itself without borrowing it from a limiting surface. We may, therefore,
consider this third objection as solved.

Let us add that in our sphere of power not only all the conditions are
fulfilled which the law of gravitation requires, but, what is still more
satisfactory, all the conditions also which befit the metaphysical
constitution of a primitive substance. We have a centre (_matter_), the
existence of which essentially depends on the existence of a principle of
activity (_form_) constituting a virtual sphere. Take away the substantial
form, and the matter will cease to have existence. Take away the virtual
sphericity, and the centre will be no more. But let the spherical form be
created; the centre will immediately be called into existence as the
essential and intrinsic term of sphericity, it being impossible for a real
sphericity not to give existence to a real centre. And although this
spherical form possesses an intensity of power decreasing in proportion as
the sphere expands, still it has everywhere the same property of giving
existence to its centre, since it has everywhere an intrinsic spherical
character essentially connected with a central point as its indispensable
term. Whence we see that the substantial form, though virtually extending
into an indefinite sphere, is everywhere terminated to its own matter.
Thus the Newtonian law and the _actio in distans_, far from being opposed
to the known metaphysical law of the constitution of things, serve rather
to make it more evident by affording us the means of representing to
ourselves in an intelligible and almost tangible manner the ontologic
relation of matter and form in the primitive substance.

_A fourth objection._—A power which virtually extends throughout an
indefinite sphere must possess an infinite intensity. But no material
element possesses a power of infinite intensity. Therefore no element
extends its power throughout an indefinite sphere. The major of this
syllogism is proved thus: In an indefinite sphere we can conceive an
infinite multitude of concentric spherical surfaces, to every one of which
the active power of the element can be applied for the production of a
finite effect. But the finite taken an infinite number of times gives
infinity. Therefore the total action of an element in its sphere will be
infinite; which requires a power of infinite intensity.

The answer to this objection is not difficult. From the fact that the
active powers virtually extend through an indefinite sphere and act
everywhere in accordance with the Newtonian law, it is impossible to prove
that material elements possess a power of infinite intensity. We concede,
of course, that in an indefinite sphere “an infinite multitude of
concentric spherical surfaces can be conceived, to every one of which the
active power of the element can be applied for the production of a finite
effect.” We also concede that “the finite taken an infinite number of
times gives infinity.” But when it is argued that therefore “the total
action of an element in its sphere will be infinite,” we must distinguish.
The total action will be infinite in this sense: that it would reach an
infinite multitude of terms, if they existed in its sphere, and produce in
each of them a determinate effect, according to their distance—this we
concede. The total action will be infinite—that is, the total effort of
the element will be infinitely intense; this we deny. The schoolmen would
briefly answer that the action will be infinite _terminative_, but not
_intensive_. This distinction, which entirely upsets the objection, needs
a few words of explanation.

In the action of one element upon another the power of the agent, while
exerted on the patient, is not prevented from exerting itself at the very
same time upon any other element existing in its sphere of activity. This
is a well‐known physical law. Hence the same element can emit a thousand
actions simultaneously, without possessing a thousand powers or a
thousandfold power, by the simultaneous application of its single power to
a thousand different terms. The actions of an agent are therefore
indefinitely multiplied by the mere multiplication of the terms, with no
multiplication of the active power; and accordingly an active power of
finite intensity may have an infinite applicability. This is true of all
created powers. Our intellect, for instance, is substantially finite, and
yet it can investigate and understand any number of intelligible objects.
This amounts to saying that, if there is no limit to possible intellectual
conceptions, there is no limit to the number of intelligible terms; but
from this fact it would be absurd to infer that a created intellect has a
power of infinite intensity. In like manner, the motive power of a
material element is substantially finite, and yet it can be applied to the
production of a number of movements which has no limit but the number of
the terms capable of receiving the motion. The infinity of the total
action is therefore grounded on an assumed infinity of terms, not on an
infinite intensity of the power.

Nor can this be a matter of surprise. For, as the motive power is not
transmitted from the agent to the patient, it remains whole and entire in
the agent, however much it may be exerted in all directions. It is not
absorbed, or exhausted, or weakened by its exertions, and, while acting on
any number of terms, is yet ready to act on any number of other terms as
intensely as it would on each of them separately. If ten new planets were
now created, the sun would need no increase of power to attract them all;
its actual power would suffice to govern their course without the least
interference with the gravitation of the other existing planets. And the
reason of this is that the power of all material elements is naturally
determined to act, and therefore needs no other condition for its exertion
than the presence of the movable terms within the reach of its activity.
The number of such terms is therefore at every instant the measure of the
number of the real actions.

We have said that the active power is not weakened by its exertions. In
fact, a cause is never weakened by the mere production of its connatural
effects, but only because, while producing its effects, it is subjected to
the action of other agents which tends to alter and break up its natural
constitution. Now, to be altered and impaired may be the lot of those
causes whose causality arises from the conspiration of many active
principles, as is the case with all the physical compounds. But primitive
causes, such as the first elements of matter, are altogether unalterable
and incorruptible with respect to their substantial being, and can never
be impaired. When we burn a piece of paper, the paper with its composition
is destroyed, but we know that its first components remain unaltered, and
preserve still the same active powers which they possessed when they were
all united in the piece of paper.

This incontrovertible fact maybe confirmed _à priori_ by reflecting that
the active principle, or the substantial form, of a primitive element, is
not exposed to the influence of any natural agent capable of impairing it.
Everything that is impaired is impaired by its contrary. Now, the active
principle has no contrary. The only thing which might be imagined to be
contrary to a motive power would be a motive power of an opposite nature,
such as the repulsive against the attractive. Motive powers, however, do
not act on one another, but on their matter only, as matter alone is
passive. On the other hand, even if one power could act on another, its
motive action would only produce an accidental determination to local
movement, which determination surely would not alter in the least the
substance of a primitive being. Hence, although two opposite actions, when
terminated to the same subject, can neutralize each other, yet two
opposite motive powers can never exercise any influence on each other by
their natural actions; and therefore, in spite of their finite entity,
they are never impaired or weakened, and are applicable to the production
of an unlimited number of actions.

_A fifth objection._—An action of infinite intensity cannot but proceed
from a power of infinite intensity. But, according to the Newtonian law,
two elements, when their distance has become infinitely small, act on one
another with an intensity infinitely great. Therefore, if the Newtonian
law hold good even to the very centre of the element, the elementary power
possesses infinite intensity.

To this we reply that the mathematical expression of the intensity of the
action, in the case of infinitesimal distances, does not become infinite,
except when the action is supposed to last for a finite unit of time. But
the action continued for a finite unit of time is not the _actual_ action
of an element; it is the integral of all the actions exerted in the
infinite series of infinitesimal instants which makes up the finite unit
of time. To judge of the true intensity of the actual exertion, it is
necessary to exclude from the calculation the whole of the past or future
actions, and to take into account the only action which corresponds to the
infinitesimal present. In other terms, the actual action is expressed, not
by an integral, but by a differential. In fact, the elements act when they
are, not when they have been, or when they will be; they act in their
present, not in their future or in their past; and the present, the _now_,
is only an instant, which, though connecting the past with the future, has
in itself neither past nor future, and therefore has a rigorously
infinitesimal duration. It is this instant, and not the finite unit of
time, that measures the actual effort of the elements. Accordingly, the
action as actually proceeding from the elements, when at infinitesimal
distance, is infinitely less than the integral calculated for a finite
unit of time; which shows that the argument proposed has no foundation.

This answer serves also to complete our solution of the preceding
objection. It was there objected that the active power of an element can
be applied to the production of an infinite multitude of _finite_ effects;
to which we answered that a finite power was competent to do this by being
applied simultaneously to an infinite multitude of terms. But now we add
that none of those effects acquire a _finite_ intensity, except by the
continuation of the action during a finite unit of time, and therefore
that the true effect produced in every instant of time is infinitesimal.
Hence the infinite multitude of such effects, as related to the instant of
their actual production, is an infinite multitude of infinitesimals, and
the total effort of a primitive element in every instant of time is
therefore finite, not infinite.

_A sixth objection._—If we admit that a material element has an indefinite
sphere of power, we must also admit that the element has a kind of
immensity. For the active power must evidently be present entitatively in
all the parts of space where it is ready to act. Accordingly, as by the
hypothesis it is ready to act everywhere, its sphere being unlimited, it
must be present everywhere and extend without limit. In other words, the
elementary power would share with God the attribute of immensity—which is
impossible.

This objection, which, in spite of its apparent strength, contains only an
appeal to imagination instead of intellect, might be answered from S.
Thomas in two different ways. The first answer is suggested by the
following passage: “The phrase, _A thing is everywhere and in all times_,
can be understood in two manners: First, as meaning that the thing
possesses in its entity the reason of its extending to every place and to
every time; and in this manner it is proper of God to be everywhere and
for ever. Secondly, as meaning that the thing has nothing in itself by
which it be determined to a certain place or time.”(7) According to this
doctrine, a thing can be conceived to be everywhere, either by a positive
intrinsic determination to fill all space, or by the absence of any
determination implying a special relation to place. We might therefore
admit that the elementary power is everywhere in this second manner; for
although the matter of an element marks out a point in space, we have seen
that its power, as such, has no determination by which it can be confined
to a limited space. And yet nothing would oblige us to concede that the
active power of an element, by its manner of being everywhere, “shares in
God’s immensity”; for it is evident that an absence of determination has
nothing common with a positive determination, and is not a share of it.

The second answer is suggested by a passage in which the holy doctor
inquires “whether to be everywhere be an attribute of God alone,” and in
which he proposes to himself the objection that “universals are
everywhere; so also the first matter, as existing in all bodies, is
everywhere; and therefore something is everywhere besides God.” To which
he very briefly replies: “Universals and the first matter are indeed
everywhere, but they have not everywhere the same being.”(8) This answer
can be applied to the active power of primitive elements with as much
reason, to say the least, as it is to the first matter. The active power
may therefore be admitted to be everywhere, not indeed like God, who is
everywhere _formally_, and “has everywhere the same being,” but in a quite
different manner—that is, by extending everywhere _virtually_, and by
possessing everywhere a different degree of virtual being. We know, in
fact, that this is the case, as the exertions of such a power become
weaker and weaker in proportion as the object acted on is more and more
distant from the centre of activity.

Yet a third answer, which may prove to be the best, can be drawn from the
direct comparison of the pretended immensity of the elementary power with
the real immensity of the divine substance. God’s immensity is an infinite
attribute, which contains in itself the formal reason of the existence of
space, and therefore eminently contains in itself all possible ubications.
By his immensity God is essentially everywhere with his whole substance,
and is as infinite and entire in any one point of space as he is in the
whole of the universe and outside of it. On the other hand, what is the
pretended immensity of the elementary power? It is unnecessary to remark
that an indefinite sphere of power does not give existence to space, as it
presupposes it; but it is important to notice that, however great may be
the expansion of that virtual sphere, the essence and the substance of the
element are absolutely confined to that single point, where its form is
terminated to its matter. Both matter and form are included in the essence
of an element; hence there only can the element be with its essence and
substance where its matter and its form are together. But they are not
together, except in a single point. Therefore the element, however great
may be the virtual expansion of its sphere of power, is essentially and
substantially present only in a single point.

From this every one will see that there is no danger of confounding the
virtual ubiquity of created power with God’s immensity. Divine immensity
has been ingeniously, though somewhat strangely, defined by a philosopher
to be “a sphere of which the centre is everywhere.” The power of an
element, on the contrary, is “a sphere of which the centre is ubicated in
a single point.” If this does not preclude the notion that the element
“shares in God’s immensity,” we fail to see why every creature should not
share also in God’s eternity, by its existence in each successive moment
of time. The objection is therefore insignificant. As to the virtual
sphere itself, we must bear in mind that its power loses continually in
intensity as the virtual expansion is increased, till millions of millions
of elements are required to produce the least appreciable effect. Hence
the virtuality of elementary powers tends continually towards zero as its
limit, although it never reaches it. And as a decreasing series, though
implying an infinity of terms, may have a finite value, as mathematicians
know, so the virtuality of the elementary powers, although extending after
its own manner beyond any finite limit, represents only a finite property
of a finite being.

From what we have said in these pages the intelligent reader will realize,
we hope, that the much‐maligned _actio in distans_, as explained by us
according to Faraday’s conception, can bear any amount of philosophical
scrutiny. The principles which have formed the basis of our preceding
answers are the three following:

1st. Motive powers have no other formal ubication than that from which
their exertions proceed;

2d. Motive powers are never distant from any matter;

3d. Motive powers are not merged or embedded in the matter to which they
belong, but constitute a virtual sphere around it.

That _actio in distans_ not only is possible, but is the only action
possible with the material agents, has been proved in our preceding
article. The embarrassment we experience in its explanation arises, not
from our reason, but from our habit of relying too much on our
imagination. “Imagination,” says S. Thomas, “cannot rise above space and
time.” We depict to ourselves intellectual relations as local relations.
The idea that a material point situated on the earth can exert its power
on the polar star suggests to us the thought that the active power of that
element must share the ubication of the polar star, and be locally present
to it. Yet the true relation of the power to the star is not a local
relation, and the exertion of the power is not terminated to the _place_
where the star is, but to the _star_ itself as to its proper subject; and
therefore the relation is a relation of act to potency, not a relation of
local presence.

There is nothing local in the principle of activity, except the central
point from which its action is directed; and there is nothing local in its
action, except the direction from that central point to the subject to
which the action is terminated. True it is that we speak of _a sphere_ of
power, which seems to imply local relations. But such a sphere is not
locally determined by the power, which has no ubication, but by the matter
to which that power is to be applied. For the necessity of admitting a
sphere of power arises from the fact that all the matter placed at equal
distance from the centre of activity is equally acted on. It is only from
matter to matter that distance can be conceived; and thus it is only from
matter to matter, and not from matter to power, that the radius of a
sphere can be traced. Abstract geometry deals with imaginary points, but
physical geometry requires real points of matter.

Power is above geometry, and therefore it transcends space; hence the
difficulty of understanding its nature and of explaining the mode of its
operation. Nevertheless, power and matter are made for one another, and
must have a mutual co‐ordination, since they necessarily conspire into
unity of essence. Hence whatever can be predicated _potentially_ of the
matter can be _virtually_ predicated of the power; and, as the matter of
an element, though actuated in a single point of space, is everywhere
_potentially_—viz., can be moved to any distant place—so also the
principle of activity, though formally terminated to a single point, is
everywhere _virtually_—that is, it can impart motion to matter at any
distance. Thus _actio in distans_ might directly be inferred, as a
necessary result, from the ontological correlation of the essential
principles of matter. But we have no need of _à priori_ arguments, as, in
questions of fact, the best arguments are those which arise from the
analysis of the facts themselves. These arguments we have already given;
and, so long as they are not refuted, we maintain that nothing but _actio
in distans_ offers a philosophical explanation of natural facts.

To Be Continued.




Hope.


Youthful hope around thee lingers;
  Soon its transient lines will fly:
Time and Death with frosty fingers
  Touch its blossoms, and they die.

Yet rejoice while hope is keeping
  Watch upon her emerald throne.
Ere thy cheek is pale with weeping,
  Ere thy dreams of love have flown.




The Veil Withdrawn.


Translated, By Permission, From The French Of Madame Craven, Author Of “A
Sister’s Story,” “Fleurange,” Etc.



XVI.


As soon as I rose from my place I perceived the young lady who had been
collecting money in the morning not far off. She was going by with her
mother without observing me, and I followed in the crowd that was making
its way to the door. But a pouring rain was falling from the clouds which
were so threatening two hours before, and a great many who were going out
suddenly stopped and came back to remain under shelter during the shower.
In consequence of this I all at once found myself beside the young lady,
who was diligently seeking her mother, from whom she had been separated by
the crowd. She observed me this time, and with a child‐like smile and a
tone of mingled terror and confidence that were equally touching, said:

“Excuse me, madame, but, as you are taller than I, please tell me if you
see my mother—a lady in black with a gray hat.”

“Yes,” I replied, “I see her, and she is looking for you also. I will aid
you in reaching her.”

We had some trouble in opening a passage, but after some time succeeded in
getting to the place where her mother had been pushed by the crowd at some
distance from the door of the church. She was looking anxiously in every
direction, and when she saw us her face lighted up, and she thanked me
with equal simplicity and grace of manner for the service I had rendered
her daughter. We conversed together for some minutes, during which I
learned that though I had met them twice that day in the same church, it
was not the one they usually attended, their home being in another quarter
of the city. The daughter had been invited to collect money at S. Roch’s
that day, and wishing, for some reason, to be at home by four o’clock,
they had returned for the afternoon service, which ends an hour earlier
there than anywhere else. This variation from their usual custom had
probably caused a misunderstanding about the carriage which should have
been at the door, and they felt embarrassed about getting to the Rue St.
Dominique, where they resided, as the violent rain prevented them from
going on foot. Glad to be able to extricate them from their embarrassment,
I at once offered to take them home in my carriage, which was at the door.
They accepted the offer with gratitude. Their manners and language would
have left no doubt as to their rank, even if I had not met them in
society. And I soon learned more than enough to satisfy me on this point.

As soon as we were seated in the carriage the elder of the two ladies
said: “I know whom I have to thank for the favor you have done me, madame,
for no one can forget the Duchessa di Valenzano who has ever seen her,
even but once, and no one can be ignorant of her name, which is in every
mouth. But it is not the same with us. Allow me, therefore, to say that I
am the Comtesse de Kergy, and this is my daughter Diana, ... who is very
happy, I assure you, as well as surprised, at the accident that has
brought her in contact with one she has talked incessantly about ever
since she had the happiness of seeing you first.”

Her daughter blushed at these words, but did not turn away her eyes, which
were fastened on me with a sympathetic expression of charming _naïveté_
that inspired an irresistible attraction towards her in return. The name
of Kergy was a well‐known one. I had heard it more than once, and was
trying to recall when and where I heard it for the first time, when, as we
were crossing the Place du Carrousel, the young Diana, looking at the
clock on the Tuileries, suddenly exclaimed:

“It is just going to strike four. We ought to feel greatly obliged to
madame, mamma for, had it not been for her, we should have been extremely
late, and Gilbert would have been surprised and anxious at our not
arriving punctually.”

Gilbert!... This name refreshed my memory. Gilbert de Kergy was the name
of the young traveller whom I had once seen at the large dinner‐party. He
must be the very person in question.... Before I had time to ask, Mme. de
Kergy put an end to my uncertainty on the subject.

“My son,” said she, “has recently made an interesting tour in the Southern
States of America, and it is with respect to this journey there is to be a
discussion to‐day which we promised to attend. I have given up my large
_salon_ for the purpose, on condition (a condition Diana proposed) that
the meeting should end with a small collection in behalf of the orphan
asylum for which she was soliciting contributions this morning—a work in
which she is greatly interested.”

“My husband, who has also travelled a great deal,” I replied, “had, I
believe, the pleasure of meeting M. de Kergy on one occasion, and
conversing with him.”

“Gilbert has not forgotten the conversation,” exclaimed the young Diana
with animation. “He often speaks of it. He told us about you also, madame,
and described you so accurately that I knew you at once as soon as I saw
you, before any one told me your name.”

I made no reply, and we remained silent till, having crossed the bridge,
we approached the Rue St. Dominique, when Diana, suddenly leaning towards
her mother, whispered a few words in her ear. Mme. de Kergy began to
laugh.

“Really,” said she, “this child takes everything for granted; but you are
so kind, I will allow her to repeat aloud what she has just said to me.”

“Well,” said the young girl, “I said the discussion would certainly be
interesting, for Gilbert is to take a part in it, as well as several other
good speakers, and those who attend will at the close aid in a good work.
I added that I should be very much pleased, madame, if you would attend.”

I was by no means prepared for this invitation, and at first did not know
what reply to make, but quickly bethought myself that there would be more
than an hour before Lorenzo’s return. I knew, moreover, that, even
according to his ideas, I should be in very good society, and it could not
displease him in the least if I attended a discussion at the Hôtel de
Kergy under the auspices of the countess and her daughter. Besides, on my
part, I felt a good deal of curiosity, never having attended anything like
a public discussion. In short, I decided, without much hesitation, to
accept the invitation, and the young Diana clapped her hands with joy. We
were just entering the open _porte‐cochère_ of a large court, where we
found quite a number of equipages and footmen. The carriage stopped before
the steps and in five minutes I was seated between Diana and her mother
near a platform at one end of a drawing‐room large enough to contain one
hundred and fifty or two hundred persons.

I cannot now give a particular account of this meeting, though it was an
event in my life. The principal subject discussed was, I think, the
condition of the blacks, not yet emancipated, in the Southern States of
America. An American of the North, who could express himself very readily
in French, first spoke, and after him a missionary priest, who considered
the question from a no less elevated point of view, though quite different
from that of the philanthropist, and the discussion had already grown
quite animated before it became Gilbert de Kergy’s turn to speak. When he
rose, there was a movement in the whole assembly, and his first words
excited involuntary attention, which soon grew to intense interest, and
for the first time in my life I felt the power of language and the effect
that eloquence can produce.

It was strange, but he began with a brief, brilliant sketch of places that
seemed familiar to me; for Lorenzo had visited them, and he had such an
aptness for description that I felt as if I had seen them in his company.
My first thought was to regret his absence. Why was he not here with me
now to listen to this discussion, to become interested in it, and perhaps
take a part in it?... I had a vague feeling that this reunion was of a
nature to render him as he appeared to me during the first days of our
wedded life, when his extensive travels and noble traits made me admire
his courage and recognize his genius, the prestige of which was only
surpassed in my eyes by that of his tenderness!... But another motive
intensified this desire and regret. The boldness, the intelligence, and
the adventurous spirit of the young traveller were, of course, traits
familiar to me, and which I was happy and proud to recognize; but, alas!
the resemblance ceased when, quitting the field of observation and
descriptions of nature, and all that memory and intelligence can glean,
the orator soared to loftier regions, and linked these facts themselves
with questions of a higher nature and wider scope than those of mere
earthly interest. He did this with simplicity, earnestness, and consummate
ability, and while he was speaking I felt that my mind rose without
difficulty to the level of his, and expanded suddenly as if it had wings!
It was a moment of keen enjoyment, but likewise of keen suffering; for I
felt the difference that the greater or less elevation of the soul can
produce in two minds that are equally gifted! I clearly saw what was
wanting in Lorenzo’s. I recognized the cause of the something lacking
which had so often troubled me, and I felt more intensely and profoundly
pained than I had that very morning.

While listening to Gilbert I only thought of Lorenzo, and, if I
reluctantly acknowledged the superiority of the former, I felt at the same
time that there was nothing to prevent the latter from becoming his equal;
for, I again said to myself, Lorenzo was not merely a man of the world,
leading a frivolous, aimless life, as might seem from his present habits.
Love of labor and love of nature and art do not characterize such a man,
and he possessed these traits in a high degree. He had therefore to be
merely detached from other influences. This was my task, my duty, and it
should also be my happiness; for I had no positive love for the world,
whose pleasures I knew so well. No, I did not love it. I loved what was
higher and better than that. I felt an immense void within that great
things alone could fill. And I seemed to‐day to have entered into the
sphere of these great things; but I was there alone, and this was torture.
All my actual impressions were therefore centred in an ardent desire to
put an end to this solitude by drawing into that higher region him from
whom I was at the moment doubly separated.

This was assuredly a pure and legitimate desire, but I did not believe
myself capable of obtaining its realization without difficulty, and
sufficiently calculating the price I must pay for such a victory and the
efforts by which it must often be merited....

While these thoughts were succeeding each other in my mind I almost forgot
to listen to the end of the discourse, which terminated the meeting in the
midst of the applause of the entire audience. The vast hall of discussion
was instantly changed into a _salon_ again, where everybody seemed to be
acquainted, and where I found the _élite_ of those I had met in other
places. But assembled together for so legitimate an object, they at once
inspired me with interest, respect, and a feeling of attraction. It was
Paris under quite a new aspect, and it seemed to me, if I had lived in a
world like this, I should never have experienced the terrible distress
which I have spoken of, and which the various emotions of the day had
alone succeeded in dissipating.

The charming young Diana, light and active, had ascended the platform, and
was now talking to her brother. Gilbert started with surprise at her first
words, and his eyes turned towards the place where I was standing. Then I
almost instantly saw them descend from the platform and come towards me.
Diana looked triumphant.

“This is my brother Gilbert, madame,” said she, her eyes sparkling. “And
it is I who have the honor of presenting him to you, as he seems to have
waited for his little sister to do it.”

He addressed me some words of salutation, to which I responded. As he
stood near me, I again observed his calm, thoughtful, intelligent face,
which had struck me so much the only time I remembered to have seen him
before. While speaking a few moments previous his face was animated, and
his eyes flashed with a fire that added more than once to the effect of
his clear, penetrating voice, which was always well modulated. His
gestures also, though not numerous or studied, had a natural grace and the
dignity which strength of conviction, joined to brilliant eloquence, gives
to the entire form of an orator. His manner was now so simple that I felt
perfectly at ease with him, and told him without any hesitation how happy
I was at the double good‐fortune that had brought me in contact with his
sister, and had resulted in my coming to this meeting where I had been
permitted to hear him speak.

“This day will be a memorable one for me as well as for her, madame,” he
replied, “and I shall never forget it.”

There was not the least inflection in his voice to make me regard his
words as anything more than mere politeness, but their evident sincerity
caused me a momentary embarrassment. He seemed to attach too much
importance to this meeting, but it passed away. He inspired me with almost
as much confidence as if he had been a friend. I compared him with
Landolfo, and wondered what effect so different an influence would have on
Lorenzo, and I could not help wishing he were his friend also....

I continued silent, and he soon resumed: “The Duca di Valenzano is not
here?”

“No; he will be sorry, and I regret it for his sake.”

“The presence of such a traveller would have been a great honor to us.”

“He was very happy to have an opportunity of conversing with you on one
occasion.”

“It was a conversation I have never forgotten. It would have been for my
advantage to renew it, but I never go into society—at Paris.”

“And elsewhere?”

“Elsewhere it is a different thing,” said he, smiling. “I am as social
while travelling as I am uncivilized at my return.”

“We must not expect, then, to meet you again in Paris; but if you ever go
to Italy, may we not hope you will come to see us?”

“If you will allow me to do so,” said he eagerly.

“Yes, certainly. I think I can promise that the well‐known hospitality of
the Neapolitans will not be wanting towards the Comte Gilbert de Kergy.”

After a moment’s silence he resumed: “You must have been absent when I was
at Naples. That was two years ago.”

“I was not married then, and I am not a Neapolitan.”

“And not an Italian, perhaps.”

“Do you say so on account of the color of my hair? That would be
astonishing on the part of so observant a traveller, for you must have
noticed that our great masters had almost as many blondes as brunettes for
their models. However, I am neither English nor German, as perhaps you are
tempted to think. I am a Sicilian.”

“I have never seen in Sicily or anywhere else a person who resembled you.”

These words implied a compliment, and probably such an one as I had never
received; and, I need not repeat, I was not fond of compliments. But this
was said without the least smile or the slightest look that indicated any
desire to flatter or please me. Was not this a more subtle flattery than I
had been accustomed to receive?... And did it not awaken unawares the
vanity I had long thought rooted out of the bottom of my heart? I can
affirm nothing positive as to this, for there is always something lacking
in the knowledge of one’s self, however thoroughly we may think we have
acquired it. But I am certain it never occurred to me at the time to
analyze the effect of this meeting on me. I was wholly absorbed in the
regret and hope it awakened.

As I was on the point of leaving, Mme. de Kergy asked permission to call
on me with her daughter the next day at four o’clock—a permission I
joyfully granted—and Diana accompanied me to the very foot of the steps. I
kissed her smiling face, as I took leave, and gave my hand to her brother,
who had come with us to help me in getting into the carriage.



XVII.


All the way from the Rue St. Dominique to the Rue de Rivoli I abandoned
myself to the pleasant thoughts excited by the events of the day. For
within a few hours I had successively experienced the inward sweetness of
prayer, the charm of congenial society, and the pleasure of enthusiasm. A
new life seemed to be infused into my heart, soul, and mind, which had
grown frivolous in the atmosphere of the world, and I felt, as it were,
entranced. Those who have felt themselves thus die and rise again to a new
life will understand the feeling of joy I experienced. In all the
blessings hitherto vouchsafed me, even in the love itself that had been,
so to speak, the sun of my happiness, there had been one element wanting,
without which everything seemed dark, unsatisfactory, wearisome, and
depressing—an element which my soul had an imperious, irresistible,
undeniable need of! Yes, I realized this, and while thus taking a clearer
view of my state I also felt that this need was reasonable and just, and
might be supplied without much difficulty. Was not Lorenzo gifted with a
noble nature, and capable of the highest things? Had he not chosen me, and
loved me to such a degree as to make me an object of idolatry? Well, I
would point out to him the loftier heights he ought to attain. I, in my
turn, would open to him a new world!...

Such were the thoughts, aspirations, and dreams my heart was filled with
on my way home. As I approached the Rue de Rivoli, however, I began to
feel uneasy at being out so much later than I had anticipated, lest
Lorenzo should have returned and been anxious about my absence. I was
pleased to learn, therefore, on descending from the carriage, that he had
not yet come home, and I joyfully ascended the staircase, perfectly
satisfied with the way in which I had spent the morning.

I took off my hat, smoothed my hair, and then proceeded to arrange the
_salon_ according to his taste and my own. I arranged the flowers, as well
as the books and other things, and endeavored to give the room, though in
a hotel, an appearance of comfort and elegance that would entice him to
remain at home; for I had formed the project of trying to induce him to
spend the evening with me. I seemed to have so many things to say to him,
and longed to communicate all the impressions I had received! With this
object in view I took a bold step, but one that was authorized by the
intimacy that existed between us and the friends whose guests we were to
have been that day—I sent them an excuse, not only for myself, but my
husband, hoping to find means afterwards of overcoming his displeasure,
should he manifest any.

Having made these arrangements, I was beginning to wonder at his continued
absence when a letter was brought me which served to divert my mind for a
time from every other thought. It was a letter from Livia which I had been
impatiently awaiting. We had corresponded regularly since our separation,
and I had begun to be surprised at a silence of unusual length on her
part. It was not dated at Messina, but at Naples, and I read the first
page, which was in answer to the contents of my letter, without finding
any explanation of this. Finally I came to what follows:

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

“I told you in my last letter that I had obtained my father’s consent, but
on one condition—that he should have the choice of the monastery I must
enter on leaving home. What difference did it make? As to this I was, and
am, wholly indifferent. I should make the same vows everywhere, and in
them all I should go to God by the same path. In them all I should be
separated from the world and united to him alone. And this was all I
sought. The convent my father chose is not in Sicily. It is a house known
and venerated by every one in Naples. I shall be received on the second of
September. Meanwhile, I have come here under Ottavia’s escort, and am
staying with our aunt, Donna Clelia, who has established herself here for
the winter with her daughters. So everything is arranged, Gina. The future
seems plain. I see distinctly before me my life and death, my joys and
sorrows, my labors and my duty. I am done with all that is called
happiness in the world, as well as with its misfortunes, its trials, its
conflicting troubles, its numberless disappointments, and its poignant
woes.

“Therefore I cannot make use of the word _sacrifice_. It wounds me when I
hear it used, for I blush at the little I have to give up in view of the
immensity I am to receive! Yes; I blush when I remember it was suffering
and humiliation that first made me raise my eyes to Him whom alone we
_should_ love, and whom alone I now feel I _can_ love. If I had not been
wholly sure of this, I should never have been so bold as to aspire to the
union that waits me—the only one here below in which the Bridegroom can
satisfy the boundless affection of the heart that gives itself to him!...

“But to return to you, my dear Gina. Are you as happy as I desire you to
be, and as you deserve to be? Your last letter was sad; and the calmer and
better satisfied I feel about my own lot, the more I think of yours.
Whatever happens, my dearest sister, do not forget that we both have but
one goal. Your way is longer and more perilous than mine, but the great
aim of us both should be to really love God above all things, and, _in
him_ and for him, to cherish all the objects of our affection. Yes, even
those whom we prefer to all other creatures on earth. I am not using the
language of a religious, but simply that of truth and common sense. If
this letter reaches you on your return from some gay scene, at a time when
you will not feel able to enter into its meaning, you must lay it aside.
But if you read it when your mind is calm, and you are at leisure to
listen to your inner self, you will understand what your Livia means by
writing you in this way. Whatever happens, whether we are near each other
or are widely separated, we shall always be united in heart, my dear
sister. The convent grates will not separate me from you. Death itself
cannot divide us. One thing, and one alone, in the visible or invisible
world, can raise a barrier between us and really separate us. And rather
than behold this barrier rise, I would, as I have already told you, my
beloved sister, rather see you dead. Gina, I love you as tenderly as any
one ever loved another. I will pray for you on the second of September
(Sunday). Probably when you read this I shall already have left the world.
But I shall not have left you, dear sister. I shall be nearer you than
when distance alone separated us. Besides, I am at Naples, to which you
will soon return, and you will find that the grates will neither hide my
face, nor my thoughts, nor my heart, nor my soul from you....

“Gina, let me once more repeat that there is only one way of attaining
real happiness—there is only one object worthy of our love. Let me beseech
you not to desire any other passionately. But, no; you would not
understand me; you would not believe me now....”

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

Everything added to the effect of this letter—its date, and the day, the
hour, and the moment in which it was received. The deed my sister had
accomplished that very day had brought us nearer together, as she said.
Had not a breath of the purer air she breathed reached me already and
preserved me through the day from the aimless frivolity of my usual life?

“Happiness,” it has been said, “is Christian; pleasure is not.” Had I not
profoundly realized the force of this saying for one day? Had I not
experienced a happiness as different as possible from the pleasure I
enjoyed in the world? And did I not feel desirous this very instant of
attaining the one at the expense of the other, and not only of taking a
different view of life myself, but of imparting this desire to

“Him who ne’er from me shall separate.”(9)

The day was beginning to decline, and I gradually sank into a short,
profound slumber such as is usually attended by confused dreams. In mine
most of those who had occupied my thoughts during the day passed
successively before me—Livia first, covered with a long white veil, and
next to her was the pleasant, smiling face of Diana.... Then I was once
more at the Hôtel de Kergy, listening again to some parts of Gilbert’s
address. But when I was on the point of calling Lorenzo to hear him also,
it no longer seemed to be Gilbert, but Lorenzo himself, on the platform,
repeating the same words with an air of mockery, and gazing at me, in
return, with the penetrating look so peculiar to him.... Then everything
changed, and I found myself at twilight at the fork of a road in the
country, and, while I was hesitating which path to take, I saw Gilbert
beside me. He was familiar with the way, he said, and offered to be my
guide; but I repulsed his arm, and made a violent effort to overtake
Lorenzo, whom I suddenly perceived at a distance on the other road....
Then Livia seemed to be beside me, and give me her hand to help me along.
Finally I saw Lorenzo just before me again, but he did not look like the
same person; he was poorly clad, and his face was pale and altered. I
recognized him, however, and sprang forward to overtake him, when I awoke
breathless, and with the painful feeling of uneasiness that such sleep
generally produces when terminated by such an awakening....

My heart throbbed.... I found it difficult at first to recall what had
occupied my mind before I fell asleep. I soon came to myself, however, and
was able to account for the utter darkness that surrounded me. I hastened
to ring the bell and, when a light was brought, I looked at the clock with
a surprise that gave way to anxiety. At that instant I heard the bell that
announced Lorenzo’s return at last. I heard him enter the ante‐chamber,
and I ran to open the drawing‐room door myself. But I stopped short. It
was not Lorenzo; it was Landolfo Landini, and he was alone. I drew back
with a terrified look without daring to ask a question. But he smiled, as
he closed the door behind him, and, taking my hand, said: “Do not be
alarmed, my dear cousin, I beg. Nothing in particular has happened to
Lorenzo—nothing, at least, which you are not prepared to hear after what
occurred last night.”

I breathed once more.... I know not what other fear crossed my mind, but I
said with tolerable calmness:

“That means he has been playing again, or at least betting at the races,
and has lost?”

“Yes, cousin, frightfully. There—I ought not to have told you, but I see
no reason for concealing it from you; and as I have this opportunity of
speaking privately to you, I will profit by it to give you another piece
of advice more serious than any I have yet given you. Immediately make use
of all the influence you still have over him to persuade him to leave
Paris. There is some fatality about this place, as far as he is concerned.
He is more prudent everywhere else, and will become so here once more. The
fever he has been seized with again must absolutely be broken up. The
deuce!” continued he, “two or three more relapses like this would lead to
consequences that would test all your courage, _ma belle duchesse_, and
bring you, as well as him, to extremities you are ill fitted to bear. That
is what I am most anxious about, you will allow me to say; for, without
making you the shadow of a declaration, I find you so beautiful, so good,
and so adorable that the mere thought of you some day....”

“Keep to the point, Lando, if you please,” said I with an impatient air.
“Where is Lorenzo? Why did he not return with you, and why have you come
to tell me what he would probably tell me himself?”

“Tell you himself? He will take care not to do that. I have already told
you I am betraying his confidence, but it is for his good as well as
yours. It is best for you to know that the sum he has lost today surpasses
the resources he has on hand, and in order to make the necessary
arrangements to pay at once the debt he has incurred, he is obliged to
write to his agent at Naples or Sicily. He went directly to the club for
this purpose, and commissioned me to tell you it was for nothing of
importance, and beg you to attend the dinner‐party without him, and
present his excuses to your friends. He will join you in the evening.”

Everything now seemed easily arranged according to my wishes, and of
itself, as it were.

“That is very fortunate,” said I eagerly, telling him of the excuse I had
sent for us both. “Therefore, Lando, go back to the club, I beg; or
rather, I will write Lorenzo myself that he can arrange his affairs at his
leisure, and return when he pleases to dine with me. I shall wait till he
comes.”

I hastily seized my pen to write him, but Lando resumed:

“Oh! as to that, cousin, you will only waste your trouble; for seeing how
late it was, and that he could not possibly be here in season to accompany
you, he accepted an invitation to dine with an acquaintance of his (and
yours also, I suppose) whom he met at the races to‐day.”

“An acquaintance of his?...” I repeated, my heart filling with a keen
anguish that made me turn pale without knowing why.

Lando perceived it. “Do not be alarmed,” said he, smiling. “It is not Mme.
de B——, though she was at the races also, and made a fruitless effort to
divert Lorenzo’s mind from what was going on. Really, in your place,”
continued he with his usual levity, “I should regret she did not succeed.
That would have been much better than ... Come, ... do not frown. I am
joking. To be serious, Lorenzo is not going to dine with her to‐day, but
with a lady from Milan who has just arrived, and whom you doubtless know.
It is Donna Faustina Reali, the Marquise de Villanera!...”

Faustina Reali!... This name seemed to justify the strange presentiment I
had just had, and I was tempted to exclaim with Hamlet,

“O my prophetic soul!”

thou hast not deceived me!... I had at that moment a sudden intuition of
the past, the present, and the future. I saw clearly before me a life in
which I should no longer be able to influence Lorenzo, or even to guide
myself!...

I controlled my agitation, however, by a powerful effort, and Lando soon
left me, renewing his first injunctions, and persuaded he had fully
reassured me on other points. I gave him my hand with a smile as he left
the room, and as soon as I found myself alone I covered my face with my
hands, and exclaimed:

“O my dreams! my pleasant dreams! Where have they vanished?”



XVIII.


Faustina Reali!... That was the never‐to‐be‐forgotten name I had read on
the card Lorenzo snatched so violently from my hands at Naples! I had
never seen it again, never heard it pronounced, but I remembered only too
well the expression of my husband’s face when he saw it, and the way in
which he tore up the card on which it was written!...

I endeavored to lead the conversation at another time back to this
circumstance, but at once desisted, frightened at the manner in which he
imposed silence on me, and a certain impression of both mystery and danger
remained associated with the name.

As soon as I became calmer, however, I acknowledged that I really knew
nothing, absolutely nothing, to cause the violent emotion I had just
experienced. It had an imaginary cause, then, and might simply be owing to
my mind, so recently lost in vague dreams, and perhaps a little too high‐
flown, being suddenly recalled to a painful and unpleasant, as well as
very commonplace reality. I had imagined I was going to transform, as by
the stroke of a wand, my husband’s habits, tastes, occupations—nay, his
entire life—but was brought to my senses by learning he had just lost an
enormous sum at the races, and his mind, for the moment, was absorbed in
the necessary complications for paying the debt. I had planned spending
several hours alone with him that evening, during which, away from the
bustle of the world, I would give him a minute account of my recent
impressions, and tell him of all the wishes, projects, and ardent desires
of which he was the object. I would rouse a nobler pride in his soul, and
appeal to a thousand sentiments that were dormant, but not extinct; and I
believe I expected to see them awakened at the mere sound of my voice!...
Instead of this, ... I was alone, and he was with another.... And what
other?... Who was this Faustina, whose name had so suddenly appeared in my
life, and who, at the very hour when I was aiming at so pure and elevated
an influence over him, came thus, like an evil genius, to thrust herself
between us?... I reminded myself in vain that Lorenzo had no idea of the
plans I had, unbeknown to him, formed for the evening, but supposed me at
this very moment to be with my friends, where he had promised to join me;
but nothing could calm the sudden agitation of my heart, nothing could
check the flood of thoughts that sprang from my anxiety, jealousy, and
misconceptions, and my excitement became more intense in proportion to the
lateness of the hour. Would he never come?...

And what would he say when he should arrive?... I was sure he would try to
conceal his interview with Donna Faustina, and perhaps I ought to hide my
knowledge of that as well as everything else, and feign ignorance of all
that had occurred, in order not to betray Lando’s indiscretion.... But
what should I do when his eyes, so accustomed to interpret every
expression of my face, should be fastened on me? How could I practise any
dissimulation with him? It was not, indeed, my place to do anything of the
kind. I had no cause to blush or be intimidated. And should he discover,
after all, that I was not deceived, so much the better; and should he be
displeased, so much the worse for Lando.

I had arrived at this point in my reflections when I heard the bell
ringing loudly in the next room. Then there was a quick step, which this
time was really his, and Lorenzo entered the room. He was pale and
appeared excited, but said in a sufficiently calm tone:

“I have just come from M——’s, where I supposed I should find you; but I
learned that, in sending my apology, you also excused yourself, and I did
not remain an instant. What is the matter, Ginevra?... Are you ill?... Why
did you not go? Why did you remain at home alone in this way?”

His expression was singular. It was at once affectionate and troubled. He
looked earnestly at me, as he gave me his hand, and put back my hair in
order to see my face more distinctly.

My cheeks were burning. The traces of the tears I had shed were visible,
and, with his scrutinizing eyes upon me, I felt it hardly possible to
restrain those that still filled my own.... He took my head between his
two hands, and held it a moment against his breast in silence. The
throbbing of his heart perhaps equalled that of mine. I was touched,
speechless and disarmed, and less than ever in a condition to dissimulate
anything, when he suddenly said:

“Why have you been crying, Ginevra? I must know.”

Raising my still tearful eyes towards him, and looking confidingly in his
face, I replied: “I have been crying, Lorenzo, because I heard Donna
Faustina is here, and that you had gone to see her.”

He started, and, though accustomed to the variations of his mobile face, I
was struck with the effect my words had produced. His face reddened, then
turned paler than before, and for some moments he was incapable of making
any reply, and even seemed to forget my proximity. He seated himself
beside the table, and remained silent. I looked at him with amazement and
anxiety. At length he said:

“Who has told you anything about Donna Faustina, and what do you know of
her?”

“No one has told me anything about her, and all I know of her you have
told me yourself by the very emotion you show at her name.”

He was again silent for a moment, and then resumed in his usual tone, as
if he had triumphed over all hesitation:

“Well, Ginevra, even if you had not known of her being in Paris, or had
never heard of her name or existence, I had resolved to speak to you about
her this very evening. Listen to me. It is not, after all, a long story.”

He had perfectly recovered his self‐control, and yet he continued with
some effort:

“It is not for you to be jealous of her, Ginevra. It is she who has reason
to be jealous of you. She has done you no wrong; whereas, without
suspecting it, you have done her a great and irreparable injury.”

I opened my eyes with surprise.

“It is not necessary to tell you when and where I met her for the first
time, but perhaps it is right I should acknowledge that I was inspired
with a passion for her such as a man willingly imagines he can never feel
but once in his life.”

I could not repress a start.

“Wait, Ginevra; hear me to the end. She was married and virtuous. I left
her, ... but I had just learned she was free, and was about to go to see
her when I was called to Sicily by the lawsuit on which my property
depends. You know the rest.... The sight of you effaced the impressions of
the past. I was still free—free from any promise that bound me to her,
though perhaps she was expecting me to return to Milan....”

“You forgot her, and offered me your hand?...” I exclaimed with mingled
pity and almost reproach.

He replied with some emotion:

“Yes, Ginevra, and without any scruple; for after passing a month in your
vicinity, I felt I loved her no longer, and _at that time_ ... I did not
know she loved me.”

His brow grew dark. He stopped an instant, and then rapidly continued:

“At a later day I ascertained, ... I had reason to believe, ... beyond a
doubt, that the feeling she had succeeded in hiding from me existed
really, profoundly, ... and that she had suffered.... Ginevra! in the
intoxication of my new happiness I could not feel any regret, but I
acknowledge I had a moment of remorse. Yes; I never wished to hear her
name again, never to see her or hear anything that would recall her.... I
was almost irritated at Naples at finding her card among those left on
your arrival there.... I was angry with her, poor Faustina, when I should
have been grateful as well as you.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was at Naples, which she happened to be passing through, that the news
of our marriage reached her. And when we arrived just after, she wished to
show, by leaving her card, that she should henceforth only consider
herself my friend and yours. But at that time I did not regard it in this
way, and I was unjust as well as ungrateful.”

“And now, Lorenzo?” I said with many commingled feelings I could not have
defined.

“Now, Ginevra, I think she was generous, and it would be well for you to
be so in your turn. She wishes to know you, and I come to ask you to
receive her to‐morrow.... You hesitate!... I do not suppose, however,”
said he a little loftily, as he frowned, “that you think me capable of
making such a proposition to my wife, if the Marquise de Villanera had not
a spotless reputation, and I were not certain that there is no reason why
you should not grant her the favor I beg.”

Lorenzo was perfectly sincere at the moment he uttered these words. But as
I write the account of that day by the light of events that followed, I do
not feel the same assurance I did at the time he was talking. All he then
affirmed was true; but he did not tell me everything. He did not, for
instance, explain how he happened to learn, at a time when he had better
have never known them, the sentiments that had hitherto been concealed
from him. Still less did he tell me the effect this revelation produced on
him. But with regard to this he doubtless did not deceive me any more than
he did himself. Meanwhile, it was not possible to give more heed to a
vague, inexplicable presentiment it would have been impossible to justify,
than to what he said. I therefore consented, without any further
hesitation, to the interview he proposed, and gave him my hand. He kissed
it and held it lightly in his; then gave me a new proof of his confidence
as well as unexpected satisfaction by the following words:

“This interview, Ginevra, will not commit you to any great extent at the
most, as, for many reasons it would be useless to give you, I wish, if not
too great a disappointment for you, to leave Paris—sooner than we
intended. We will go in a week.”

He saw the ray of joy that flashed from my eyes, and looked at me with an
air of surprise. I was afraid of compromising poor Lando by betraying my
knowledge of the danger that rendered this departure so opportune. I was
also afraid he would regard it as a new proof of the jealous distrust he
had just allayed, and hastened to speak of Livia’s letter and my desire to
return to Naples, where I had just learned I should find my sister. He
accepted this explanation, and the day full of so many different causes of
excitement ended more tranquilly than I had anticipated two hours before.
It was difficult, however, when I once more found myself alone, to collect
my troubled thoughts. A confused crowd of new impressions had replaced
those of the morning. The projects inspired by the lofty eloquence of
Gilbert de Kergy all at once seemed chimerical. My hopes had fled beyond
recall. And yet I could not account for my apprehension. Anxiety, a vague
anxiety, persistently prevailed over everything. I only succeeded in
regaining my calmness at last by two considerations: we were to leave
Paris, and it was Lorenzo himself who proposed our departure.



XIX.


The following day, for some reason or other I did not explain to myself, I
gave unusual attention to my toilet. I generally read while my waiting‐
maid was arranging my hair according to her own fancy, but that day I
turned more than once towards the mirror. I observed with pleasure the
golden lustre of my hair in the morning sunlight, and suggested myself the
addition of a bow of ribbon of the same color as my belt. After I was
dressed I gave, before leaving my room, a scrutinizing look in a large
glass where I could see myself from head to foot. It seemed to me I was
becomingly attired, and I felt pleased.

My satisfaction was confirmed by an exclamation that escaped Lorenzo as
soon as he caught sight of me. He was already seated at the breakfast‐
table, which stood at one end of the room.

“You are charming this morning, Ginevra!” said he, smiling. He then grew
thoughtful. After remaining silent a few moments, he resumed, perhaps to
divert my mind from another thought he supposed it occupied with:

“I was sorry to leave you alone so long yesterday. How did you while away
the time during the long afternoon?”

If he had asked this question the evening before at the imaginary
_tête‐à‐tête_ I had planned, what a minute, animated account should I have
given him! How readily the thoughts which then occupied my mind would have
sprung to my lips! He regarded me as a child, but I was no longer one; and
beholding me all at once in the new aspect of an energetic, courageous
woman, capable of aiding him with a firm hand in ascending to higher
regions, he would have been surprised and touched; the passing gleam that
sometimes manifested itself in his eyes would perhaps have been less
transient this time, and I should have succeeded in kindling a flame of
which this light was a mere emblem!... Lorenzo, if you had only been
willing! If you had only listened to me then, entered into my feelings,
and read my heart, what a life ours might have been!... Ah! happiness and
goodness are more closely allied in this world than is usually supposed.
If virtue sometimes does not escape misfortune, it is sure there is no
happiness without it! But the impetus by which I hoped to attain my aim at
a single bound had been suddenly checked, and I no longer remembered now
what I longed to say the evening before, or the motive I then had in view.
I therefore answered my husband’s question with the utmost coolness
without interrupting my breakfast:

“I went to S. Roch’s. It rained in torrents, and, finding the Comtesse de
Kergy and her daughter at the door without any carriage, I took them
home.”

“I am glad you did. There is no family more respected, and Kergy is one of
the most intelligent of travellers.”

“Yes, so I should suppose. I have heard him speak of his travels. There
was a meeting at the Hôtel de Kergy yesterday at four o’clock, which I was
invited to attend, and he made an address.”

“And spoke very ably, I have no doubt. I have heard him, and can judge.”

“You have heard him?”

“Yes, a fortnight ago.... Though scarcely acquainted, we are the founders
and chief supporters of a review devoted to art and scientific subjects,
the acting committee of which summoned a meeting of its members to draw up
some resolution, and at this meeting he spoke.”

“He is very eloquent, is he not?”

“Very eloquent indeed, but, on the whole, visionary.”

“Visionary?”

“Yes, visionary, and sometimes incomprehensible even. He soars to such
vague heights that no one can follow him. But in spite of this, he is a
fellow of great talent, and has a noble nature, I should think.”

Lorenzo rose while speaking, and drew a memorandum‐book from his pocket:

“I will write down the address of the Hôtel de Kergy, that I may not
forget to leave my card.”

“Mme. de Kergy and her daughter,” said I, “are coming to see me to‐day
about four o’clock.”

He was silent a moment, and then said:

“And till that time?”

“Till then,” I replied, turning red, “I shall be at home and alone.”

“Very well,” rejoined he, taking up a newspaper, while I silently went to
a seat near the open window.

I compared the conversation which had just taken place with the one I
imagined the evening before. I remembered the effect of the very name of
her whose visit I was now expecting, and I felt inclined to both laugh and
cry. In a word, I was nervous and agitated, and doubtless manifested my
uneasiness and irritation more than I wished.

Lorenzo raised his eyes, and looked at me a moment.

“What are you thinking of, Ginevra?”

“Are you quite sure,” said I abruptly, “that this Donna Faustina is not a
_jettatrice_?”

He rose and somewhat impatiently threw his paper on the table. But quickly
overcoming himself, he said calmly:

“Do you find any evidence in what I related last evening that she ever
brought ill‐luck to any one?”

“If it is not she,” I exclaimed quickly, “I hope, at least, you do not
think....”

I was about to add, “that it is I,” but I stopped on seeing the cloud that
came over his face.

“Come, Ginevra,” said he, “you are really too childish! You are joking,
doubtless, but no one knows better than you how to point a jest. But you
shall tell me yourself what you think of the Marquise de Villanera after
seeing her. As for me, I am going away. It is not necessary to have a
third party when she comes. I will go meanwhile to see Kergy. But,” added
he, as he was leaving the room, “as you have consented to receive her,
remember I depend on your doing so politely.”

He went away, leaving me in a frame of mind by no means serene. I felt
angry with him, and at the same time dissatisfied with myself. Everything
went contrary to what I had hoped, and I awaited my visitor with a mixture
of anguish and ill‐humor.

I felt a kind of uneasiness analogous to that experienced when there is
thunder in the air. I tried to apply myself to something, but, finding
this impossible, I ended by returning to the window, where, book in hand,
I rose from time to time to see what was going on in the street or the
garden of the Tuileries.

At length, about two o’clock, I saw a small _coupé_ coming around the
corner from the Rue St. Florentin. I had seen an endless number pass while
I stood there, but I watched this one without a shadow of doubt as to the
direction it would take. It was but a moment, indeed, before I saw it stop
at the door of the hotel. We were not, to be sure, the only occupants, but
it never occurred to me that the person in the carriage would ask for any
one but myself. I returned to the drawing‐room, therefore, and had taken
the seat I usually occupied when I received callers, when the Marquise de
Villanera was announced in a loud voice.

I rose to meet her. There was a moment’s silence, doubtless caused by an
equal degree of curiosity on both sides. It was only for an instant that
passed like a flash, but nevertheless each of us had scanned the other
from head to foot.

At the first glance she did not seem young. I was not twenty years old
myself then, and I judged as one is apt to at that age. In reality, she
was not thirty. She was tall and fine‐looking. Her form was noble and
graceful, her features delicate and regular, her hair and eyebrows black
as jet, her complexion absolutely devoid of color, and her eyes of a
lively blue. This somewhat too bright a color gave a cold, hard look to
her eyes, but their expression changed as soon as she began to speak, and
became sweet, caressing, beseeching, irresistible. She was dressed in
black, apparently with extreme simplicity, but in reality with extreme
care.

I had not time to wonder how I should break this silence. It was she who
spoke first, and her very first words removed the timidity and
embarrassment that rendered this interview still more painful. What she
said I am really unable to remember, and I cannot comprehend now the
effect of her words; but I know they wrought a complete transformation in
the feelings I experienced the evening before at the very mention of her
name!

Women often wonder in vain what the charm is by which other women succeed
in pleasing, and, as Bossuet says, in “drawing after them captive souls.”
In their eyes, at least, this charm is inexplicable. But this is not
always the case; for there are some women who, while they reserve for one
the absolute ascendency of their empire, like to feel able to exert it
over every one. Such was Donna Faustina. However deep the strange, secret
warning of my heart might be, it was beyond my power to resist her. While
she was talking I felt my prejudices vanish like snow before the sun, and
it could not possibly have been otherwise, perhaps; at least without a
penetration I was not endowed with, a distrust I was wholly incapable of,
and an experience I did not then possess.

Did she really feel a kind of attraction towards me that rendered her
sincere at this first interview? I prefer to think so. Yes, I prefer not
to believe that deceit and perfidy could disguise themselves to such a
degree under an appearance of cordiality, simplicity, artlessness, and
sincerity. I prefer to hope it was not wholly by consummate art she won my
confidence while seeming to repose unlimited confidence in me.

She very soon learned all she wished concerning me, and in return gave me
her whole history; and however singular this sudden frankness on the part
of a stranger ought to have appeared to me—and, indeed, was—the grace of
her manner and the charm of her language prevented any doubt or criticism
from crossing my mind. Young, without position or fortune, she had married
a man three times as old as herself, with whom she lived in strict
retirement. Her meeting with Lorenzo (but how this happened she did not
explain) had been the only ray of joy in her life. She did not hide from
me either the grief his departure caused her or the extent of her
disappointment when she vainly awaited his return after she was left free.
But all these feelings, she said, belonged to the past. Nothing remained
but a friendship which she could not give up. The death of the aged
Marquis de Villanera had of course left her free again, but it had also
taken away her only protector. She felt alone in the world now, and begged
me, in the midst of my happiness, to consider her loneliness and take pity
on her.

While thus speaking she fixed upon me her large, blue eyes bathed in
tears. And as I listened to her, tears also streamed down my cheeks. I
almost reproached myself for being happy. Lorenzo’s inconstancy weighed on
my heart like remorse, and all that was generous in my nature responded to
her appeal. Consequently, before our interview was over I embraced her,
calling her my dear Faustina, and she clasped me in her arms, calling me
for the twentieth time “her lovely, darling Ginevra.”

My _naïveté_ may seem astonishing. I was, indeed, _naïve_ at that time,
and it would have been surprising had I not been. People of more
penetration than I would have been blinded. Lorenzo himself was at that
time. When he found us together at his return, and comprehended the result
of our interview from the very first words he heard, he turned towards me
with eyes lit up with tenderness and gratitude.

His first, and probably his only, feeling at meeting again the woman to
whom he thought he had been ungrateful and almost disloyal, had been a
kind of humiliation. To get rid of this feeling, he had sought some means
of repairing this wrong, and, thanks to my docility to him and my
generosity towards her, he persuaded himself he had found a way.

In the state of affairs at that moment I had the advantage. I gained that
day a new, but, alas! the last, triumph over my rival!



XX.


Lorenzo accompanied the marchioness to her carriage, and then returned an
instant to inform me she would dine with us that evening, and that he had
invited Lando to join us. He embraced me affectionately before he went
away, looking at me with an expression that caused me a momentary joy, but
which was followed by a feeling of melancholy as profound as if his kiss
had been an adieu.

But though my apprehensions of the evening before were allayed, I could
not get rid of a vague uneasiness impossible to overcome—perhaps the
natural result of the hopes that, on the one hand, had been disappointed
since the previous day, and, on the other, the fears that had been
removed. But my mind was still greatly troubled, and though the atmosphere
around me had apparently become calm and serene, I felt, so to speak, the
earth tremble almost insensibly beneath my feet, and could hear the
rumbling of thunder afar off.

My interview with Donna Faustina lasted so long that I had not been alone
half an hour before Mme. de Kergy and her daughter were announced. This
call, which, under any circumstances, would have given me pleasure, was
particularly salutary at this moment, for it diverted my mind and effected
a complete, beneficial change of impressions. After the somewhat feverish
excitement I had just undergone, it was of especial benefit to see and
converse with these agreeable companions of the evening before. I breathed
more freely, and forgot Donna Faustina while listening to their delightful
conversation. My eyes responded to Diana’s smiling looks, and her mother
inspired me with a mingled attraction and confidence that touched me and
awakened in my soul the dearest, sweetest, and most poignant memories of
the past. Mme. de Kergy perceived this, and likewise noticed, I think, the
traces of recent agitation in my face. She rose, as if fearing it would be
indiscreet to prolong her visit.

“Oh! do not go yet,” I said, taking hold of her hand to detain her.

“But you look fatigued or ill. I do not wish to abuse the permission you
gave me.”

“You do me good, on the contrary. I have a slight headache, it is true,
but it is soothing to talk with you.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, truly.”

“Well, then, let me propose, in my turn, a drive in my carriage. The
weather is fine to‐day. Come and take the air with us. It will do you
good, and afford us great pleasure.”

I felt quite disposed on my part to accept the sympathy manifested by Mme.
de Kergy, and at once accepted her invitation. I took a seat in her
_calèche_, and, after an hour’s drive with her and her daughter, I had not
only recovered from the nervous agitation of the morning, but we had
become fully acquainted, and for the first time in Paris I ceased to feel
myself a stranger.

“What a pity you are going away so soon!” exclaimed Diana.

“Yes, indeed,” said her mother; “for it seems to me you would find some
resources at my house you have not found elsewhere, and we might reveal
Paris under a different—perhaps I may say under a more favorable—aspect
than it generally appears to strangers, even in the fashionable world,
which is, I imagine, nearly the same everywhere.”

I made no reply, for the regret she expressed awoke a similar feeling in
my heart, and aroused all the recollections of the evening before. I once
more felt for an instant an ardent desire to take refuge in a different
sphere. I longed more earnestly than ever to escape from that in which
some vague peril seemed to threaten me. We were, it is true, to leave
Paris, but for what a motive!... What a pitiful aspect the life Lorenzo
wished to escape from took in comparison with the one so different which
Mme. de Kergy had just given me a glimpse of!... The thought of this
contrast embittered the joy I felt in view of our departure.

We agreed, however, as we separated, to meet every day during this last
week, and Mme. de Kergy promised to take me, before my departure, through
various parts of the unknown world of charity in Paris, whose existence
she had revealed to me, that I might, at least, have a less imperfect idea
of it before leaving France.

On my return I found Lando as well as Lorenzo in the drawing‐room, and
learned that, as the weather was fine, they had decided we should dine at
some _café_ I do not now remember, in the Champs Elysées, and afterwards,
instead of returning home, we should take seats under the trees, and
quietly listen in the open air to the music of one of the famous
orchestras. The hotel the Marquise de Villanera stopped at was on the way;
we could call for her, and she would remain with us the rest of the
evening.

This new programme did not displease me. I rather preferred this way of
meeting the marchioness again, instead of the one I anticipated after
Lorenzo told me she would dine with us. In spite of the favorable
impression she produced, this prospect annoyed me. The arrangement now
proposed suited me better. I unhesitatingly assented to it, but could not
help thinking, as I did so, how much I should have preferred passing the
evening alone with him!... I longed for solitude—but shared with him! My
heart was full of things I wished to give utterance to, and it seemed as
if a kind of fatality multiplied obstacles around us, and kept us absorbed
in matters wholly foreign to the sentiments I found it impossible to
awaken during the too brief moments in which we were together. My heart
was filled with these desires and regrets while I was preparing to
accompany him, and they cast a shade over the evening I am giving an
account of.

Lando took a seat in front of us, and our carriage soon drew up at the
door of the marchioness, who followed us in her little _coupé_. She
descended when we arrived at our place of destination, and Lorenzo, as was
proper, gave her his arm. I took Lando’s, and we proceeded towards the
room that had been reserved for us, traversing on our way the principal
coffee‐room, which was filled with people. Every eye turned towards us.

I saw that Lando’s vanity was more gratified than mine by the observations
that reached our ears. I looked at Lorenzo; he too seemed to be proud of
the effect produced by the one leaning on his arm, and for the first time
did not appear to notice the flattering murmur of which I was the object.
I noticed this, and it did not increase my good‐humor. But after we
arrived at the little dining‐room that was ours for the time, Faustina
seemed wholly occupied with me. We took off our bonnets, and while I was
silently admiring her magnificent tresses, which made her resemble some
antique statue, she went into open ecstasy about my “golden hair,” my
form, and my features; but while she was thus going on, evidently
supposing it was not displeasing to me, Lorenzo stopped her.

“Take care, marchioness,” said he, smiling, “you do not know Ginevra. Do
not take another step in that direction. No one can venture on that ground
_but myself alone_.”

He uttered these last words with an accent that made my heart beat and
rendered Faustina silent. An expression flashed from her blue eyes quicker
than the sharpest lightning, and seemed to give them a terrible
brilliancy. However, she soon resumed her playfulness and graceful ease of
manner. Like most Italian ladies, she had that naturalness, that total
absence of affectation, which often gives to their conversation an
originality without parallel, and makes all wit which is less spontaneous
than theirs seem factitious and almost defective. It has an inexpressible
charm which fascinates, enchants, sets every one at ease, and gives to
their very coquetry an appearance of artlessness.

We were full of liveliness and gayety at the table. Never was a dinner
more agreeable. Donna Faustina had an uncommon talent for relating things
without appearing to try to win attention. She could mimic other women
without any appearance of malice, and even sound their praises with an
earnestness that made her more charming than those of whom she was
speaking. Sometimes, too, she would change her tone, and, after making the
room ring with our laughter, she would entertain us with some serious
account which displayed a powerful, cultivated mind, with all her
exuberant gayety. In short, when she was present, nothing was thought of
but her, and even those whom she wittingly or unwittingly threw into the
shade could not deny the charm by which they were eclipsed.

It was, however, with some surprise I recalled after dinner the
conversation that had affected me so strongly some hours before, and I
asked myself if this was the melancholy, forsaken woman whose fate had
moved me to tears.

She seemed to have almost read my thoughts; for, as we were returning to
the open air, she left Lorenzo’s arm, and came to take mine.

“Ginevra,” said she in a low voice, “you find me gay and happy as a child
this evening. It is because I no longer feel alone. I have found, not only
friends, but a sister!... I am filled with love and gratitude to you.”

The Champs Elysées were illuminated. We could see each other as distinctly
as by daylight. She seemed much affected and sincere. Perhaps she spoke
the truth at that moment.... Perhaps she had only looked deep enough into
her own heart to feel persuaded that the romantic friendship she wished to
make me believe in was real. However this may be, the illusion did not
last long either for her, or Lorenzo, or myself.

The music was delightful, and I listened to it for some time in silence.
Faustina had taken a seat at my right hand. Lorenzo sat next her, and
Lando beside me.

“Bravo! Cousin Ginevra,” said the latter in a low tone as soon as the
first piece was ended. “Thank heaven, your influence is still all it ought
to be!... I am delighted, but not surprised!”

So many things had occupied my mind since my last conversation with him
that I was at a loss to know what he referred to.

“You have persuaded Lorenzo to leave Paris?”

“No; he proposed going of his own accord.”

“Indeed! When was that?”

“Last evening.”

“And when are you to leave?”

“Next Monday.”

“A whole week! It is a long time.... In spite of my personal regret to
lose you, I wish your departure could take place sooner.”

“And I also,” I murmured without knowing why, for at that moment I was not
at all preoccupied with the cause of Lando’s anxiety.

“Endeavor, at least, to make him pass every evening like this. Your friend
is pleasing; she amuses him, and may be able to divert him from other
things.”

“Lando, stop!” I exclaimed with a vehemence I could not repress. He
uttered a slight exclamation of surprise, and I hastily continued, lest he
might have comprehended me:

“Yes, be quiet, I beg, while they are playing the _Marche du Prophète_. I
wish to hear it undisturbed.”

But I did not listen to the _Marche du Prophète_. I only listened to—I
only heard—the voices beside me. Lorenzo and his companion at first
continued to converse in an animated manner on subjects apparently
indifferent, but concerning people and places I was entirely ignorant
of.... Recollections of the past were recalled which I knew nothing about.
A long silence soon intervened, and when at last they resumed the
conversation, it was in so low a tone I was unable to follow it.

Lorenzo and Lando returned on foot, and I took Donna Faustina home. Before
separating we embraced each other once more, saying _au revoir_; but after
leaving her I thought without any regret that before another week I should
bid her a long farewell, and perhaps even then I should not have been
sorry were it for ever.



XXI.


During the following week, that looked so long to Lando, and was indeed
long enough to affect my whole life, what transpired?... Apparently
nothing very different from the evening I have just described; nothing
that did not seem the natural consequence of the intimacy so suddenly
formed between Donna Faustina and myself, the recent date of which I alone
seemed not to have forgotten. But little by little, I might say hour by
hour, I felt a secret, powerful, subtle influence growing up around me,
and the deepest instincts of my heart, for a moment repressed, were
violently roused, causing me to suffer all the pangs of doubt, anxiety,
and the most cruel suspicion. But as nothing new seemed to justify these
feelings, I forced myself to conceal them, for fear of rendering myself
odious in Lorenzo’s eyes and losing the charm of my generous confidence.
Moreover, did not my continuing to manifest this confidence oblige him to
merit it?... And could Faustina be treacherous while I was redoubling my
cordiality and affection, and confiding in her as a friend? Was I not in a
certain manner protecting myself by obliging both of them in honor not to
deceive me?

But honor, we know, in such cases—honor alone, without the holy restraints
imposed by conscience—is a feeble barrier and a mere mockery. Those who
imagine they have not overstepped this barrier sometimes make it recede
before them, and believe themselves still within its limits when they are
already far beyond the line it first marked out....

A barrier so easily changed soon trenches on the enemy’s ground, and the
honor that is purely human—insufficient guardian of vows the most
solemn—after violating the most sacred obligations, often becomes subject
to some imaginary duty, and, according to a barbarous code that keeps pace
with that of the Gospel amid all our civilization, persuades him whose
sole guide it is that he would be disloyal if he ceased to be a traitor!

This is a sad, commonplace occurrence in the world, which does not excite
anything more than a smile or a shrug of the shoulders on the part even of
those who would tremble with indignation if any one should think them
capable of betraying the confidence of a friend—what do I say?—even of a
stranger or an enemy!

I will not undertake to follow Lorenzo in this obscure phase of his life.
Neither will I try to penetrate into the soul of Faustina. I will only
speak of the influence her crossing my path had on my life; for the
account I have undertaken is one of bitter trials and formidable dangers,
and the extraordinary grace I derived therefrom!

During the last week of our stay in Paris my time was strangely divided
between Mme. de Kergy, who came every morning to take me on the proposed
rounds, and Donna Faustina, with whom I unfailingly found myself every
evening. I thus daily went from one world to another exactly opposite, and
seemed to undergo a periodical transformation, becoming, according to the
hour, as different as the two women with whom I thus became simultaneously
connected, but whom I never beheld together.

Every day I appreciated more fully the beneficial intimacy, that had
commenced at the same time as the other intimacy, to which I already
hesitated to give its true name, and I found more and more salutary the
happy influences of the morning, which always diverted my mind from the
annoying recollections of the evening before. Mme. de Kergy’s simple
dignity and sweetness of manner were allied with a noble mind and a large
heart. Though somewhat imposing, every one felt at ease with her, because
she entered into every one’s feelings, criticised nobody, and only gave
others the lesson of her example. I considered myself fortunate to see her
so often, and wished I could always remain under her guidance.

I accompanied her in her charitable rounds through Paris, and at the sight
of the misery I thus witnessed I felt I had never understood before to
what an extent both misery and charity can extend. And yet poverty and
humanity are to be found in all countries and in all climes. Certainly, we
also have the poor amongst us, and Southern Italy is called, _par
excellence_, the land of beggars and wretchedness. Nevertheless, when my
imagination transported me to the gates of the convent where Don Placido
daily distributed alms, without any great discernment perhaps, but
accompanied with pious words, received by those to whom they were
addressed as alms of almost equal value, I asked myself if this did not
somewhat counter‐balance the excessive poverty and the lack of a more
rigid and discriminating way of alleviating it. And when I witnessed the
profound misery at Paris, augmented by the climate, and often embittered
by hatred; when I saw this vast number greedy for the things of this
world, but without any hope of those in a better, I asked myself if any
possible compensation in the world could be given the poor who are
deprived of the precious faith that would console, sustain, and ennoble
them. Yes, _ennoble_ them; the word is not too strong to express the
living exemplification of the Gospel I had often observed in accompanying
Livia and Ottavia to the miserable habitations where they were welcomed so
cordially. “Ah! signora,” these so‐called wretched creatures would
sometimes say, looking at us with an air of compassion, “yes, we will pray
for you, and our Lord will hear us; for, after all, _we poor_ are his
favorites. He chose to take upon himself our likeness, and not that of the
rich.”

A thousand expressions of the same nature crossed my mind while
accompanying my noble, saintly friend to the places where she exercised,
and taught her young daughter to exercise, a double mission of charity.
One day in particular, seeing the charming Diana kneeling beside the bed
of a poor old woman whose infirmities were incurable, but who was without
religion, I recalled the words that fell from the lips of a poor woman at
Naples who had implored the cure of her malady through the intercession of
some saint, _and had obtained it_, “Ah! mia cara signora, doctors are for
the rich; as for us, we have the saints.”

“You must relate all this to Gilbert,” said Mme. de Kergy, listening to me
with a beaming face. “In spite of the absorbing interest he takes in
discoveries and inventions of all kinds, he is not incapable of
comprehending this solution—the highest and most simple of all—of the
great problem repeated under so many different forms. He would readily
acknowledge that, viewed in this light, the inequalities of social life
assume a wonderfully different aspect.”

This was not the first time I had heard her speak in this way of Gilbert
de Kergy since we had daily met. Among other things, she explained, on one
occasion, the object of various associations of which he was an active
member.

“He could explain all this much better than I,” she added; “but I have
urged him in vain to accompany us in our explorations through what I call
his domain. He absolutely refuses, and, though I am accustomed to his
uncivilized ways, they afflict me, because he often yields to them to the
injury of others as well as himself.”

One day, however, I found his card at my door when I returned home; but I
had seen him only once since the meeting at the Hôtel de Kergy.

Saturday arrived, the day but one before our departure, and I was to take
my last drive with Mme. de Kergy. I was suffering from a thousand
conflicting emotions, agitated and melancholy, and sorry to be separated
from her, and yet happy and impatient to leave Paris, where I now seemed
to behold nothing but two large blue eyes following me everywhere. On the
other hand, however, a strange, inexplicable regret weighed on my heart
when I thought of the world into which I had not yet penetrated, except in
imagination, but where I longed to be transplanted with Lorenzo, that our
lives might bring forth better fruit. While conversing with Mme. de Kergy
such a life seemed less chimerical. I felt my wishes might easily be
realized if ... I could not wholly define my thought, but it was there,
alive, actual, and poignant, and the recollection of its source added a
degree of tenderness to the affectionate farewell I bade Mme. de Kergy
when her carriage stopped to leave me at my door. My eyes were filled with
tears. I found it difficult to tear myself away. She, on her part, pressed
my hand, and, fastening her softest look on me, finally said:

“My dear Ginevra” (I had some time before begged her to call me so),
“would it be indiscreet to ask you to come and dine with us to‐morrow, and
spend your last evening with us?”

“O madame!” I exclaimed with a joy I did not try to conceal, “how happy I
should be to come!”

“Then I shall depend on seeing you—both of you; for of course my
invitation extends likewise to the Duca di Valenzano.”

I felt my face turn red simply at these words. Alas! why? Because I was at
once terrified at the thought of conveying an invitation to Lorenzo which,
ten days before, he would have eagerly accepted. Now I felt if he replied
in the affirmative, it would be a triumph for me; if in the negative, a
painful defeat.

All this rapidly crossed my mind, and made me silent for a moment. Finally
I replied:

“I do not know whether my husband has any engagement for to‐morrow or not;
but as for me, I hope nothing will prevent my coming. At all events, you
shall have my reply in a few hours.”

This reply was despatched at a late hour that same evening, and was to
this effect: “That important business would oblige my husband to be absent
the whole day, and I alone should be able to accept Mme. de Kergy’s
invitation.”

What it cost me to write this note Mme. de Kergy never imagined. And yet,
when I hastily wrote these lines, I had no positive reason for doubting
the truth of the excuse assigned for Lorenzo’s absence—no reason except
the promptings of my own heart, to which I was less able than ever, within
a few hours, to impose silence.

But to relate what took place from the time I left Mme. de Kergy till I
wrote her the above note:

That evening, as usual, I was to meet Donna Faustina, but not her alone.
Our friends were to assemble to bid us farewell, and it was at this
_soirée_ I saw her for the first time in all the _éclat_ of a brilliant
toilet. And, though I was far from foreseeing it, it was there I spoke to
her for the last time!... And I was still further from foreseeing in what
place and in what way I should afterwards find myself beside her for an
instant!...

We both attracted much attention that evening. Which of us was the more
beautiful I cannot tell. As to this, I was indifferent to the opinion of
all but one. What he thought I longed to know, and I now watched him in my
turn. As I have said, he had good reason to pride himself on his
penetration; but that was a faculty by no means lacking on my part, and
one, it may be remarked _en passant_, that Sicilians of both sexes are
said to be rarely devoid of. In this respect we were well matched. I knew
every line in his forehead, and understood every movement of his mouth and
the slightest change in his mobile, expressive face, and during the whole
evening, when for the first time I was able to observe them together
without attracting his attention, I used as much art in studying him as he
knew how to use in studying others. I followed them with my eyes around
the room; whereas, separated from me by the crowd, he forgot my presence,
and, by some phenomenon akin to that of second sight, every word they
uttered seemed to resound distinctly in my ears!... It was with reluctance
I gave her my hand when I left her. It was she, and not Lorenzo, who was
at that moment the object of the resentment that burned in my heart.

I had doubtless overcome some of my faults at that time, but far from all.
I was not so frivolous as is usually the case at my age. I loved
everything great and noble. But with all this, I was impetuous, wilful,
and jealous, and, though not occupied about my appearance, I was with
myself. The happiness I had an indisputable right to was menaced. All
means of defending my rights seemed allowable, but to use address,
prudence, and management would have amounted almost to insincerity in my
eyes.

Pretexts, and even excuses, are seldom wanting for yielding to the impulse
of the moment. Therefore I yielded to mine when I again found myself alone
with Lorenzo, breaking a long silence which he did not notice, or would
not ask the reason of, with a violent outburst I afterwards regretted, but
which, at the moment, it seemed impossible to repress.

“I have tried to please you, Lorenzo, and must still believe in your
sincerity, which it would kill me to doubt; but I can no longer have any
faith in the false, perfidious friendship of that woman.... My heart, my
whole soul, revolts against her.... God forgive me, Lorenzo, I really
believe I hate her, and feel as if I could never see her again!...”

Such were a few of the hasty, incoherent words that escaped from my lips.
Lorenzo, with folded arms, compressed brow, and a cold, ironical look of
surprise, listened without interrupting me.

As I gazed at him, I felt my impetuosity die away and give place to
intolerable anguish. My heart swelled, and I should have burst out into
sobs had not a certain pride hindered me from responding to the icy
coldness of his smile with tears. He did not excuse himself, and by no
means tried to defend her whom I thus attacked. He made neither
protestations nor reproaches.

“As you please, _cara mia_,” said he with a calmness that seemed a
thousand times more cruel than anger. “I will not attempt to oppose the
furious fit of jealousy I see you are in. Indulge in it at your
leisure.... Nothing is easier than to find some excuse for not spending
to‐morrow evening with Donna Faustina—and the day after, _ma belle
Ginevra_,” continued he with a sarcastic look that was more marked than
his words. “You seem to forget we are both going away, and very probably
you will never see her again.... This is a reassuring circumstance, and
ought to have sufficed, it seems to me, to prevent you from making so
absurd a scene as this.”

His manner and words completely disconcerted me. I now felt painfully
mortified at my outburst, and an earnest desire to repair it. And yet the
sensation caused by his injustice still raged in my heart. But I repressed
this by degrees, and when Lorenzo was on the point of leaving the room, I
said in a low tone:

“Forgive me; I was too hasty. But I have suffered more than you may have
supposed.”

He made no reply, and his coldness restored my self‐control.

“It is not necessary to seek any pretext to avoid meeting Donna Faustina,”
continued I with a _sang‐froid_ nearly equal to his own. “Mme. de Kergy
has invited me, and you also, to dine there to‐morrow, and pass the
evening.”

“Very well, go; nothing could be more fortunate. As for me, I shall not go
with you. I have business I am obliged to finish before my departure. To‐
morrow I shall be absent all the morning, and shall not return in season
to accompany you.”

I knew through Lando what business he referred to. I knew he was to settle
the next day the important accounts I had learned about the preceding
Sunday. I recollected likewise that he was afterwards to dine with
Lando....

It was not, then, an imaginary excuse I had to transmit to Mme. de Kergy,
and yet, when I wrote the note before mentioned, it was with a trembling
hand and a heart heavier than it had ever been in my life!

To Be Continued.




September—Sabbath Rest.


Most holy of the numbers, sacred Seven!
    Which reverently the ancient sages held,
    And by thy hidden charm the music swelled
Of rare old prophecies and songs of heaven,
We wonder, yet the secret have not riven
    (So closely are the mysteries sentinelled),
    If only by the calendar(10) compelled,
Thy sign of grace unto this month was given.
Rather, we think, a fair connection lies
    Between the blessedness of Sabbath peace,
    When all of labor finds divine surcease,
The while rich incense rises to the skies,
    And that sweet rest from summer’s burdened days,
    Which makes the ripe year now yield sevenfold praise!




The Present State Of Anglicanism.


A bill for the regulation of public worship, prepared by Dr. Tait,
Protestant Archbishop of Canterbury, and which after certain modifications
has passed through Parliament, is causing the state church to undergo
another of those feverish crises which for about thirty years past have
marked with a new feature its internal as well as its external
disorganization.

Before that period it had been the chief boast of that church, in every
section of her members, whether “High” or “Evangelical,” to have
repudiated the “blasphemous fables and dangerous deceits” of the ancient
faith from which she had apostatized, the ancient unity from which she had
severed herself, and the ancient doctrines which she denounced.

Since that period, however, a change has come over a portion of the
Establishment, by the formation in its bosom of a new party, differing
from all its predecessors, and possessing, moreover, its own scale of
belief, graduated _ad libitum_.

The thoughtful and earnest writers of the _Tracts for the Times_, becoming
painfully conscious of the want of consistency of belief, and also of the
need of a spiritual head or centre of authority in their own communion,
sought anxiously into the details of its origin and history, and also into
the past and present of the ancient church, from whose venerable features
they removed the veil of obloquy and misrepresentation which had been
thrown over them. Their search proved that to be a merely human
institution which they had regarded as divine, and the unveiling of that
long‐hidden countenance revealed to them the divine lineaments of the one
true Mother who for three weary centuries had been to England a “Mother
out of sight.”(11)

Most of those men transferred their allegiance whither alone it was due;
having dug to the foundations of their edifice to find them giving way at
every corner, they took refuge in the city against which so often the
“hail descended, and the wind blew, but it fell not; for it was built upon
a rock.” But they did not fail to leave an abiding impression upon the
communion they abandoned. Many who forbore to follow their example were
yet unable to deny the truth of the principles which had found their
ultimate resolution in this exodus, although they persuaded themselves and
others that it was their duty to remain in order to solidify and adorn
that structure which they designate the “church of their baptism,” slow to
believe that it is a house “built on the sand.”

Thus, during the last thirty years or so, it has been the aim of a small
but increasing number of Anglicans to claim consideration for their
communion on higher grounds than its founders would by any means have
approved, and, becoming suddenly shy of its state parentage, to declare it
to be a “Branch” and a “Sister” of that church which the creators of their
own moved heaven and earth, or rather the gates of hell, to destroy.

In order to support their claim, they find it necessary to distort the
meaning of their formularies in the vain endeavor to coax or to force them
into some resemblance to the teaching of the Council of Trent, those which
are hopelessly irreconcilable being left out of the account as little
differences which it is inconvenient to remember. In numerous cases they
are practically set aside, or contradicted, notwithstanding the fact that
at their “ordination” the ministers of the Church of England solemnly bind
themselves to teach in accordance with these very formularies.

Moreover, finding their own mutilated communion service insufficient, and
yet claiming and professing to “say Mass,” which they were never intended
to say, and which in their present position they are utterly incapable of
celebrating, the ritualistic ministers are in the habit of supplementing
the deficiencies of their own liturgy by private interpolations from the
Roman Missal, which, in case they are questioned on the subject, they
designate as “prayers from ancient sources,” a statement less honest than
true. One thing after another do they imitate or claim as their own, now a
doctrine, now a practice, which for three hundred years their communion
has emphatically disowned: vestments, lights, prayers for the dead,
confession, transubstantiation, in some “extreme” quarters intercession of
the saints; here a gesture and there a decoration, which only has its
fitness and meaning in the ancient church and her venerable ritual, but
which with them can claim no title but that of doctrinal, disciplinary,
and decorative disobedience—however great may be the pains they take to
force the false to simulate the true, and however pertinaciously they may
dare, as they do, to appropriate to themselves and to their chaotic schism
the very name of the Catholic Church, out of whose fold they are content
to remain in hereditary apostasy.

Among the four principal sections of “High,” “Low,” “Broad,” and “No”
church, into which the Anglican communion is divided, the “Low” or (so‐
called) “Evangelical” school is the sternest opponent of the new “Extreme”
or “Ritualistic” party, which it very mistakenly honors with the name of
_Romanizers_. We say mistakenly, because, however they may imitate
according to their various shades of opinion the outward ceremonial of the
church, or adopt, at choice, more or less of her doctrines, yet all this
in their case is but a double development of Protestantism (to say nothing
of the effect it produces of making them rest satisfied with the shadow
instead of seeking the substance);(12) for none are so bitter as they
against the church they are so desirous to resemble, and also none are so
practically disobedient to their own ecclesiastical superiors, in spite of
reiterated professions to the contrary. It is this persistent disobedience
which has brought about the present crisis.

In the Evangelical party there exists a society calling itself the “Church
Association,” of which one principal object is to watch over the
principles of the reformation,(13) and to keep a jealous eye upon the
movements of tractarianism in all its varied developments.

Chiefly in consequence of the representations of this society, and also of
the determination of the High‐Church clergy not to obey the decision that
has been given against various of their practices in the “Purchas
judgment,” until they should have obtained a redecision from another court
to which they had appealed, Dr. Tait, Archbishop of Canterbury, laid
before the Houses of Parliament a bill entitled the “Public Worship
Regulation Bill,” of which the object is to secure the suppression of all
the illegal practices in which Ritualists habitually indulge, and also to
secure obedience to their legally and ecclesiastically constituted
authorities. Rightly or wrongly, all the innovations or changes that have
been gradually rousing “the Protestant feeling of the country,” and which
are in fact, if not in intention, imitations of Catholic ritual, were to
be put down. The bill requires that in each diocese a local court should
be established, before which any church‐warden, or three parishioners,
“having cause of complaint against the incumbent, as failing to observe
the directions contained in the Book of Common Prayer, relating to the
performance of the services, rites, and ceremonies of the said book, or as
having made or permitted unlawful addition to, alteration of, or omission
from such services,” etc., etc., shall be empowered to lay their complaint
against the said incumbent, who is to be allowed the space of fourteen
days in which to give his answer. Should no answer be given, it will be
considered that the charges laid against him are true, and proceedings
will be taken accordingly. Should an unsatisfactory answer be given, “the
bishop may, if he think fit, within six months after he has received a
representation in the manner aforesaid, proceed to consider the same in
public, with the assistance of the chancellor of the diocese or his
substitute, ... and the bishop shall, after due consideration, pronounce
judgment in regard to such representation.”

To this an amendment was suggested by Lord Shaftesbury, which was adopted,
namely, that instead of a local bishop, a secular judge, to be selected by
the two Archbishops of Canterbury and York, should be appointed, under the
title of “Judge of Public Worship,” and whose office it should be to
assist the bishop of any diocese where his services might be required for
the hearing of cases, after which not the bishop, but the judge, should,
in conclusion, pronounce sentence according to law.

Upon this, the _Spectator_, a leading periodical of the Broad Church
party, observes: “So far as the bill is intended to ascertain and enforce
the existing law of the church in relation to public worship, the change
(namely, from a bishop to a secular judge) makes the whole difference
between a tribunal which Englishmen will respect and trust and one which
they would hardly have taken the trouble even to consult, so deep would
have been, in general, their distrust of the oracle consulted.... Lord
Shaftesbury having provided a genuine judge, the complainant who prefers a
bishop will not often get his antagonist to agree with him, and such
complainants will be few.”

Of this general mistrust of the Anglican bishops we have more to say, but
for the present we keep to the consideration of the bill.

Lord Shaftesbury’s suggestion was followed by one from Dr. Magee, Bishop
of Peterborough, which, although not adopted, is too remarkable a specimen
of Episcopal counsel to be unnoticed. (_The Church Times_ respectfully
designates it as “one of the prettiest bits of log‐rolling ever seen”!)
Bishop Magee proposed, and his proposal was “powerfully seconded by the
Lord Chancellor,” that there should be “neutral regions of ritual laid
down by the bill, within which a variety of usages as practised in many
churches at the present time should _all_ be admissible, even though the
actual directions of the rubric against some of them be explicit.”
Whereupon the _Spectator_ goes on to suggest that a varied selection of
“concessions” should be made, suitable to the divergent or opposite tastes
of Extreme, High, Low, Broad, and No Churchmen; such as, for instance, the
optional reading or omission of the words as to the regeneration of the
child by the act of baptism, as a concession acceptable to the
Evangelicals. For its own part it would like an optional reading or
omission of the Athanasian Creed, and so on, and, “to make the compromise
a thoroughly sound one,” the laity of each parish, it considers, ought to
be consulted as to the usage to be adopted. It is hard to imagine anything
better calculated to make “confusion worse confounded” than plans like
these, at a time, too, when all the Anglican parties alike confess that
“in no day has there been so wide a variety of tendency, opinion, and
belief in the Church of England as now.”

One of the great features in the checkered progress of this bill has been
the speech of the late premier, the negative and destructive character of
which it is difficult adequately to estimate, and which, upon its
delivery, to quote the words of the _Westminster Gazette_, “produced an
ecclesiastical conflagration.” Even Mr. Gladstone’s late colleagues hold
aloof from his propositions, and the outcry that was raised soon
indisposed his humbler followers to agree with him; yet he laid bare many
real difficulties and told many plain truths which might make the friends
of the archbishop’s bill reasonably hesitate. But as it is, this speech
has only fired the zealous determination of the great majority of the
House, both liberal and conservative, to strike a blow at the external
manifestations of ritualism, come what may, and has set the “Protestant
feeling of the country” on horseback.

The bill is doubtless peculiarly vulnerable, and Mr. Gladstone did not
spare its weak points, amply demonstrating its dangerous scope and
character, and the extreme probability of its leading to convulsions far
more serious to the welfare of the Established Church than what he termed
any panic about Ritualism. It enforces the observation of the rubrics with
a rigidity dependent only upon episcopal discretion in the use of a
certain dispensing power. The bishops may protect whom they please,
provided they are ready with written reasons for vetoing the proceedings
against the accused, which is certainly an adroit expedient for catching
obnoxious ritualists and letting offenders of another class escape. All
might work well if only bishops will be discreet.(14) Mr. Gladstone
showed, however, that he entertained profound doubts of the discretion of
twenty‐seven or twenty‐eight bishops. But, whether his fears are well
grounded or not, many minds would agree with him in recoiling from such
slippery legislation, although, on the other hand, he launches himself
into a course of which it would be difficult to foresee the results. In
his six remarkable resolutions he not only reduces the bill so that it
should only effect its real objects, but he explicitly asserts the
impolicy of uniformity in the matter of enforcing the rubrics. It is
really little less than the repeal of the Act of Uniformity, and the six
resolutions involve the abolition of that religious settlement which has
prevailed in England for more than two centuries. Finding them rejected by
an overwhelming majority, Mr. Gladstone withdrew them; “but they may yet
furnish a fruitful contribution to the discussion of the position of the
Church of England.”

But if, as we have seen, the Broad‐Church section openly proclaims its
deep mistrust of its ecclesiastical rulers, and one object of the
Evangelical “Church Association” is declared to be “to teach them the
law,” it is reserved for the organs of the extreme ritualistic party to
treat their bishops, week after week, to an amount of supercilious
insolence, which is occasionally varied by invective and abuse,
unsurpassed in the annals of even Puritan polemics. In the _Church Times_
for May 22 we find a lengthy monition, headed in double‐sized capitals,
“What the Bishops ought to do,” and which, in a tone of mock compassion,
thus commences: “It has been a hard time lately for our Right Reverend
Fathers‐in‐God.... According to their wont, their lordships have seemed,
with one noble exception, to give their support to Dr. Tait’s plan for
stamping out ritualism.” “The gods have evidently a spite against the
primate, or he would scarcely have committed such blunders, etc.” “The
poor archbishop has, however, excuse enough for his peevishness.” “We have
been compelled repeatedly, in the interests of truth, etc., to point out
what their lordships ought not to do; unfortunately the occasions which
necessarily call forth such remarks occur too frequently; it is therefore
only right that we should also give the bishops the benefit of our own
experience, and explain to them how they might hope to gain that respect
which they certainly do not now possess.” And further on the same modest
writer requests his ecclesiastical superiors to remember that they are
immensely inferior to many of their clergy in natural gifts, mental
culture, and parochial experience, adding: “Take, for instance, the
question of confession. It is evident from their lordships’ utterances
respecting it that they are in the darkest ignorance both as to its
principles and practice, ... and this though there are plenty of clergymen
who, by long experience in the confessional, are well qualified to
instruct their lordships about it.”

Now, this is too unreasonable! As if an Anglican bishop ought fairly to be
expected to trouble himself about an obsolete custom that had practically
disappeared from the Anglican Prayer‐Book, of which there is no mention in
the Catechism, and none in the communion service but one ambiguous phrase
which may mean anything!(15)

But to return to the _Church Times_, which with its compeers of the
“extreme” school seems to do its best to expose the Babel of confusion in
which it dwells, and which its own voice does its little utmost to
increase. From this we learn that “it is now decided by archiepiscopal
authority, and illustrated by archiepiscopal example, that truth is not
one, but two.”

Why only _now_, we should like to know, when no true successor of the
archapostate Cranmer could consistently teach otherwise—Cranmer, of whom
his biographer, Alexander Knox, writes as follows:

“To form a church by any sharply defined lines was scarcely Cranmer’s
object.... He looked more to extension than to exactness of periphery.”
And this man, “whose life was the incarnation of theological and moral
contradictions, and whose creed was only consistent in its gross
Erastianism, left these as his double legacy to the national
Establishment, of which he was the principal contriver.”(16) The same
writer (Knox) demonstrates the success of Cranmer’s idea in another place,
where he describes the constitution of the Anglican communion in the
following remarkable words: “In England, as I have already been
endeavoring to show, all is peculiar. In the Establishment, the theology
common to Luther and Melanchthon was adopted in the Articles, but the
unmixed piety of the primitive church was retained in the daily liturgy
and occasional offices. Thus our church, by a most singular arrangement of
Providence, has, as it were, a Catholic soul united to a Lutheran body of
best and mildest temperament.... May we not discover traces of the All‐
wise Hand in these principles of liberality, which are implanted in the
very bosom of our Establishment by the adoption of articles that are
deemed by different men to countenance their different opinions?” And
Bishop Burnet, in the Introduction to his _Commentary on the Articles_,
declares that “when an article is conceived in such general terms that it
can admit of different senses, yet even when the senses are plainly
contrary one to another, both (_i.e._ persons of opposite opinions) may
subscribe to the Articles with a good conscience, and without any
equivocation.” Well indeed did Dr. Newman describe these articles as the
“stammering lips of ambiguous formularies.” After these confessions of
Anglicans themselves, what reason have they to be surprised if their
present archiepiscopal authority decides that truth is not one, but two?

The same ritualistic organ we have been quoting speaks of a certain
proposal as one which could only be made “by a madman or a bishop.” In the
_Church Times_ for June 12, under the title of “The Worship Bill in the
Lords,” we find the following courteous, charitable, and refined
observations: “The scheme devised by Archbishops Tait and Thompson for
harrying the ritualists, and nearly pulling down the Church of England in
order to do so, like that lord chief‐justice in China who burnt down his
town‐house to roast a sucking‐pig, is not going quite as its authors
hoped,” etc. Again: “But Dr. Tait has been contented to remain to the
present hour in entire ignorance of the laws, usages, and temper of the
Church of England, and therefore it is impossible for the most charitable
critic to give him credit for religious motives. The best that can be said
of him is that he has a creed of some kind, which is Erastianism, and
therefore prefers the English Establishment to the Scottish, as the
wealthier and more dignified of the two. [The bishops] have collectively
betrayed their trust, and convinced churchmen that the episcopal seats in
the House of Lords are a weakness and not a strength to the church.” “This
misconduct of the bishops will do much to destroy the unreal glamour which
their official position has enabled them to throw over the eyes of the
moderate High‐Church clergy, who now learn that no considerations of
faith, honor, and duty have the least weight with their lordships when any
personal questions intervene, and therefore their wings will be clipped
pretty closely when,” etc. “But there is, we are thankful to say, a deep‐
rooted distrust of the bishops,” and “even archiepiscopal mops and brooms
cannot drive back the waters of ritualism!” With specimens such as these
before us, we do not wonder that Dr. Pusey, who is a gentleman as well as
a Christian, thought it advisable at the opening of his speech before the
recent ritualistic meeting at S. James’ Hall, against the archbishop’s
bill, to express his hope that the words of S. Paul would not be
forgotten, “Thou shalt not speak evil of the ruler of my people.”

Before quitting this part of the subject there is one thing we wish to
say. Let these men be content to settle their own quarrel with each other
and with their bishops as best they may, but let them, if they will not
hear S. Paul, remember a command that was given amid the thunders of
Sinai: “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor”; and let
them, if they can, refrain from “evil speaking, lying, and slandering” not
only against the Catholic Church in general, but also against the noble
church in France in particular, whose close union and devoted filial
obedience to her Head, the Vicar of Jesus Christ, they appear to regard
with a peculiar and malignant envy. Would that it were a holy emulation
instead!

These men dare to say that the church in France has been “brought to
ruin”: that it is “Rome and its agents who have procured that ruin,” and
by means which they “will expose on a future occasion.” They aver that
there is not a canonical authority, but “an absolute despotism,” “a
hateful absolutism” exercised by “the bishops over the inferior clergy”
(in which statement we cannot but perceive a reflection of the perpetual
episcopal nightmare which troubles the ritualistic dreams at home); the
said inferior clergy being described as “veritable pariahs, who from one
day to another, at the caprice of a bishop, can be reduced to become
crossing‐sweepers or cab‐drivers”—a “reduction” which we are allowed to
suppose must be very common from the additional declaration that “it is a
principle with the bishops to crush the wills of their clergy,” while they
themselves, “being merely the prefects of the Pope, have in their turn to
submit to a tyranny no less painful,” the Pope making himself “lord and
master more and more”; in fact, “the only person who is free in the Roman
Church, ever since the Council of Trent, is the Pope.”(17)

Elsewhere in this same exponent of reckless ritualism we find the
following singular justification of the tone so habitually adopted by that
party towards their spiritual superiors: “We hear a good deal about the
reverence of the elder tractarians for bishops and dignitaries, but we
fail to see the merit of their conduct when we reflect that it cost us a
disastrous exodus Romewards.” An apparently unconscious testimony to the
inevitable tendency and final result of respect for lawful authority.

But we will no longer detain the reader over specimens of High‐Anglican
journalism, further than to remark the admiring sympathy expressed by this
party for the self‐styled “Old Catholic” movement, and especially for the
apostate Reinkens—a sympathy to be expected from men who, instead of
escaping from schism, seek to justify it, and, feeling themselves
strengthened by the rebellion of others, applaud each fresh example of
revolt.

Thus a long and laudatory notice on the new German schismatics commences
as follows: “The text of the Old Catholic Declaration at Bonn, on reform
in general, ... is published, and is, on the whole, extremely
satisfactory. At present the movement bears a remarkable resemblance to
the ideal English Reformation; and we pray that it may keep a great deal
nearer to its theory than we have been able to do.”

As a pendant to the above we will mention two “resolutions” moved at a
meeting of the “Society for the Reunion of Christendom,” recently held in
S. George’s Hall, the first of which was as follows: “That the only
adequate solution for the internal distractions of the English Church, as
of Christendom generally, is to be found in the restoration of corporate
unity in the great Christianity commonwealth.”

The second stood thus: “That the marriage of H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh
to the daughter of the Czar affords hope of such mutual understanding
between the English and Russian churches as may facilitate future
intercommunion.”

Alas, poor Church of England! Within the breast of many of her more
earnest members is lovingly cherished the delusive dream of the “corporate
reunion” of what they are pleased to call the “three branches of the
church.” Wearied of their long isolation, they stretch out their hands—to
whom? On the one side, to a schism about double the age of their own, but
too free from many of their errors and too devoted to the Ever Blessed
Mother of God to give easy welcome to so dubious an ally as the creation
of Cranmer and his king; and, on the other side, to a schism of a few
months old, to which they equally look forward to join hand in hand, and
thus, by adding schism to schism, fondly expect Catholic unity as the
result!

But what, then, is their attitude with regard to the ancient church?
Opposition, strengthened by jealous fear. There is in the Church of
England an hereditary antipathy to the Catholic Church, which is evinced
in its Articles, more fully developed in its _Homilies_, and sustained in
the writings not only of the first reformers, but of all the succession of
Anglican divines, with scarcely an exception, no matter how much they may
have differed among themselves in their several schools of religious
opinion. Nor is the spirit dead within it now. For instance, was there
ever a more gigantic commotion than that which was raised all over
England, in every corner of the land, and among clergy and laity alike,
than that which followed upon the simple act of Pope Pius IX., when,
within the memory of the present generation, he exchanged the government
of the Catholic Church in England by vicars‐apostolic for that of a
regular and established hierarchy?

“The same animus exists even among the less Protestant and more eminent of
its champions in the present day, among whom we need only mention the
names of Dr. Wordsworth, Mr. Palmer, and the Dean of Canterbury among
moderate High Churchmen.” It manifests itself also quite as plainly in the
Tractarian, Ritualistic, and “Extreme” schools of High‐Church development;
for instance, F. Harper quotes a letter published and signed by an “Old
Tractarian,” in which the Catholic bishops are described as “the present
managers of the Roman schism in England,” and a clergyman of the same
school, well known at Oxford, on one occasion observed to the writer of
the present notice: “We are the Catholics; you are simply Romanists; that
is to say, Roman schismatics.”

Dr. Pusey, in his recent speech before the meeting at St. James’ Hall
against the archbishop’s bill, expresses as emphatically as ever his
assured conviction of the Catholicity of his own communion, in spite of
the many difficulties to be overcome before that view can be accepted by
ordinary minds. After speaking of the “undivided church of Christ,” he
goes on to say: “We are perfectly convinced ... that we are standing
within her own recorded limits, and are exponents of her own recorded
principles,” adding, “The Church of England is Catholic” (great cheering),
“and no power on earth can make the Church of England to‐day a Protestant
society.... Her limits we claim to be those of the Catholic Church.” And,
wonderful as it may seem, the venerable doctor is convinced of the truth
of these affirmations, his nature being too noble and sincere wilfully to
exaggerate. His speech, which is in condemnation of the archbishop’s bill
as being aimed against those charged with making unlawful additions to
their church’s ritual, while those who make unlawful omissions from it are
likely to be left unmolested, concludes with these words: “If dark days
_do_ come, ... I mean to stand just where I am, within the Church of
England” (loud and prolonged cheering).... “I mean to resist the voices
from without and from within that will call on me to go to Rome; but still
to endeavor, by active toil, by patient well‐doing, and by fervent
charity, to defend and maintain the catholic nature of the Church of
England.”(18)

There is one Voice which may yet _will_ to be heard “_within_,” and which
may at the same time confer grace, that he who has taught so many souls
the way to their true and only home may himself also find his own true
Mother and his Home at last.

Meanwhile, what is the condition of this “Catholic” Church of England!
Never was there a “house” more notoriously “divided against itself;” and
every effort of the Tractarian party to force sound doctrine upon her or
elicit it from her has resulted in a more deliberate annihilation of truth
on her part, by the formal declaration that on fundamental doctrines her
ministers, according to their respective tastes, are free to teach two
opposite beliefs. It was thus when the “Gorham judgment” ruled that
baptismal regeneration was “an open question” in the church of England.
Her ministers are equally allowed to teach that it is a true doctrine or
that it is a false one. Truth is made not only “two,” but antagonistic to
itself. A subsequent judgment did the same thing with regard to the
doctrine of the Real Presence in the Eucharist, which is taught in a
variety of ways by the clergy of the Tractarian schools, sometimes as
consubstantiation, and by some as transubstantiation itself, although this
doctrine is explicitly repudiated by the Anglican formularies. By the
decision pronounced in the case of Mr. Bennett of Froome Selwood, the Real
Presence in the Eucharist was, equally with the doctrine of its opposite,
which might be truly designated as the “real absence,” authorized to be
believed and taught.

It thus not unfrequently happens that the adoration of the consecrated
elements practised and inculcated in one parish by the Rev. Mr. A. is in
the very next parish denounced as idolatry by his neighbor the Rev. Mr.
B.;(19) and in cases where the one gentleman happens to be appointed to
succeed the other in either parish, what must be the confusion of ideas
produced in the minds of the hapless parishioners with regard to the only
two sacraments which their catechism teaches them are “generally necessary
to salvation”?

Every judgment given by the authorized tribunals of the Establishment on
matters of doctrine recognizes by implication that the real strength of
the Church of England lies in the indifference of the English people to
dogmatic truth. We quote the words of Mr. Wilberforce: That which
dishonors the Church of England in the judgment of all other Christians,
whether Catholic or Protestant, is its great merit in the eyes of its own
members. They want to profess their various religions, from Calvinism to
semi‐popery, without impediment, and the Church of England is the only
community in the world in which they can do it. Even professed unbelievers
desire to maintain that institution for the same reason. A church which
teaches nothing is in their judgment the next best thing to no church at
all; thus the _Pall Mall Gazette_ often writes against Christianity, but
never against the Church of England. What unbelievers fear is a church
which claims to be divine and which teaches only one religion. “We have a
regard,” says the rationalistic _Saturday Review_, “selfish it may be, but
very sincere, for the Church of England as an eminently useful
institution. If the Liberation Society chuckles over the revelation of a
‘divided church,’ the only way to check‐mate it is to make all varieties
of doctrine equally lawful, though they are mutually contradictory.”

Again: when such a man as Lord Selborne says that the opposition to the
archbishop’s bill is based on the idea that “every clergyman is to be his
own pope,” and Lord Hatherley that “every one was determined to have his
own way,” and the Bishop of Peterborough that “those clergymen who were so
loud in crying out against the tyranny of the bishops arrogated to
themselves a right to do exactly what they pleased”; “every clergyman
wishing that there should be _excipienda_ in favor of the practices in
which he himself indulged, but objected to include those of his neighbor
in the list,” and that “every one was equally anxious to be himself
exempted from prosecution, and equally jealous of the power of prosecuting
his neighbor”—the real character of the so‐called “Catholic revival” in
the Protestant Church of England was acknowledged by the most eminent
partisans of that institution. Ritualism, they perceive, is simply
Protestantism and the right of private judgment in their extremest form.
How vain it is to exorcise such a spirit in a sect founded on the right of
revolt, and so utterly indifferent to positive truth that, as the Bishop
of Peterborough frankly confessed, the word compromise is written all over
the pages of the Anglican Prayer‐Book, was undesignedly admitted by Lord
Salisbury. “There were,” he said, “three parties in the church, which
might be described as the Sacramental, the Emotional, and the
Philosophical, and the great problem to be solved was how to reconcile
their views.” The problem, he knows, is insoluble. The very men who
profess to revive Catholic dogma can only suggest a “considerate
disagreement,” which in plain words is an arrangement to betray God’s
revealed truth by an impious compromise with error.

Before closing this rapid and imperfect notice of the present state of the
Anglican Communion, a reflection suggests itself upon which we must say a
few words. It may reasonably be asked, What is the authority which the
ritualistic party professes to obey? They refuse the right of the state,
to which their community owes its being, to rule them in matters
ecclesiastical; they refuse obedience _practically_, whether professedly
or not, to their bishops, for whom they appear to have neither affection,
confidence, nor respect; and they not only refuse submission to her whom
they themselves acknowledge to be the “Mother and Mistress of all
churches,” but they openly express their sympathy and admiration for those
who rebel against her authority, invariably taking the part of the
revolted against the Catholic Church. “Is there, then, any authority upon
earth to which they allow themselves responsible, and if so, where is it
to be found?”

We give the answer in the words of the able writer quoted above:(20)

“Anglicans having destroyed, as far as their influence extends, the whole
authority of the living church, they affect, since they must obey
something, to reserve all their obedience for what they call the primitive
church. The late Dean Mansel tells us that some of the worst enemies of
revealed truth employed the same pretext. ‘The earlier deists,’ he says
(naming five notorious ones), ‘carried on their attack under cover of a
reverence for primitive Christianity;’ and he goes on to ask, ‘Has such a
supposition ever been made, except by wicked men desirous to find an
excuse for their transgression of the law?’ Now, this is exactly the
attitude of Anglicans towards the authority of the church. They exalt her
prerogatives, and admit that she is ‘infallible’; but they deny in the
same breath that she has the power to teach or to ‘pass decrees,’ because
that would imply the obligation of obedience, and they are resolved to
obey nothing but themselves, and therefore they have invented the theory
of the Christian Church which may be enunciated in the following terms:


    “ ‘The church of God, though destined by her Founder to a divine
    life, has become by degrees a mere human thing. In spite of the
    promises, her decay began with her existence, since even the
    apostolic sees all “erred in matters of faith.”(21) She was
    designed to be One, but is now divided. She was intended to be
    universal, but ... it is far more convenient that she should be
    simply national. She still has a voice, but cannot use it. Her
    decrees would be irreformable if she had not lost the power to
    make any. She is theoretically infallible, but her infallibility
    may be corrected by any intelligent Christian who feels qualified
    for the task. She has a right to enjoin obedience, but everybody
    has a right to refuse it; for though obedience was once a
    Christian duty, yet, since there is no longer anything to obey,
    this particular virtue has lapsed, and every one is a law to
    himself. It is no doubt her office to correct the errors of
    others, but unfortunately she has not yet succeeded in detecting
    her own. “Every tongue that resisteth her in judgment she shall
    condemn,” but meanwhile it is quite lawful for every tongue to
    condemn _her_..... Unity is her essential mark, by which she was
    always to be recognized, but as it has no centre it is now purely
    chimerical. The great teachers of Christendom fancied the Pope was
    that centre, but this was evidently delusion. It was in the
    beginning a condition of salvation to “hear the church,” but as
    she has lost her voice nobody can be expected to hear her now, and
    the conditions of salvation are changed. It used to be her
    business to impose terms of communion, but it is the peculiar
    privilege of modern Christians to substitute others for them. The
    defection of millions in the earlier ages, who became Arians or
    Donatists, did not in the least affect her unity or impair her
    authority; but the rebellion of certain Englishmen—whose fathers
    had obeyed her for a thousand years, or of Russians, who have
    invented a local religion and do not even aspire to an universal
    one—is quite fatal to both. Of all former apostates it was rightly
    said, “They went out from us because they were not of us,” but no
    one would think of saying this of men who live under the British
    Constitution, because they have a clear right to “go out” whenever
    they please.’ ”


Such is the Anglican theory, ... in the face of which the Anglican
prophets go to their temples, and loudly proclaim, “I believe in One,
Holy, Catholic Church.” The natural result of such teaching is that a
majority of Englishmen have long ceased to believe in anything of the
kind.

Nor is the Anglican theory about the Catholic Church a more impossible
absurdity than what they profess to believe, and apparently do believe,
about their own, although they do not state their belief in the bare and
unambiguous manner in which we will state it for them.

That sect “existed,” they tell us, “before the so‐called Reformation,
which was only a trivial episode in its history. It left the Church of
England exactly what it was before, and only made it a little more
Catholic. If its founders called the Mass a ‘blasphemous fable,’ they must
have intended that it was the most sacred rite of the Christian religion.
If, whenever they altered their new Prayer‐Book (which they did very
often), it was always to make it less Catholic, this was probably in the
hope that its doctrine would improve in quality as it lessened in
quantity. If its bishops for many generations persecuted Catholics to
death or tortured them as ‘idolaters’ this was only a quarrel of brothers,
and they were as deeply enamored of the Catholic faith as those whom they
murdered for professing it. If for more than a hundred years they gave the
highest dignities to men who had never received episcopal ordination, that
fact proved nothing against their reverence for the apostolic succession,
or their conviction that they possessed it themselves. In like manner
their casting down altars (in some cases making them into paving‐stones),
and substituting a ‘wooden table,’ in no way affect our constant
declaration that the doctrine of the Christian sacrifice was always most
firmly held and taught in the Anglican Church. That they allowed their
clergy every variety of creed may have been one way of testifying their
conviction that truth is one. Their constant execration of the Catholic
faith must be interpreted as meaning something quite opposite; in the same
way, if you suppress the Homilies and reverse the Articles, which for some
sagacious reason were written as they are, you will find the genuine
theology of our founders.

“Finally, if the Church of England pretended to be fiercely Protestant for
three centuries, this was only to take the world by surprise about the
year 1870, and thus secure the ‘Catholic revival’ which will hasten the
time when Dr. Tait will be universally recognized as the legitimate
successor of S. Anselm—particularly in his religious views—and the
Anglican reformation justly appreciated as a noble protest against the
noxious errors of Protestantism, with which it accidentally coincided in
point of time, but had nothing in common in point of doctrine.”

But of what avail is all this? Ritualists succeed in revealing the
disorganization of their sect, only to show that it is incurable, and yet
are able to persuade themselves that such a sect as this, which exists
only to “neutralize” the revelation of the Most High, is an integral part
of that majestic and inflexible “Church of the living God,” upon which he
has lavished all the highest gifts which even divine munificence could
bestow.

Speaking of some recent conversions to the Catholic Church, the _Church
Herald_ says: “From what we hear from quarters which are well informed,
there can be little doubt that another large and influential exodus in the
same direction is imminent.” If Anglicans are not converted now, the case
does indeed seem hopeless. But they need more than ever at this moment a
solemn warning. They may begin to desire reconciliation, and to flee from
the house of bondage; but, if they think they can criticise the church as
they have been in the habit of criticising their own sect; if they propose
to teach instead of to learn; to command instead of to obey; if they do
not seek her pardon and blessing in the loving spirit of penance,
humility, and submission, let them remember that the church of God is no
home for the lawless and self‐sufficient.

But to all those who in humility and sincerity are seeking the truth, We
would say with all possible intensity of entreaty: “Let him that is
athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely,”
for “the SPIRIT and the BRIDE say, COME.”




Antar And Zara; Or, “The Only True Lovers.”


An Eastern Romance Narrated In SONGS.

By Aubrey De Vere.

Part VI.

They Sang.

I.

The people met me at the rescued gate,
  On streaming in the immeasurable joy,
Warriors with wounds, gray priests, old men sedate,
  The wife, the child, the maiden, and the boy.

Then followed others—some as from a tomb,
  Their face a blank, and vacant; blinded some;
Some that had whitened in the dungeon’s gloom;
  Some, from long years of lonely silence, dumb.

Anatomies of children with wild glare,
  Like beasts new caught; and man‐like spectres pale;
And shapes like women, fair, or one time fair
  (Unhappiest these), that would not lift the veil.

Then saw I what is wrought on man by men:
  Then saw I woman’s glory and her shame:
Then learned I that which freedom is—till then
  The soldier, not of her, but of her name.

The meaning then of Country, Virtue, Faith,
  Flashed on me, lightning‐like: I pressed my brow
Down on the wayside dust, and vowed till death
  My life to these. _That_ was my bridal vow.

II.

A dream was mine that not for long
  Our joy should have its home on earth;
That love, by anguish winged, and wrong,
  Should early seek its place of birth;

That all thy hand hath done and dared
  Should scantlier serve our country’s need
Than some strange suffering ’twixt us shared
  Her last great harvest’s sanguine seed.

I saw false friends their treaties snap
  Like osiers in a giant’s hand;
Saw sudden flames our cities wrap;
  Saw, drowned in blood, our Christian land.

I saw from far the nations come
  To avenge the lives they scorned to save,
Till, ransomed by our martyrdom
  Our country carolled o’er our grave!

III.

Still to protect the lowly in their place,
  The power unjust to meet, defiant still,
Is ours; and ours to subjugate the base
  In our own hearts to God’s triumphant will.

We, playmates once amid the flowers and rills,
  Are now two hunters chasing hart and hind,
Two shepherds guarding flocks on holy hills,
  Two eaglets launched along a single wind.

What next? Two souls—a husband and a wife—
  Bearing one cross o’er heights the Saviour trod;—
What last? Two spirits in the life of life
  Singing God’s love‐song under eyes of God.

IV.

I dreamed a dream when six years old:—
  Against my mother’s knee one day,
Protected by her mantle’s fold,
  All weary, weak, and wan I lay.

Then seemed it that in caverns drear
  I roamed forlorn. The weeks went by
From month to month, from year to year:
  At last I laid me down to die.

An angel by me stood, and smiled;
  He wrapt me round; aloft he bore;
He wafted me o’er wood and wild;
  He laid me at my mother’s door.

How oft in sleep with heart that yearned
  Have I not seen that face! Ah! me,
How slowly, seeing, I discerned
  That likeness strange it bears to thee!

V.

If some great angel thus bespake,
  “Near, and thy nearest, he shall be,
Yet thou—a dreamer though awake—
  But thine own thought in him shalt see”;

If some great angel thus bespake,
  “Near, and his nearest, thou shalt be,
Yet still his fancy shall mistake
  That beauty he but dreams, for thee”;

If, last, some pitying angel spake,
  “Through life unsevered ye shall be,
And fancy’s dreams suffice to slake
  Your thirst for immortality”;

Then would I cry for love’s great sake,
  “O Death! since truth but dwells with thee,
Come quick, and semblance substance make—
  In heaven abides Reality.”

VI.

Upon my gladness fell a gloom:
  Thee saw I—on some far‐off day—
My husband, by thy loved one’s tomb:
  I could not help thee where I lay.

Ah! traitress I, to die the first!
  Ah! hapless thou, to mourn alone!
Sudden that truth upon me burst,
  Confessed so oft; till then unknown.

There _lives_ Who loves him!—loves and loved
  Better a million‐fold than I!
That Love with countenance unremoved
  Looked on him from eternity.

That Love, all Wisdom and all Power,
  Though I were dust, would guard him still,
And, faithful at the last dread hour,
  Stand near him, whispering, “Fear no ill!”

VII.

“Fear not to love; nor deem thy soul too slight
  To walk in human love’s heroic ways:
Great Love shall teach thee how to love aright,
  Though few the elect of earth who win his praise.

“Fear not, O maid! nor doubt lest wedded life
  Thy childhood’s heavenward yearnings blot or blur;
There needs the vestal heart to make the wife;
  The best that once it hoped survives in her.

“All love is Sacrifice—a flame that still
  Illumes, yet cleanses as with fire, the breast:
It frees and lifts the holier heart and will;
  A heap of ashes pale it leaves the rest.”

Thus spake the hermit from his stony chair;
  Then long time watched her speeding towards her home,
As when a dove through sunset’s roseate air
  Sails to her nest o’er crag and ocean’s foam.

VIII.

“We knew thee from thy childhood, princely maid;
  We watched thy growing greatness hour by hour:
Palm‐like thy Faith uprose: beneath its shade
  Successive every virtue came to flower.

“Good‐will was thine, like fount that overflows
  Its marge, and clothes with green the thirsty sod:
Good thoughts, like angels, from thy bosom rose,
  And winged through golden airs their way to God.

“To Goodness, Reverence, Honor, from the first
  Thy soul was vowed. It was that spiritual troth
That fitted maid for wife, and in her nursed
  The woman’s heart—not years nor outward growth.

“Walk with the holy women praised of old
  Who served their God and sons heroic bore:—”
Thus sang the minstrels, touching harps of gold
  While maidens wreathed with flowers the bridal door.

IX.

“Holy was love at first, all true, all fair,
  Virtue’s bright crown, and Honor’s mystic feast,
Purer than snows, more sweet than morning air,
  More rich than roses in the kindling east.

“Then were the hearts of lovers blithe and glad,
  And steeped in freshness like a dew‐drenched fleece:
Then glittered marriage like a cloud sun‐clad
  Or flood that feeds the vale with boon increase

“Then in its innocence great love was strong—
  Love that with innocence renews the earth:
Then Faith was sovran, Right supreme o’er wrong:
  Then sacred as the altar was the hearth.

“With hope’s clear anthem then the valleys rang;
  With songs celestial thrilled the household bowers:—”
Thus to the newly wed the minstrels sang
  As home they paced, while children scattered flowers.

X.

Circling in upper airs we met,
  Singing God’s praise, and spring‐tide new:—
On two glad spirits fell one net
  Inwoven of sunbeams and of dew.

One song we sang; at first I thought
  Thy voice the echo of mine own;
We looked for nought; we met unsought:
  We met, ascending toward the Throne.

XI.

Life of my better life! this day with thee
  I stand on earthly life’s supremest tower;
Heavenward across the far infinity
  With thee I gaze in awe, yet gaze in power.

Love first, then Fame, illumed that bygone night:
  How little knew I then of God or man!
Now breaks the morn eternal, broad and bright;
  My spirit, franchised, bursts its narrow span.

Sweet, we must suffer! Joys, thou said’st, like these
  Make way for holy suffering. Let it come.
Shall that be suffering named which crowns and frees?
  The happiest death man dies is martyrdom.

Never were bridal rites more deeply dear
  Than when of old to bridegroom and to bride
That Pagan Empire cried, “False gods revere!”—
  They turned; they kissed each other; and they died.

XII.

Fair is this land through which we ride
  To that far keep, our bridal bower:
A sacred land of strength and pride,
  A land of beauty and of power.

A mountain land through virtue bold,
  High built, and bordering on the sun;
A prophet‐trodden land, and old;
  Our own unvanquished Lebanon!

The hermit’s grot her gorges guard—
  The patriarch’s tomb. There snowy dome
And granite ridges sweet with nard
  O’er‐gaze and fence the patriot’s home.

No realm of river‐mouth and pelf;
  No traffic realm of corn and wine;
God keeps, and lifts her, to Himself:—
  His bride she is, as I am thine.

When down that Moslem deluge rolled,
  The Faith, enthroned ’mid ruins, sat
Here, in her Lebanonian hold,
  Firm as the ark on Ararat.

War still is hers, though loving peace;
  War—not for empire, but her Lord;—
A lion land of slow increase;
  For trenchant is the Moslem sword.

XIII.

Alas! that sufferer weak and wan
  Whom, yester‐eve, our journey o’er,
Deserted by the caravan,
  We found upon our gallery floor!

How long she gasped upon my breast!
  We bathed her brows in wine and myrrh;—
How death‐like sank at last to rest
  While rose the sun! I feared to stir.

All night I heard our bridal bells
  That chimed so late o’er springing corn:
Half changed they seemed to funeral knells—
  She, too, had had her bridal morn!

Revived she woke. The pang was past:
  She woke to live, to smile, to breathe:
Oh! what a look was that she cast,
  Awaking, on my nuptial wreath

XIV.

High on the hills the nuptial feast was spread:
  Descending, choir to choir the maidens sang,
“Safe to her home our beauteous bride is led,”
  While, each to each, the darkening ledges rang.

From vale and plain came up the revellers’ shout:
  Maidens with maidens danced, and men with men;
Till, one by one, the festal fires burned out
  By lonely waters. There was silence then.

Keen flashed the stars, with breath that came and went,
  Through mountain chasms:—around, beneath, above,
They whispered, glancing through the bridal tent,
  “We too are lovers: heaven is naught but love!”




Assunta Howard. III. In Extremis.


How slowly and drearily the time drags on, through all the weary length of
hours and days, in a household where one has suddenly been stricken down
from full life and health to the unconscious delirium of fever—when in
hushed silence and with folded hands the watchers surround the sufferer
with a loving anxiety; whose agony is in their helplessness to stay for
one moment the progress of the disease, which seems possessed of a fiend‐
like consciousness of its own fatal power to destroy; when life and death
hang in the balance, and at any moment the scale may turn, and in its
turning may gladden loving hearts or break them; and, oh! above and beyond
all, when through the clouding of the intellect no ray from the clear
light of faith penetrates the soul, and the prostrate body, stretched upon
its cross, fails to discern the nearness of that other cross upon this
Calvary of suffering, from which flows in perennial streams the fountain
of salvation! Oh! if in the ears, heedless of earthly sounds and words,
there could be whispered those blessed words from Divine lips, “This day
thou shalt be with me,” what heart that loves would not rejoice even in
its anguish, and unselfishly exclaim, “Depart, O Christian soul! I will
even crush down my poor human love, lest its great longing should turn thy
happy soul away from the contemplation of its reward, exceeding great—to
be in Paradise, to be with Christ”? But, alas! there were two crucified
within reach of those precious, saving drops, and one alone said, “Lord,
remember me.”

When the family of Mr. Carlisle first realized that the master of the
house had indeed been prostrated by the fever which had proved so fatal in
its ravages, they were stunned with surprise and grief. It was just the
calamity, of all others the least expected, the heaviest to endure.

Mrs. Grey’s affection for her brother was the deepest sentiment of her
superficial nature, and for the time she was bowed down with sorrow;
which, however, constantly found vent in words and tears. She would rise
from it soon, but not until the emergency had passed. She lived only in
the sunshine; she lost herself when the clouds gathered. Assunta was the
first to recover her calmness and presence of mind. Necessity made her
strong; not so much for the sake of the sick man—that might come by and
by—but for his sister, who clung to the young girl as to the last plank
from the shipwreck of her bright, happy life. The physician was in
constant attendance, and at the first he had proposed sending a nurse. But
the faithful Giovanni had pleaded with so much earnestness to be allowed
the privilege of attending his master that he was installed in the sick‐
room. And truly no better choice could have been made, for he combined the
physical strength of the man with the gentleness of woman, and every
service was rendered with the tenderness of that love which Mr. Carlisle
had the rare power of inspiring and retaining in dependents. But only
Assunta was able to quiet his wandering mind, and control the wild
vagaries of delirium. It was a painful duty to strive to still the ringing
of those bells, once so full of harmony, now “jangled, out of tune, and
harsh.” But, once recognizing where her duty lay, she would have performed
it at any cost to herself.

Her good and devoted friend, F. du Pont, came to see her the second day of
the illness, and brought sympathy and consolation in his very presence.
She had so longed for him that his coming seemed an echo of her earnest
wish—his words of comfort an answer to her prayers.

“Father,” she said at length, “you know all—the past and the present
circumstances. May I not, in the present necessity, and in spite of the
past, forget all but the debt of gratitude I owe, and devote myself to my
dear friend and guardian? You know,” she added, as if there were pain in
the remembrance, “it was Mr. Carlisle’s care for me that exposed him to
the fever. I would nurse him as a sister, if I might.”

“My dear child,” replied the priest, “I do not see how you could do less.
From my knowledge of Mrs. Grey, I should consider her entirely unfit for
the services of a sick‐room. It seems, therefore, your plain duty to
perform this act of charity. I think, my child, that the possible nearness
of death will calm all merely human emotion. Give that obedient little
heart of yours into God’s keeping, and then go to your duty as in his
sight, and I am not afraid. The world will probably look upon what it may
consider a breach of propriety with much less leniency than the angels.
But human respect, always bad enough as a motive, is never so wholly bad
as when it destroys the purity of our intention, and consequently the
merit of our charity, at a time when, bending beneath the burden of some
heavy trial, we are the more closely surrounded by God’s love and
protection. Follow the pillar of the cloud, my child. It is leading you
away from the world.”

“Father,” said Assunta, and her voice trembled, while tears filled her
eyes, “do you think he will die? Indeed, it is not for my own sake that I
plead for his life. He is not prepared to go. Will you not pray for him,
father? Oh! how gladly would I give my life as the price of his soul, and
trust myself to the mercy of God!”

“And it is to that mercy you must trust him, my poor child. Do you, then,
think that his soul is dearer to you than to Him who died to save it? You
must have more confidence. But I have not yet told you the condition I
must impose upon your position as nurse. It is implicit obedience to the
physician, and a faithful use of all the precautions he recommends. While
charity does sometimes demand the risk or even the sacrifice of life, we
have no right to take the matter into our own hands. I do not apprehend
any danger for you, if you will follow the good doctor’s directions. I
will try to see him on my way home. Do you promise?”

“Yes, father,” said Assunta, with a faint smile; “you leave me no
alternative.”

“But I have not yet put a limit to your obedience. You are excited and
worn out this afternoon, and I will give you a prescription. It is a
lovely day, almost spring‐like; and you are now, this very moment, to go
down into the garden for half an hour—and the time must be measured by
your watch, and not by your feelings. Take your rosary with you, and as
you walk up and down the orange avenue let no more serious thoughts enter
your mind than the sweet companionship of the Blessed Mother may suggest.
You will come back stronger, I promise you.”

“You are so kind, father,” said Assunta gratefully. “If you knew what a
blessing you bring with you, you would take compassion on me, and come
soon again.”

“I shall come very soon, my child; and meanwhile I shall pray for you, and
for all, most fervently. But, come, we will walk together as far as the
garden.” And summoning the priest who had accompanied him, and who had
been looking at the books in the library during this conversation, they
were about to descend the stairs, when Mrs. Grey came forward to meet
them.

“O F. du Pont!” she exclaimed impetuously, “will you not come and look at
my poor brother, and tell me what you think of him? They say priests know
so much.” And then she burst into tears.

F. Joseph tried to soothe her with hopeful words, and, when they reached
the door of the darkened chamber, she was again calm. The good priest’s
face expressed the sympathy he felt as they entered softly, and stood
where they would not attract the attention of those restless eyes. Mr.
Carlisle was wakeful and watchful, but comparatively quiet. It was pitiful
to see with what rapid strides the fever was undermining that manly
strength, and hurrying on towards the terrible moment of suspense when
life and death confront each other in momentary combat. With an earnest
prayer to God, the priest again raised the heavy damask curtain, and
softly retired, followed by Mrs. Grey.

“Will he recover?” was her eager question.

“Dear madam,” replied he, “I think there is much room for hope, though I
cannot deny that he is a very sick man. For your encouragement, I can tell
you that I have seen many patients recover in such cases when it seemed
little short of miraculous. It will be many days yet before you must think
of giving up good hope. And remember that all your strength will be
needed.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Grey impulsively, “I could not live if it were not for
Assunta. She is an angel.”

“Yes, she is a good child,” said the priest kindly; “and she is now going
to obey some orders that I have given her, that she may return to you more
angelic than ever. Dear madam, you have my deepest sympathy. I wish that I
could serve you otherwise than by words.”

The two priests bade Assunta good‐by at the garden gate. F. Joseph’s heart
was full of pity for the young girl, whose act of sacrifice in
surrendering human happiness for conscience’ sake had been followed by so
severe a trial. But, remembering the blessed mission of suffering to a
soul like hers, he prayed—not that her chalice might be less bitter, but
that strength might be given her to accept it as from the hand of a loving
Father.

And so Assunta, putting aside every thought of self, took her place in the
sick‐room. She had a double motive in hanging her picture of St.
Catherine, from which she was never separated, at the foot of the bed. It
was a favorite with Mr. Carlisle, and often in his delirium his eyes would
rest upon it, in almost conscious recognition; while to Assunta it was a
talisman—a constant reminder of her mother, and of those dying words which
now seemed stamped in burning letters on her heart and brain.

Mrs. Grey often visited the room; but she controlled her own agitation so
little, and was so unreasonable in the number of her suggestions, that she
generally left the patient worse than she found him. Assunta recognized
her right to come and go as she pleased, but she could not regret her
absence when her presence was almost invariably productive of evil
consequences.

The first Sunday, Assunta thought she might venture to assist at Mass at
the nearest church; it would be strength to her body as well as her soul.
She was not absent from the house an hour, yet she was met on her return
by Clara, in a state of great excitement.

“Assunta, we have had a dreadful time,” she said. “Severn woke up just
after you left, and literally screamed for help, because, he said, a great
black cross had fallen on you, and you would be crushed to death unless
some one would assist him to raise it. In his efforts, he was almost out
of bed. I reasoned with him, and told him it was all nonsense; that there
was no cross, and that you had gone to church. But the more I talked and
explained, the worse he got; until I was perfectly disheartened, and came
to meet you.” And with the ready tears streaming down her pretty face, she
did look the very picture of discouragement.

“Poor Clara,” said Assunta, gently embracing her, “it is hard for you to
bear all this, you are so little accustomed to sickness. But you ought not
to contradict Mr. Carlisle, for it is all real to him, and opposition only
excites him. I can never soothe him except by agreeing with him.”

“But where does he get such strange ideas?” asked the sobbing Clara.

“Where do our dreams come from?” said Assunta. “I think, however, that
this fancy can be traced to the night when we visited the Colosseum, and
sat for a long time on the steps of the cross in the centre. You know it
is a black one,” she added, smiling, to reassure her friend. “And now,
Clara, I really think you ought to order the close carriage, and take a
drive this morning. It would do you good, and you will not be needed at
all for the next two or three hours.”

Mrs. Grey’s face brightened perceptibly. It was the very thing for which
she was longing, but she would not propose it herself for fear it would
seem heartless. To _seem_, and not to _be_, was her motto.

“But would not people think it very strange,” she asked, “and Severn so
sick?”

“I do not believe that people will know or think anything about it,”
answered Assunta patiently. “You can take Amalie with you for company, and
drive out on the Campagna.” And having lightened one load, she turned
towards her guardian’s room.

“Are you not coming to breakfast?” said Mrs. Grey.

“Presently.” And Assunta hastened to the bedside. Giovanni had been
entirely unable to control the panic which seemed to have taken possession
of Mr. Carlisle. He continued his cries for assistance, and the suffering
he evidently endured showed how real the fancy was to him.

“Dear friend,” said the young girl, pushing back the hair from his burning
forehead, “look at me. Do you not see that I am safe?”

Mr. Carlisle turned towards her, and, in sudden revulsion of feeling,
burst into a wild laugh.

“I knew,” he said, “that, if they would only come and help me, I should
succeed. But it was very heavy; it has made me very tired.”

“Yes, you have had hard work, and it was very kind in you to undertake it
for me. But now you must rest. It would make me very unhappy if I thought
that my safety had caused any injury to you.”

And while she was talking, Assunta had motioned to Giovanni to bring the
soothing medicine the doctor had left, and she succeeded in administering
it to her patient, almost without his knowledge, so engrossed was he in
his present vagary.

“But there was a cross?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered, in a meaning tone, “a very heavy one; but it did not
crush me.”

“Who lifted it?” he asked eagerly.

“A powerful hand raised its weight from my shoulders, and I have the
promise of His help always, if I should ever be in trouble again, and only
will cry to Him.”

“Well, whoever he is,” said Mr. Carlisle, “he did not hurry much when I
called—and now I am so tired. And Clara said there was no cross; that I
was mistaken. I am _never_ mistaken,” he answered, in something of his
old, proud voice. “She ought to know that.”

Assunta did not answer, but she sat patiently soothing her guardian into
quiet at least, if not sleep. Once he looked at her, and said, “My
precious child is safe;” but, as she smiled, he laughed aloud, and then
shut his eyes again.

An hour she remained beside the bed, and then she crept softly from the
room, to take what little breakfast she could find an appetite for, and to
assist Mrs. Grey in preparing for her drive.

With such constant demands upon her sympathy and strength, it is not
strange that Assunta’s courage sometimes failed. But, when the physician
assured her that her guardian’s life was, humanly speaking, in her hands,
she determined that no thought or care for herself should interfere with
the performance of her duty.

Mrs. Grey’s drive having proved an excellent tonic, she was tempted to
repeat it often—always with a protest and with some misgivings of
conscience, which were, however, set aside without difficulty.

It was a singular coincidence that Mr. Sinclair should so often be found
riding on horseback in the same direction. A few words only would be
exchanged—of enquiry for the sufferer, of sympathy for his sister. But
somehow, as the days went by, the tone in which the words of sympathy were
expressed grew more tender, and conveyed the impression of something held
back out of respect and by an effort. The manner, too—which showed so
little, and yet seemed to repress so much—began to have the effect of
heightening the color in Mrs. Grey’s pretty face, and softening a little
the innocent piquancy of her youthful ways. It was no wonder that, loving
the brightness and sunshine of life, and regarding with a sort of dread
the hush and solemnity which pervade the house of sickness, and which may
at any moment become the house of mourning, she should have allowed her
anxiety for her brother to diminish a little under the influence of the
new thought and feeling which were gaining possession now, in the absence
of all other excitement. And yet she loved her brother as much as such
hearts can love—as deeply as any love can penetrate in which there is no
spirit of sacrifice—love’s foundation and its crown. If the illness had
lasted but a day, or at the most two, she could have devoted herself with
apparent unselfishness and tender assiduity to the duties of nursing. But,
as day after day went on without much perceptible change in Mr. Carlisle,
her first emotion subsided into a sort of graceful perplexity at finding
herself out of her element. And by the time the second week was drawing
towards its close—with the new influence of Mr. Sinclair’s sympathy
seconding the demands of her own nature—she began to act like any other
sunflower, when it “turns to the god that it loves.” And yet she continued
to be very regular in her visits to the sick‐room, and very affectionate
to Assunta; but it may be greatly doubted whether she lost many hours’
sleep. Surely it would be most unjust to judge Clara Grey and Assunta
Howard by the same standard. Undine, before and after the possession of a
human soul, could hardly have been more dissimilar.

It was the fifteenth day of Mr. Carlisle’s illness when Assunta was
summoned from his bedside by Mrs. Grey, who desired to see her for a few
moments in her own room. As the young girl entered, she found her sitting
before a bright wood‐fire; on her lap was an exquisite bouquet fresh from
fairy‐land, or—what is almost the same thing—an Italian garden. In her
hand she held a card, at which she was looking with a somewhat perturbed
expression.

“Assunta, love,” she exclaimed, “I want you to tell me what to do. See
these lovely flowers that Mr. Sinclair has just sent me, with this card.
Read it.” And as she handed her the dainty card, whose perfume seemed to
rival that of the flowers, the color mounted becomingly into her cheeks.
There were only these words written:

“I have brought a close carriage, and hope to persuade you to drive a
little while this afternoon. I will anxiously await your reply in the
garden. Yours, S——.”

“Well?” questioned Clara, a little impatiently, for Assunta’s face was
very grave.

“Dear Clara,” she replied, “I have no right to advise you, and I certainly
shall not question the propriety of anything you do. I was only thinking
whether I had not better tell you that I see a change in your brother this
afternoon, and I fear it is for the worse. I am longing for the doctor’s
visit.”

“Do you really think he is worse?” exclaimed Clara. “He looks to me just
the same. But perhaps I had better not go out. I had a little headache,
and thought a drive might do me good. But, poor Severn! of course I ought
not to leave him.”

“You must not be influenced by what I say,” said Assunta. “I may be
entirely mistaken, and so I should not alarm you. God knows, I hope it may
be so!”

“Then you think I might go for an hour or two, just to get a breath of
air,” said Mrs. Grey. “Mr. Sinclair will certainly think I have found it
necessary to call a papal consistory, if I keep him much longer on the
promenade.”

Poor Assunta, worn out with her two weeks of watching and anxiety, looked
for a moment with a sort of incredulous wonder at the incarnation of
unconscious selfishness before her. For one moment she looked “upon this
picture and on that”—the noble, devoted brother, sick unto death; and that
man, the acquaintance of a few days, now walking impatiently up and down
the orange avenue. The flush of indignation changed her pale cheeks to
scarlet, and an almost pharisaical thanksgiving to God that she was not
like _some_ women swept across her heart, while a most unwonted sarcasm
trembled on her lips. She instantly checked the unworthy feeling and its
expression; but she was so unstrung by care and fatigue that she could not
so easily control her emotion, and, before the object of unusual
indignation had time to wonder at the delay of her reply, she had thrown
herself upon the sofa, and was sobbing violently. Mrs. Grey was really
alarmed, so much so that she dropped both card and flowers upon the floor,
and forgot entirely her waiting cavalier, as she knelt beside the excited
girl, and put her arms about her.

“Assunta dear, what is the matter? Are you ill? Oh! what have I done?” she
exclaimed.

“My poor guardian—my dear, kind friend, he is dying! May God have mercy on
him and on me!” were the words that escaped Assunta’s lips between the
sobs.

A shudder passed through Mrs. Grey at this unexpected putting into words
of the one thought she had so carefully kept from her mind; and her own
tears began to flow. Just at this moment the physician’s step sounded in
the hall, and she went hastily to summon him. He took in the whole scene
at a glance, and, seating himself at once upon the sofa beside Assunta, he
put his hand gently and soothingly upon her head, as a father might have
done.

“Poor child!” said he kindly, “I have been expecting this.”

The action expressing sympathy just when she needed it so much caused her
tears to flow afresh, but less tumultuously than before. The remains of
Mrs. Grey’s lunch were standing on a side‐table, and the good doctor
poured out a glass of wine, which Assunta took obediently. Then, making an
effort at self‐control, she said:

“Please do not waste a moment on me. Do go to Mr. Carlisle; he seems very
ill. I have been weak and foolish, but I will control myself better next
time.”

“I have just left Mr. Carlisle’s room,” replied the doctor. “I will not
deceive you. He is, as you say, very ill; but I hope we may save him yet.
You must call up all your courage, for you will be much needed to‐night.”

He knew by the effect that he had touched the right chord, so he
continued: “And now, Miss Howard, I am going to ask of you the favor to
send one of your servants to my house, to notify my wife that I shall not
return to‐night. I will not leave you until the crisis is
passed—successfully, I hope,” he added with a smile.

Assunta went at once to give the desired order, relieved and grateful that
they would have the support of the physician’s presence and skill; and yet
the very fact of his remaining discouraged the hope he had tried to
inspire. When she had gone, he turned to address a few comforting words to
Mrs. Grey, when, suddenly recollecting himself, he said:

“By the way, Mrs. Grey, I forgot to tell you that I met Mr. Sinclair down‐
stairs, and he begged me to inquire if you had received a message from
him. Can I be of service in taking him your reply?”

“O poor man! I quite forgot him,” exclaimed the easily diverted Clara, as
she stooped to pick up the neglected flowers. “Thank you for your kind
offer, but I had better run down myself, and apologize for my apparent
rudeness.” And, hastily wiping her eyes, she threw a shawl over her
shoulders and a becoming white _rigolette_ about her head, and with a
graceful bow of apology she left the room.

“Extraordinary woman!” thought the doctor. “One would suppose that a dying
brother would be an excuse, even to that puppy Sinclair. I wish he had had
to wait longer—it wouldn’t have hurt him a bit—he has never had half
enough of it to do. And what the devil is he coming here for now, anyhow?”
he added to his former charitable reflections, as he went to join Assunta
in her faithful vigil beside the unconscious and apparently dying man.

Mr. Sinclair met Mrs. Grey at the foot of the stairs with an assumption of
interest and anxiety which successfully concealed his inward impatience.
But truly it would have been difficult to resist that appealing face, with
its traces of recent tears and the flush caused by excited feeling.

As a general thing, with all due deference to poetic opinion, “love is
(_not_) loveliest when embalmed in tears.” But Mrs. Grey was an exception
to many rules. Her emotion was usually of the April‐shower sort, gentle,
refreshing, even beautifying. Very little she knew of the storm of
suffering which desolates the heart, and whose ravages leave a lasting
impression upon the features. Such emotions also sometimes, but rarely,
leave a beauty behind them; but it is a beauty not of this world, the
beauty of holiness; not of Mrs. Grey’s kind, for it never would have
touched Mr. Sinclair as hers did now.

“My dear Mrs. Grey,” he said, taking her hand in both his, “how grieved I
am to see you showing so plainly the results of care and watching!
Privileged as he must be who is the recipient of such angelic
ministrations, I must yet protest—as a friend, I trust I have a right to
do so—against such over‐exertion on your part. You will be ill yourself;
and then who or what will console me?”

Mr. Sinclair knew this was a fiction. He knew well enough that Mrs. Grey
had never looked fresher or prettier in her life. But the _rôle_ he had
assigned to himself was the dangerously tender one of sympathy; and where
a sufficient occasion for displaying his part was not supplied, he must
needs invent one.

Clara was not altogether deceived, for, as she put her lace‐bordered
handkerchief to her eyes, from which the tears began again to flow, she
replied:

“You are mistaken, Mr. Sinclair. I am quite well, and not at all fatigued;
while dear Assunta is thin and pale, and thoroughly worn out with all she
has done. I can never be grateful enough to her.”

Had the lady raised her eyes, she might have been astonished at the
expression of contempt which curled Mr. Sinclair’s somewhat hard mouth, as
he rejoined:

“Yes; I quite understand Miss Howard’s _motive_ in her devotion to her
guardian, and it is not strange that she should be pale. How do you
suppose I should look and feel if the dearest friend I have in the world
were at this moment lying in her brother’s place?”

Mrs. Grey might have received a new light about the young girl had she not
been rendered obtuse to the first part of this speech by the very pointed
allusion to herself afterwards, that was accompanied by a searching look,
which she would not see, for she still kept her handkerchief before her
eyes. Mr. Sinclair placed her disengaged hand upon his arm, and gently
drew her towards the garden. Had she been able to look down into the heart
of the man who walked so protectingly beside her, she would doubtless have
been surprised to find a disappointment lurking in the place where she had
begun to feel her image was enshrined. She would have seen that Assunta’s
face had occupied a niche in the inner sanctuary of the heart of this man
of the world, before which he would have been content to bow; that pique
at her entire indifference to his pretensions, and the reserve behind
which she always retreated in his presence, had led him to transfer his
attentions to the older lady and the smaller fortune; and that his jealous
observation had brought to his notice, what was apparent to no one else,
the relations between Assunta and her guardian.

All this would not have been very flattering to Mrs. Grey, so it was
perhaps as well that the gift of clairvoyance was not hers; though it is a
sad thought for men and angels how few hearts there are that would bear to
have thrown on them the clear light of unveiled truth. The day is to come
when the secrets of all hearts are to be revealed. But Mr. Sinclair, even
if he knew this startling fact, would not have considered it worth while
to anticipate that dread hour by revealing to the lovely lady at his side
any of those uncomfortable circumstances which would inevitably stand in
the way of the consummation of his present wish. So he bravely undertook
the noble enterprise of deceiving a trusting heart into believing in a
love which did not exist, but which it was not so very difficult to
imagine just at that moment, with the little hand resting confidingly on
his arm, and the tearful eyes raised to meet his.

In a broken voice, Mrs. Grey said: “Mr. Sinclair, I came down myself to
thank you for the beautiful flowers you sent me, and to excuse myself from
driving with you this afternoon. Poor Severn is worse, they think. Oh! if
he should not recover, what will become of me?” And as she spoke, she
burst into renewed weeping, and threw herself upon a seat beneath a group
of orange‐trees, whose perfume stole upon the senses with a subtle yet
bewildering influence. Mr. Sinclair sat down beside her, saying gently:

“I hope, dear Mrs. Grey, it is not so serious as that. I am confident that
you have been needlessly alarmed.”

The world will, no doubt, pardon him—seeing that Mammon was his chosen
master—if the thought was not altogether unpleasing that, should Mr.
Carlisle die now, before Assunta could have a claim upon him, it would
make an almost princely addition to the dowry of his sister. Nor on this
account were his words less tender as he added:

“But, even so, do you not know of one heart waiting, longing to devote
itself to you, and only with difficulty restrained from placing itself at
your feet by the iron fetters of propriety? Tell me, Clara, may I break
these odious chains, and say what is in my heart?”

“Mr. Sinclair, you must not speak such words to me now, and my poor
brother so ill. Indeed, I cannot stay to hear you. Thank you very much for
your kind sympathy, but I must leave you now.”

“Without one word of hope? Do I deserve this?” And truly the pathos he put
into his voice was calculated to melt a heart of stone; and Clara’s was
much more impressible. She paused beside him, and, allowing him still to
retain in his the hand he had taken, continued:

“I think you take an unfair advantage of my lonely position. I cannot give
you a favorable answer this afternoon, for I am so bewildered. I begin to
think that I ought not to have come down at all; but I wanted to tell you
how much I appreciated the bouquet.”

“I hope you read its meaning,” said Mr. Sinclair, rising. “And do you not
see a happy omen in your present position, under a bower of orange
blossoms? It needs but little imagination to lower them until they
encircle the head of the most lovely of brides. Will you accept this as a
pledge of that bright future which I have dared to picture to myself?” And
as he spoke he put up his hand to break off a cluster of the white
blossoms and dark‐green leaves, when Giovanni appeared at the gate.

“Signora,” he said, “will you please to come up‐stairs? The Signorina is
very anxious to see you.”

“I am coming,” she replied. “Pardon me, Mr. Sinclair, and forget what has
been said.” And she walked towards the house.

“Do you refuse the pledge?” he asked, placing the flowers in her hand,
after raising them to his lips.

“Really,” answered Clara, almost petulantly, “I am so perplexed, I do not
know what to say. Yes, I will take the flowers, if that will please you.”
Saying which, she began to ascend the stairs.

“And I take hope with me,” said Mr. Sinclair, in a tender tone. But as he
turned to go he mentally cursed Giovanni for the interruption; “for,”
thought he, “in one minute more I would have had her promise, and who
knows but now that brother of hers may recover and interfere?”

Assunta met Mrs. Grey just outside the door of Mr. Carlisle’s room, and
drew her into the library, where she sat down beside her on the sofa, and,
putting her arm affectionately about her, began to speak to her with a
calmness which, under the circumstances, could only come from the presence
of God.

“I thought, dear Clara, that I had better ask you to come here, while I
talk to you a little about your brother, and what the doctor says. We must
both of us try to prepare.” Here her voice broke, and Mrs. Grey
interrupted her with,

“Tell me, Assunta, quickly, is he worse?”

“I fear so, dear,” replied Assunta; “but we must help each other to keep
up what courage and hope we may. It is a common sorrow, Clara, for he has
been more than a brother to me.”

“But, Assunta, I do not understand. You are so calm, and yet you say such
dreadful things. Does the doctor think he will die?” And once again she
shuddered at that word, to her so fearful and so incomprehensible.

“I dare not deceive you, dear—I dare not deceive myself. The crisis has
come, and he seems to be sinking fast. O Clara, pray for him!”

“I cannot pray; I do not know how. I have never prayed in my life. But let
me go to him—my poor, dear Severn!” And Mrs. Grey was rushing from the
room, when Assunta begged her to wait one moment, while she besought her
to be calm. Life hung upon a thread, which the least agitation might snap
in a moment. She could not give up that one last hope. Mrs. Grey of course
promised; but the instant she approached the bed, and saw the change that
a few hours had made, she shrieked aloud; and Assunta, in answer to the
doctor’s look of despair, summoned her maid, and she was carried to her
own room in violent hysterics, the orange blossoms still in her hand.
Truly they seemed an omen of death rather than of a bridal. The doctor
followed to administer an opiate, and then Assunta and himself again took
up their watch by Mr. Carlisle. Hour after hour passed.

Everything that skill could suggest was done. Once only Assunta left the
room for a moment to inquire for Mrs. Grey, and, finding that she was
sleeping under the influence of the anodyne, she instantly returned. She
dared not trust herself to think how different was this death from that
other she remembered. She could not have borne to entertain for one moment
the thought that this soul was going forth without prayer, without
sacrament, to meet its God. She did everything the doctor wished, quietly
and calmly. The hours did not seem long, for she had almost lost her sense
of time, so near the confines of eternity. She did not even _feel_ now—she
only _waited_.

It was nearly twelve when the doctor said in a low voice:

“We can do nothing more now; we must leave the rest to nature.”

“And to God,” whispered Assunta, as she sank on her knees beside the bed;
and, taking in both hers her guardian’s thin, out‐stretched hand, she
bowed her head, and from the very depths of her soul went up a prayer for
his life—if it might be—followed by a fervent but agonized act of
resignation to the sweet will of God.

She was so absorbed that she did not notice a sudden brightening of the
doctor’s face as he bent over his patient. But in a moment more she felt a
motion, and the slightest possible pressure of her hand. She raised her
head, and her eyes met those of her guardian, while a faint smile—one of
his own peculiar, winning smiles—told her that he was conscious of her
presence. At last, rousing himself a little more, he said:

“_Petite_, no matter where I am, it is so sweet to have you here.” And,
with an expression of entire content, he closed his eyes again, and fell
into a refreshing sleep.

“Thank God!” murmured Assunta, and her head dropped upon her folded hands.

The doctor came to her, and whispered the joyful words, “He will live!”
but, receiving no answer, he tried to lift the young girl from her knees,
and found that she had fainted. Poor child! like Mary, the Blessed Mother
of Sorrows, she had _stood_ beneath her cross until it was lightened of
its burden, She had nerved herself to bear her sorrow; she had not counted
on the strength which would be needed for the reaction of joy.

“Better so,” said the doctor, as he placed her upon the couch, “She would
never have taken rest in any other way.”

To Be Continued.




A Discussion With An Infidel.



XI. Primeval Generation.


_Reader._ I should like to hear, doctor, how “primeval generation” can
afford you an argument against the Mosaic history of creation, and against
the necessity of a Creator.

_Büchner._ “There was a time when the earth—a fiery globe—was not merely
incapable of producing living beings, but was hostile to the existence of
vegetable and animal organisms” (p. 63).

_Reader._ Granted.

_Büchner._ “As soon as the temperature permitted it, organic life
developed itself” (_ibid._)

_Reader._ Not too much haste, doctor. The assertion that “life developed
itself” presupposes that life already existed somewhere, though
undeveloped. How do you account for this assumption?

_Büchner._ “It is certain, says Burmeister, that the appearance of animal
bodies upon the surface of the earth is a function which results with
mathematical certainty from existing relations of forces” (_ibid._)

_Reader._ It is impossible to believe Burmeister on his word. You know
that he is a short‐sighted philosopher. A man who says that “the earth and
the world are eternal,” that “eternity belongs to the essence of matter,”
and that matter nevertheless “is not unchangeable,” forfeits all claim to
be trusted in speculative questions. I, therefore, cannot yield to his
simple assertion; and if what he says is true, as you believe, I think
that you are ready to assign some reason for it, which will convince me
also.

_Büchner._ Nothing is easier, sir. For “there is exhibited (in the
terrestrial strata) a constant relation of the external conditions of the
surface of the earth to the existence of organic beings, and a necessary
dependence of the latter on the condition of the earth” (p. 64). “It was
only with the present existing differences of climate that the endless
variety of organic forms appeared which we now behold.... Of man the
highest organic being of creation, not a trace was found in the primary
strata; only in the uppermost, the so‐called alluvial layer, in which
human life could exist, he appears on the stage—the climax of gradual
development” (p. 65).

_Reader._ How does this show that “organic life developed itself” and was
a mere result of the development of the earth? It seems to me that your
answer has no bearing on the question, and that it is, on your lips, even
illogical. For you say somewhere: “It is certain that no permanent
transmutation of one species of animals into another has as yet been
observed; nor any of the higher organisms was produced by the union of
inorganic substances and forces without a previously existing germ
produced by homogeneous parents” (p. 68). This being _certain_, as you
own, I ask: If every organism is produced by parents, whence did the
parents come? Could they have arisen from the merely accidental
concurrence of external circumstances and conditions, or were they created
by an external power? In your theory, they must have arisen from external
circumstances, and therefore they had no parents; whilst you affirm that
without homogeneous parents they could not naturally be produced.
Moreover, if the first parents arose from a concurrence of external
conditions, why does not the same happen today?

_Büchner._ “This question has ever occupied philosophers and naturalists,
and has given rise to a variety of conflicting opinions. Before entering
upon this question, we must limit the axiom _Omne vivum ex ovo_ to that
extent that, though applicable to the infinite majority of organisms, it
does not appear to be universally valid” (p. 69).

_Reader._ Then you evidently contradict yourself.

_Büchner._ “At any rate, the question of spontaneous generations is not
yet settled” (_ibid._)

_Reader._ Do you mean that living organisms can be produced without
previously existing homogeneous parents, or germs, merely by the
concurrence of inorganic elements and natural forces?

_Büchner._ Yes, sir; and “although modern investigations tend to show that
this kind of generation, to which formerly was ascribed an extended sphere
of action, does not exactly possess a scientific basis, it is still not
improbable that it exists even now in the production of minute and
imperfect organisms” (p. 70).

_Reader._ You are cutting your own throat, doctor. For you own that your
theory has no scientific basis; and what you say about the non‐
improbability of some spontaneous generations has no weight whatever with
a philosophical mind.

_Büchner._ Indeed “the question of the first origin of all highly
organized plants and animals appears at first sight incapable of solution
without the assumption of a higher power, which has created the first
organisms, and endowed them with the faculty of propagation” (p. 71).

_Reader._ “At first sight,” you say. Very well. I accept this confession,
which, on your lips, has a peculiarly suggestive meaning.

_Büchner._ “Believing naturalists point to this fact with satisfaction.
They remind us, at the same time, of the wonderful structure of the
organic world, and recognize in it the prevalence of an immediate and
personal creative power, which, full of design, has produced this world.
‘The origin of organic beings,’ says B. Cotta, ‘is, like that of the
earth, an insoluble problem, leaving us only the appeal to an unfathomable
power of a Creator’ ” (_ibid._)

_Reader._ Cotta is more affirmative than you. He recognizes that the
problem is incapable of solution without a Creator, and does not add “at
first sight.” What do you reply?

_Büchner._ “We might answer these believers, that the germs of all living
beings had from eternity existed in universal space, or in the chaotic
vapors from which the earth was formed; and these germs, deposited upon
the earth, have there and then become developed, according to external
necessary conditions. The facts of these successive organic generations
would thus be sufficiently explained; and such an explanation is at least
less odd and far‐fetched than the assumption of a creative power, which
amused itself in producing, in every particular period, genera of plants
and animals, as preliminary studies for the creation of man—a thought
quite unworthy of the conception of a perfect Creator” (_ibid._)

_Reader._ I am afraid, doctor, that all this nonsense proceeds from cold‐
hearted maliciousness more than from ignorance. For how can you be
ignorant that, if there be anything odd and far‐fetched in any theory of
cosmogony, it is not the recognition of a creative power, but the
assumption of eternal germs wandering about from eternity amid chaotic
vapors? Your preference for this last assumption is an insult to reason,
which has no parallel but the act of passionate folly by which the Jews
preferred Barabbas to Christ. The Creator, as you well know, had no need
of “preliminary studies”: yet he might have “amused himself,” if he so
wished,(22) in making different genera of plants and animals, just as
noblemen and princes amuse themselves, without disgracing their rank, in
planting gardens, and petting dogs, horses, and birds. But this is not the
question. You pretend that the germs of all living beings had from
eternity existed in universal space. This you cannot prove either
philosophically or scientifically; and we have already established in a
preceding discussion that nothing changeable can have existed from
eternity.

_Büchner._ “But we stand in need of no such arguments” (p. 72).

_Reader._ Why, then, do you bring them forward?

_Büchner._ “The facts of science prove with considerable certainty that
the organic beings which people the earth owe their origin and propagation
solely to the conjoined action of natural forces and materials, and that
the gradual change and development of the surface of the earth is the
sole, or at least the chief, cause of the gradual increase of the living
world” (p. 72).

_Reader._ This is another of your vain assertions. For you confess that
“it is impossible at present to demonstrate with scientific exactness” the
gradual development of organic beings from mere material forces; and you
had previously affirmed that “there _must_ have existed individuals of the
same species, to produce others of the same kind” (p. 68). Where are,
then, to be found the facts of science which “prove with considerable
certainty” the contrary of what you acknowledge to be the fact? Is your
method of reasoning a mere oscillation between contradictories?

_Büchner._ “We may hope that future investigations will throw more light
on the subject” (_ibid._)

_Reader._ Very well. But, if this is the case, surely no “fact of science”
proves, as yet, the spontaneous evolution of life from inorganic matter.
And you may be certain that the future investigations of science will not
give the lie to the investigations of the past.

_Büchner._ “Our present knowledge is, however, sufficient to render it
highly probable, nay, perhaps morally certain, that a spontaneous
generation exists, and that higher forms have gradually and slowly become
developed from previously existing lower forms, always determined by the
state of the earth, but without the immediate influence of a higher power”
(_ibid._)

_Reader._ All this I have already answered; and I am rather tired, doctor,
of repeating the same remarks over and over again. Why should you make
these empty assertions, if you had real arguments to produce? And, if you
have no arguments, what is the use of saying and gainsaying at random, as
you do, the same things? Why do you assert that “the immediate influence
of a higher power” has nothing to do with the origin of life, when you
know that your assertion must remain unproved and can easily be refuted?
If “our present knowledge renders it highly probable, nay, perhaps,
morally certain, that a spontaneous generation exists,” why did you say
the contrary just a few lines before? It is inconceivable that a thinking
man should be satisfied with such a suicidal process of arguing.

_Büchner._ “The law of a gradual development of primeval times is
impressed upon the present living organic world” (p. 75). “All animal
forms are originally so much alike, that it is often impossible to
distinguish the embryo of a sheep from that of a man, whose future genius
may perhaps revolutionize the world” (p. 76).

_Reader._ What does it matter if it is impossible for us to distinguish
the embryo of a sheep from that of a man? Is it necessary to see with our
eyes what distinguishes the one from the other in order to know that they
are different? If we are reasonable, we must be satisfied that their
different development proves very conclusively their different
constitution.

But let this pass. Your line of argument requires you to show that the
first eggs and the first seeds are spontaneous products of blind inorganic
forces, without any immediate interference or influence of a higher power.
While this is not proved, nothing that you may say can help you out of
your false position. You may well allege with Vogt “the general law
prevalent through the whole animal world, that the resemblance of a common
plan of structure which connects various animals is more striking the
nearer they are to their origin, and that these resemblances become
fainter in proportion to the progress of their development and their
subjection to the elements from which they draw their nourishment” (p.
76). We know this; but what of it? The question is not about the
development of life from a germ, but about the development of a germ from
inorganic forces; and this is what you try constantly to forget. You say:
“The younger the earth was, the more definite and powerful must the
influence of external conditions have been; and it is by no means
impossible to imagine that the _same_ germs might, by very different
external circumstances, have conduced to very heterogeneous developments”
(p. 77). Were this as true as it is false, it would not advance your cause
by one step; for you here assume the germs as already existing.

_Büchner._ “The comparatively greater force of nature in former periods is
manifested in the singular forms of antediluvian animals as well as in
their enormous size” (p. 78).

_Reader._ Were those animals the product of merely inorganic forces?

_Büchner._ So it is believed.

_Reader._ On what ground?

_Büchner._ “If the contemplation of surrounding nature strikes us so much
by its grandeur that we cannot divest ourselves of the idea of a direct
creative cause, the origin of this feeling is owing to the fact that we
contemplate as a whole the united effects of natural forces through a
period of millions of years; and, thinking only of the present, and not of
the past, cannot imagine that nature has produced all this out of itself.
The law of analogies; the formation of prototypes; the necessary
dependence upon external circumstances which organic bodies exhibit in
their origin and form; the gradual development of higher organic forms
from lower organisms; the circumstance that the origin of organic beings
was not a momentary process, but continued through all geological periods;
that each period is characterized by creatures peculiar to it, of which
some individuals only are continued in the next period—all these relations
rest upon incontrovertible facts, and are perfectly irreconcilable with
the idea of a personal almighty creative power, which could not have
adopted such a slow and gradual labor, and have rendered itself dependent
upon the natural phases of the development of the earth” (pp. 84, 85).

_Reader._ If this is your ground for asserting the origin of organic
beings from the mere forces of matter, all I can say is that you should
learn a little philosophy before you venture again to write a book for the
public. Were you a philosopher, you would know that, independently of “the
united effects of natural forces through a period of millions of years,”
every grain of dust that floats in the air affords us a sufficient proof
of the existence of “a personal almighty creative power”; your “law of
analogies” would suggest to you the thought of a primitive source of life;
“the formation of prototypes” would compel you to ask, Who formed them?
and how could they be formed without an archetypal idea, which matter
could not possess? You would see that nothing can be gained by asserting,
as you do, that “the gradual development of the higher organic forms from
lower organisms rests upon incontrovertible facts,” while you cannot cite
a single one in support of your assertion. You would take care not to
attribute to the Creator an imaginary waste of time in “the slow and
gradual labor” of peopling the earth with organic beings, nor entertain
the absurd notion that he would have rendered himself “dependent upon the
natural phases of the development of the earth,” merely because his action
harmonized with the order of things he had created. Lastly, you would have
kept in view that the fact of which you were bound to give an explanation
was not the development of new organisms from existing organisms, but the
origin of the first organisms themselves from inorganic matter. Why did
you leave aside this last point, than which no other had a greater need of
demonstration?

_Büchner._ I may not be a philosopher; but certain it is that “science has
never obtained a greater victory over those who assume an extramundane or
supernatural principle to explain the problem of existence, than by means
of geology and petrifaction. Never has the human mind more decisively
saved the rights of nature. Nature knows neither a supernatural beginning
nor a supernatural continuance” (p. 88).

_Reader._ How stupid indeed! Your Masonic science cannot stand on its
legs, and you boast of victories! Do you not see, doctor, the absurdity of
your pretension? When did science attack religion, and was not defeated? I
speak of your infidel science, mind you; for true science has no need of
attacking religion. Your science tries “to explain the problem of
existence by means of geology and petrifaction” without a supernatural
principle. But is the origin of existence a problem? and can it be solved
by geology and petrifaction? Historical facts are no problems. You may
blot out history, it is true, as you might also put out the light, and
remain in the dark to your full satisfaction. Thus everything might become
a problem. But can you call this a scientific process? Why do you not
appeal to geology and petrifaction to explain, say, the origin of Rome,
and thus obtain “a great victory” over history? Yet it would be less
absurd to believe that Rome is a work of nature than to believe that life
originated in dead inorganic matter. The origin of life and of all other
things is a primitive fact, which lies outside the province of geology
altogether. Philosophy alone can account for it; and philosophy proclaims
that your infidel theory of primeval generation is a shameless imposture.

_Büchner._ This is a severe remark, sir.

_Reader._ I will take it back when you shall have proved that the first
organic germs originated in inorganic matter without supernatural
intervention.



XII. Design In Nature.


_Reader._ Everything in nature speaks of God; but you, doctor, seem quite
insensible to the eloquence of creation.

_Büchner._ I deny the eloquence of creation. Indeed, “design in nature has
ever been, and is still, one of the chief arguments in favor of the theory
which ascribes the origin and preservation of the world to a ruling and
organizing creative power. Every flower which unfolds its blossoms, every
gust of wind which agitates the air, every star which shines by night,
every wound which heals, every sound, everything in nature, affords to the
believing teleologist an opportunity for admiring the unfathomable wisdom
of that higher power. Modern science has pretty much emancipated itself
from such empty notions, and abandons these innocent studies to such as
delight in contemplating nature rather with the eyes of the feeling than
with those of the intellect” (p. 89).

_Reader._ This is no reason why you should blind yourself to the evidence
of the facts. Every one knows that Masonic science hates teleology. No
wonder at that. This science emancipates itself, not from empty notions,
as you say, but from the very laws of reasoning. Free thought would cease
to be free, if it did not emancipate itself from logic. Yet, since free‐
thinkers “abandon to us the innocent study” of teleology, would it not be
prudent in them to avoid talking on what they are unwilling to study? How
can they know that we contemplate nature “rather with the eyes of the
feeling than with those of the intellect”? Do they suppose that order and
design are objects of the feeling rather than of the intellect?

_Büchner._ I will tell you what our conviction is. “The combination of
natural materials and forces must, in giving rise to the variety of
existing forms, have at the same time become mutually limited and
determined, and must have produced corresponding contrivances, which,
superficially considered, appear to have been caused by an external
power.” Our reflecting reason is the sole cause of this apparent design,
which is nothing but the necessary consequence of the combination of
natural materials and forces. Thus, as Kant says, “our intellect admires a
wonder which it has created itself” (p. 90).

_Reader._ Beware of blunders, doctor! You have just said that our notion
of design in nature was caused by our feeling, not by our intellect; but
you now say that the sole cause of that notion is our reflecting reason,
and maintain, on Kant’s authority, that the same notion is a creation of
our intellect. Can contradiction be more evident?

Again, if our reflecting reason is the sole cause of our perception of
design in nature, surely we are right in admitting that there is design in
nature, and you are wrong in denying it. For, if the design were only
_apparent_, as you pretend, imagination might be fascinated by it, but
“reflecting reason” would never cause us to perceive it. On the other
hand, if you distrust “reflecting reason,” what else will you trust in its
stead?

Moreover, how did you not observe that Kant’s proposition, “Our intellect
admires a wonder which it has created itself,” contains a false
supposition? The intellect cannot create to itself any notion of design;
it can only perceive it in the things themselves: and it would never
affirm the existence of design in nature, unless it perceived its
objective reality. Hence our intellect admires a wonder which it
perceives, not a wonder which it creates.

Furthermore, you wish us to believe that what we term design “is nothing
but a necessary consequence of some combinations.” But why did you omit
that all such combinations presuppose definite conditions, and that these
conditions originally depend on the will of the Creator? Your book on
_Force and Matter_ is nothing but a necessary consequence of a combination
of types, ink, and paper. Does it follow that the book is not the work of
a designing doctor? You see how defective your reasoning is. You have
nearly succeeded in proving the contrary of what you intended.

_Büchner._ But “how can we speak of design, knowing the objects only in
one form and shape, and having no idea how they would appear to us in any
other? What natural contrivance is there which might not be imagined to be
rendered more perfect in design? We admire natural objects without
considering what an infinite variety of other contrivances and forms has
slumbered, and is still dormant, in the lap of nature. It depends on an
accident whether or not they will enter into existence” (p. 90).

_Reader._ I apprehend, doctor, that your notion of design is neither clear
nor correct. The “form and shape” of the objects is not what _we_ call
design. Design, in nature, is _the ordination of all things to an end_. It
is therefore the natural aptitude of things to a definite end, and not
their form or shape, that reveals the existence of design in nature. It is
not even the absolute perfection of a thing that reveals design: it is
only its relative perfection, that is, its proportion to the end for which
it is created. Hence we have the right to admire natural objects for their
adaptation to certain ends, without considering the infinite variety of
other contrivances slumbering in the lap of nature. For, if the existing
contrivances are proportionate to their ends, there is design, whatever we
may say of the possibility of other contrivances, and even of other words.

_Büchner._ “Numbers of arrangements in nature, apparently full of design,
are nothing but the result of the influence of external natural
conditions” (p. 90).

_Reader._ Yes; but these natural conditions are themselves the result of
design, since they are all controlled by a superior mind.

_Büchner._ “Animals inhabiting the north have a thicker fur than those of
the south; and likewise the hair and feathers of animals become thicker in
winter and fall out in summer. Is it not more natural to consider these
phenomena as the effect of changes in the temperature, than to imagine a
heavenly tailor who takes care of the summer and winter wardrobes of the
various animals? The stag was not endowed with long legs to enable him to
run fast, but he runs fast because his legs are long” (p. 91).

_Reader._ These remarks are puerile, doctor, and I might dispense with
answering them; yet I observe that, as cold does not foster vegetation, it
is not in the north, but in the south, that the fur of animals should grow
thicker. At any rate, the “heavenly tailor,” who clothes the lilies of the
field, does not forget the wardrobe of animals, whether in the north or in
the south, in summer or in winter; for his is the world, and from his hand
the needs of every creature are supplied. As to the stag, you are likewise
mistaken. “He runs fast because his legs are long”; but how does it follow
from this that he was not endowed with long legs to enable him to run
fast? Does the one exclude the other? Would you say that your works are
known because they have been published, and therefore they have not been
published to make them known? Your blunder is evident.

_Büchner._ “Things are just as they are, and we should not have found them
less full of design had they been different” (p. 91).

_Reader._ This, if true, would prove that our “reflecting reason” cannot
exclude design from creation. If things had been different, the design
would have been different. Even conflicting arrangements may be full of
design; even the destruction of the best works of nature may be full of
design: for the Author of nature is at liberty to do with it as he
pleases. If, for instance, all the new‐born babies were hereafter to be
males, we could not escape the consequence that the Author of nature
designed to put an end to human generation. Whatever may be the order of
things, we cannot deny design without insulting the wisdom of our Maker
and Lord.

This consideration suffices to answer all your queries and objections.
“Nature,” you say, “has produced a number of beings and contrivances in
which no design can be detected” (p. 94). What of that? Can you deny that
men act with some design, only because you cannot detect it? There are
beings, you add, “which are frequently more apt to disturb than to promote
the natural order of things” (_ibid._) This merely shows that the natural
order of things is changeable—a truth which you had the courage to deny
when speaking of miracles.

“The existence of dangerous animals has ever been a thorn in the side of
theologians, and the most comical arguments have been used to justify
their existence” (_ibid._) This is not true. No theologian has ever denied
that dangerous animals fulfil some design in nature. And as to “comical
arguments,” I think, doctor, that it is in your pages that we can best
find them. “We know, on the other hand, that very innocent, or even
useful, animals have become extinct, without nature taking any means to
preserve their existence” (p. 95). This proves nothing at all. If God’s
design could be fulfilled with their extinction, why should they have been
preserved? “For what purpose are the hosts of diseases and of physical
evils in general? Why that mass of cruelties and horrors which nature
daily and hourly practises on her creatures? Could a being acting from
goodness and benevolence endow the cat, the spider, and man with a nature
capable of these horrors and cruelties?” (p. 96). This is the dark side of
the picture; and yet there is design in all this. If I wished to make a
“comical argument,” I might say that “the hosts of diseases” are, after
all, very profitable to the M.D., who cannot live without them. But the
true answer is, that the present order of things, as even the pagan
philosophers recognized, is designed as a period of probation preparatory
to a better life. We now live on a field of battle, amid trials calculated
to stir up our energies and to mend or improve our character. We sow in
tears, that we may reap in joy. Such is the design of a Being “acting from
goodness and benevolence.” You do not understand this; but such is the
truth. As to cats and spiders, you must bear in mind that they are not
worse than the wolf, the tiger, or other animals providing for their own
subsistence by the destruction of other living beings. If this be
“cruelty,” how can you countenance it yourself by allowing the appearance
at your table of killed animals?

Your other remarks are scarcely worthy of being quoted, as they prove
nothing but your impertinence and presumption. You seem to put to God the
dilemma: “Either let Büchner know all the secrets of your providence, or
he will rebel against you, and even deny your existence.” You ask, Why
this and why that? And because your weak brain fails to suggest the
answer, you immediately conclude that things happen to be what they are,
without a superior mind controlling their course. This is nice logic
indeed! “Why should the vertebral column of man terminate in an appendage
perfectly useless to him?” “Why should certain animals possess the organs
of both sexes?” “Why are certain other animals so prolific that in a few
years they might fill the seas and cover the earth, and find no more space
or materials for their offspring?” “Why does nature produce monsters?”
These questions may or may not be answered; but our ignorance is not the
measure of things, and the existence of design in nature remains an
unquestionable fact. Is not the very structure of our own bodies a
masterpiece of design? A physician, like you, cannot plead ignorance on
the subject.

_Büchner._ Yet nature cannot have a design in producing monstrosities. “I
saw in a veterinary cabinet a goat fully developed in every part, but born
without a head. Can we imagine anything more absurd than the development
of an animal the existence of which is impossible from the beginning?
Prof. Lotze of Göttingen surpasses himself in the following remarks on
monstrosities: ‘If the fœtus is without a brain, it would be but
judicious, in a force having a free choice, to suspend its action, as this
deficiency cannot be compensated. But, inasmuch as the formative forces
continue their action, that such a miserable and purposeless creature may
exist for a time, appears to us strikingly to prove that the final result
always depends upon the disposition of purely mechanical definite forces,
which, once set in motion, proceed straight on, according to the law of
inertia, until they meet with an obstruction.’ This is plain language” (p.
99). Again, monstrosities “may be produced artificially by injuries done
to the fœtus or to the ovum. Nature has no means of remedying such an
injury. The impulse once given is, on the contrary, followed in a false
direction, and in due time a monstrosity is produced. The purely
mechanical process, in such cases, can be easily recognized. Can the idea
of a conscious power acting with design be reconciled with such a result?
And is it possible that the hand of the Creator should thus be bound by
the arbitrary act of man?” (pp. 101, 102).

_Reader._ That nature “cannot have a design in producing monstrosities” is
a groundless assertion, as nature tends always to produce perfect beings,
though sometimes its work is marred by obstacles which it has no power to
remove. You saw “a goat fully developed in every part, but born without a
head.” Here the design is evident. Nature wished to produce a perfect goat
as usual, but failed. “If the fœtus is without a brain, it would be
judicious, in a force having a free choice, to suspend its action.” This
is another groundless assertion; for, if by _force_ you mean the forces of
matter, they have no free choice, and cannot suspend their action; and if
by _force_ you mean God, you presume too much, as you do not know his
design. A fœtus without a brain, like a goat without a head, proclaims the
imperfection of natural causes; and this very imperfection proclaims their
contingency and the existence of a Creator. Thus, a fœtus without a brain
may be the work of design; for God’s design is not to raise nature above
all deficiencies, but to show his infinite perfection in the works of an
imperfect nature. That “the hand of the Creator should be bound by the
arbitrary act of men” is a third groundless assertion. Man may injure the
fœtus, and God can restore it to a healthy condition; but nothing obliges
him to do so. If he did it, it would be a miracle; and miracles are not in
the order of nature. It follows that, when monstrosities are produced,
they are not merely the result of mechanical forces, but also of God’s
action, without which no causation is possible.

But you ask, “Can the idea of a conscious power acting with design be
reconciled with such a result?” I answer that it can be reconciled very
well. In fact, those effects which proceed directly from God alone, must
indeed be perfect according to their own kind, inasmuch as God’s working
is never exposed to failure; but those effects which do not proceed
directly from God alone, but are produced by creatures with God’s
assistance, may be imperfect, ugly, and monstrous. You may have a
beautiful hand; but, if you write with a bad pen, your writing will not be
beautiful. You may be a great pianist; but, if your instrument is out of
tune, your music will be detestable. Whenever two causes, of which the one
is instrumental to the other, concur to the production of the same effect,
the imperfection of the instrumental cause naturally entails the
imperfection of the effect. God’s action is perfect; but the action of his
instruments may be imperfect; and it is owing to such an imperfection that
the result may be a monstrosity.

But, to complete this explanation, it is necessary to add that, in the
production of their natural effects, creatures are more than instrumental.
The primary cause, God, and the secondary causes, creatures, are both
_principal_ causes of natural effects; though the latter are subordinate
to the influence of the former. Both God and the creature are total
causes; that is, the effect entirely depends on the secondary, as it
entirely depends on the primary cause, though in a different manner; for
the influx of the primary cause is general, while that of the secondary
cause is particular. Hence these two causes bear to the effect produced by
them the same relation as two premises bear to their conclusion. God’s
influence is to the effect produced what a general principle or a major
proposition is to the conclusion; whilst the creature’s influence is to
the same effect what a minor proposition or the application of the general
principle is to the conclusion. Take, for instance, the general truth,
“Virtue is a rational good,” as a major proposition. This general truth
may be applied in different manners, and lead to different conclusions,
good or bad, according as the application is right or wrong. If you
subsume, “Temperance is a virtue,” you will immediately obtain the good
conclusion that “Temperance is a rational good.” But, if you subsume,
“Pride is a virtue,” you will reach the monstrous conclusion that “Pride
is a rational good.” Now, this conclusion, however monstrous, could not be
drawn without the general principle; and yet its monstrosity does not
arise from the general principle, but only from its wrong application.
Thus the general principle remains good and true in spite of the bad and
false conclusion. And in the same manner the influence of the first cause
on natural effects remains good and perfect, though the effects
themselves, owing to the influence of the secondary causes, are imperfect
and monstrous.

You now understand, I hope, how the exceptional production of
monstrosities can be reconciled with the idea of a conscious power acting
with design.



XIII. Brain And Soul.


_Reader._ And now, doctor, please tell me what is your doctrine on the
human soul.

_Büchner._ The human soul is “a product of matter” (p. 132)—“a product of
the development of the brain” (p. 197).

_Reader._ Indeed?

_Büchner._ “The brain is the seat and organ of thought; its size, shape,
and structure are in exact proportion to the magnitude and power of its
intellectual functions” (p. 107).

_Reader._ What do you mean by _thought_?

_Büchner._ Need I explain a term so universally known?

_Reader._ The term is known, but it is used more or less properly by
different persons. Our minds may deal with either sensible or intellectual
objects. When we have seen a mountain, we may think of it, because we have
received from it an impression in our senses which leaves a vestige of
itself in our organism, and enables us to represent to ourselves the
object we have perceived. In this case our _thought_ is an exercise of our
imagination. When, on the contrary, we think of some abstract notion or
relation which does not strike our senses, and of which no image has been
pictured in our organic potencies, then our _thought_ is an exercise of
intellectual power. In both cases our brain has something to do with the
thought. For in the first case our thought is an act of the sensitive
faculty, which reaches its object as it is pictured, or otherwise
impressed, in our organic potencies, of which the headquarters are in the
brain. In the second case our thought is an act of the intellectual
faculty, which detects the intelligible relations existing between the
objects already perceived, or between notions deduced from previous
perceptions; and this act, inasmuch as it implies the consideration of
objects furnished to the mind by sensible apprehension, cannot but be
accompanied by some act of the imaginative power making use of the images
pictured in the organic potencies. Now, doctor, when you say that “the
brain is the seat and organ of thought,” do you mean that both the
intellectual and the imaginative thought reside in the brain and are
worked out by the brain?

_Büchner._ Of course. For “comparative anatomy shows that through all
classes of animals, up to man, the intellectual energy is in proportion to
the size and material quality of the brain” (p. 107).

_Reader._ You are quite mistaken. The brain is an organ of the
imagination, not of the intellect. And even as an organ of imagination it
is incompetent to think or imagine, as it is only the instrument of a
higher power—that is, of a soul. To say that the brain is the organ of
intellectual thought is to assume that intellectual relations are pictured
on the brain; which is evidently absurd, since intellectual relations
cannot be pictured on material organs. Every impression made on our brain
is a definite impression, corresponding to the definite objects from which
it proceeds. If our intellectual thought were a function of the brain, we
could not think, except of those same definite objects from which we have
received our definite impressions. How do you, then, reconcile this
evident inference with the fact that we conceive intellectually
innumerable things from which we have never received a physical
impression? We think of justice, of humanity, of truth, of causality,
etc., though none of these abstractions has the power to picture itself on
our brain. It is therefore impossible to admit that the intellectual
thought is a function of the brain. With regard to the working of the
imagination, I concede that the brain plays the part of an instrument; but
how can you explain such a working without a higher principle? If our soul
is nothing but “a product of matter,” since matter is inert, our soul must
be inert, and since matter has only mechanical powers, our soul must be
limited to mechanical action, that is, to the production of local
movement. Now, can you conceive imagination as a merely mechanical power,
or thought as the production of local movement?

_Büchner._ Yes. “Thought,” says Moleschott, “is a motion of matter” (p.
135).

_Reader._ It is perfectly useless, doctor, to make assertions which cannot
be proved. Moleschott is no authority; he is a juggler like yourself, and
works for the furtherance of the same Masonic aims. Let him say what he
likes. We cannot but laugh at a thinker who can mistake his thought for
local motion.

_Büchner._ You, however, cannot deny that, while we are thinking, our
brain is doing work. But how can it do work without motion?

_Reader._ I do not deny that, while we are thinking, our brain is doing
work. I merely deny that the movements of the brain are thoughts. As long
as we live, soul and body work together, and we cannot think without some
organic movements accompanying the operation. This every one admits. But
you suppress the thinking principle, and retain only the organic
movements. How is this possible? If thought consists merely of organic
movements of the brain, how does the motion begin? The brain cannot give
to itself a new mode of being. To account for its movements you must point
out a distinct moving power, either intrinsic or extrinsic, either a
sensible object or the thinking principle itself. When the motion is
received from a sensible object, the movements of the brain determine the
immediate perception of the object; and when the motion results from the
operation of the thinking principle, the movements of the brain determine
the phantasm corresponding to the object of the actual thought. Thus
immediate perception, and thought, or recollection, are both rationally
explained; whilst, if the thinking subject were the brain itself, how
could we recollect our past ideas? When the movement caused by an object
has been superseded by the movement caused by a different object, how can
it spontaneously revive? Matter is inert; and nothing but a power distinct
from it can account for the spontaneous awakening of long‐forgotten
thoughts.

_Büchner._ Matter is inert, but is endowed with forces, and wherever there
are many particles of matter they can communicate movement to one another.
Hence, “in the same manner as the steam‐engine produces motion, so does
the organic complication of force‐endowed materials produce in the animal
body a sum of effects so interwoven as to become a unit; and is then by us
called spirit, soul, thought” (p. 136).

_Reader._ Pshaw! Are _spirit_, _soul_, and _thought_ synonymous? Do
thoughts think? When you perceive that two and two make four, is this
thought the thinking principle? And if the soul is “a sum of _mechanical_
effects so interwoven as to become a unit,” how can you avoid the
consequence that the soul consists of nothing but local movement? But if
the soul is local movement, it has no causality, and cannot be the
principle of life; for local movement is only a change of place, and has
nothing to do with perception, judgment, reasoning, or any other operation
of the thinking principle. Can local movement say, _I am_? _I will?_ _I
doubt?_ Can local movement recollect the past, take in the present,
foresee the possible and the future? Can local movement deliberate, love,
hate, say _yes_ or _no_? To these and such like questions science, reason,
and experience give an unequivocal answer, which the president of a
medical association should have carefully meditated before venturing to
write on the subject.

_Büchner._ Yet “the mental capacity of man is enlarged in proportion to
the material growth of his brain, and is diminished according to the
diminution of its substance in old age” (p. 110). “It is a fact known to
everybody, that the intelligence diminishes with increasing age, and that
old people become childish.... The soul of the child becomes developed in
the same degree as the material organization of its brain becomes more
perfect” (p. 111). “Pathology furnishes us with an abundance of striking
facts, and teaches us that no part of the brain exercising the function of
thought can be materially injured without producing a corresponding mental
disturbance” (p. 119). “The law that brain and soul are necessarily
connected, and that the material expansion, shape, and quality of the
former stands in exact proportion to the intensity of the mental
functions, is strict and irrefutable, and the mind, again, exercises an
essential influence on the growth and development of its organ, so that it
increases in size and power just in the same manner as any muscle is
strengthened by exercise” (p. 122). “The whole science of man is a
continuous proof in favor of the connection of brain and mind; and all the
verbiage of philosophical psychologists in regard to the separate
existence of the soul, and its independence of its material organ, is
without the least value in opposition to the power of facts. We can find
no exaggeration in what Friedreich, a well‐known writer on psychology,
says on this point: ‘The exhibition of power cannot be imagined without a
material substratum. The vital power of man can only manifest its activity
by means of its material organs. In proportion as the organs are manifold,
so will be the phenomena of vital power, and they will vary according to
the varied construction of the material substratum. Hence, mental function
is a peculiar manifestation of vital power, determined by the peculiar
construction of cerebral matter. The same power which digests by means of
the stomach, thinks by means of the brain’ ” (pp. 124, 125).

_Reader._ Your manner of reasoning, doctor, is not calculated to bring
conviction, as every one of your arguments contains a fallacy. Your first
argument is: The brain is the measure of the thinking power; and therefore
the thinking power, or the soul, is a result of organic development. The
second is: Brain and mind are necessarily connected; and therefore the
soul cannot have a separate existence. The third is: The vital power of
man can only manifest its activity by means of its material organs; and
therefore the soul needs to be supported by a material substratum. Such
substantially is the drift of your argumentation. Now, I maintain that the
three arguments are merely three sophisms.

First, the brain is not the measure of the thinking power. The mental
capacity of man, and the thinking power of the soul, are not exactly the
same thing. The first implies both soul and body, the second regards the
soul alone; the first presents to us the musician with his instrument, the
second exhibits only the musician himself. The brain is the organ, the
soul is the organist. You cannot reasonably pretend that the musical
talent, genius, and skill of an organist increase and decrease with the
number and quality of the pipes which happen to be in the organ. All you
can say is that the musical talent of the organist will have a better
chance of a favorable show with a rich rather than with a poor instrument.
The organ, therefore, is not the measure of the ability of the organist,
and the brain is not the measure of the thinking power. Hence from the
fact that the mental capacity of man is enlarged, as you say, in
proportion to the material growth of his brain, we have no right to
conclude that the thinking principle, the soul, grows with the brain; the
right conclusion is that the soul, being in possession of a better
instrument, finds itself in better conditions for the exercise of its
intrinsic power. The organ is improved and the music is better; but the
organist is the same.

Secondly, brain and mind are at present necessarily connected. Does it
follow that therefore the soul cannot have a separate existence? By no
means. If this conclusion were logical, you might on the same ground
affirm also that the body cannot have a separate existence; for the body
is as necessarily connected with the soul as the soul is with the body.
The reason why your conclusion cannot hold is that the connection of body
and soul is necessary only inasmuch as both are indispensable for the
constitution of the human nature. But the human nature is not immortal;
the soul must quit the body when the organism becomes unfit for the
operations of animal life; and therefore the connection of the soul with
the body is not absolutely, but only hypothetically, necessary. The soul
has its own existence distinct from the existence of the body, for the
soul is a substance no less than the body; and therefore it is no less
competent to have a separate existence. You deny, I know, that the soul is
a substance distinct from the body; but what is the weight of such a
denial? What you speculatively deny in your book, you practically admit in
the secret of your conscience whenever you say _I am_. It is not the body
that says _I_; it is the soul: and it is not an accident that perceives
self; it is a substance.

Thirdly, the vital power of man, as you say, can manifest its activity
only by means of its material organs. This is true; for, so long as the
soul is in the body, it must work together with it, according to the
axiom, “Every agent acts according as it is in act.” But does the work of
the vital power in the material organs warrant your conclusion that the
soul needs to be supported by a material substratum? Quite the contrary.
For, what needs a material substratum is an accident, and no accident is
active; and therefore the vital power, whose activity is manifested in the
material organs, is no accident, and therefore needs no material
substratum, and, while existing in the material organs, exists no less in
itself. Had you considered that the soul, which manifests its activity by
means of its material organs, exercises the same activity within itself
also, you would have easily discovered that the soul has a being
independent of its material organs, and that these organs are the organs
of sensibility, not of intelligence.

But I am not going to make a dissertation on the soul, as my object is
only to show the inconclusiveness of your reasoning. Your chapter on
“Brain and Soul,” with its twenty‐eight pages of medical and physiological
erudition, offers no proof of your assumption beyond the three sophisms I
have refuted. All the rest consists of facts which have not the least
bearing on the question. “The whole science of man,” as you say, “is a
continuous proof in favor of the connection of brain and mind.” This is
what your facts demonstrate; but your object was to show that “the soul is
a product of the development of the brain”; and this your facts do not
demonstrate, as is evident from your need of resorting to fallacies to
make them lie to truth. It is on the strength of such fallacies that you
make bold to despise your opponents, forgetting all your shortcomings, and
committing a new blunder in the very act of assailing the spiritualistic
philosophers. According to you, “the whole science of man is a continuous
proof in favor of the connection of brain and mind; and all the verbiage
of philosophical psychologists in regard to the separate existence of the
soul and its independence of its material organ is without the least value
in opposition to the power of facts.” You should be ashamed, doctor, of
this style of reasoning.

_Büchner._ Why, if you please?

_Reader._ Because, first, the connection of brain and mind, as proved by
“the whole science of man,” does not authorize you to deny the separate
existence of the soul and its substantial independence of the material
organs. Secondly, because to call “verbiage” those reasonings which all
the great men of all times have, after careful scrutiny, considered as
unanswerable, to which they gave their fullest assent, and against which
you are incapable of advancing a single argument which has not already
been answered by philosophers, is on your part an implicit confession of
philosophical ignorance. Thirdly, because it is extremely mean to proclaim
your own victory, while you have carefully avoided the combat. You have,
in fact, prudently dissembled all the reasons by which the substantiality
and spirituality of the human soul are usually proved in psychology; and,
to give yourself the appearance of a champion, you have set up a few
ridiculous sophisms—as, “the material simplicity of the organs of thought”
(p. 125)—to figure as philosophical objections, which they have never
been, and never will be; thus reminding us of the great Don Quixote
fighting against the wind‐mill. Fourthly, because, while boasting of the
support which some physiological facts seem to lend to your materialistic
theory, you have entirely ignored all those other facts of the
intellectual life which were calculated to expose your sophistry and
overthrow your conclusions. This is dishonest, doctor; for you cannot
plead ignorance in excuse.

_Büchner._ We proceed from opposite principles, sir; hence we must
disagree in our conclusions. It is a law “that mind and brain necessarily
determine each other, and that they stand to each other in inseparable
causal relations” (p. 139).

_Reader._ This goes against you; for, if the mind determines the brain,
the mind must be a special substance.

_Büchner._ “As there is no bile without liver, no urine without kidneys,
so is there no thought with out a brain. Mental activity is a function of
the cerebral substance. This truth is simple, clear, easily supported by
facts, and indisputable” (_ibid._)

_Reader._ Oh! oh! have you forgotten my previous answer? So long as matter
remains inert, it is vain to pretend that matter is the thinking
principle.

_Büchner._ “Matter is not dead, unquickened, and lifeless, but, on the
contrary, full of the most stirring life” (p. xcix.)

_Reader._ A great discovery!—if true.

_Büchner._ “Not an atom of it is without motion, but in constant
uninterrupted movement and activity. Nor is matter _gross_, as simple
philosophers often call it, but, on the contrary, so infinitely fine and
complicated in its composition as to surpass all our conceptions. Nor is
it _worthless_ or vile, but rather the most precious thing we know of; it
is not _without feeling_, but is full of the most acute sensibility in the
creatures it brings forth; nor, lastly, is it _devoid of spirit_ or
_thought_, but, on the contrary, develops in the organs destined thereto
by the peculiar kind and delicacy of their composition the highest mental
potencies known to us. What we call life, sensibility, organization, and
thought, are only the peculiar and higher tendencies and activities of
matter, acquired in the course of many millions of years by well‐known
natural processes, and which in certain organisms or combinations result
in the self‐consciousness of matter. Wherefore matter is not unconscious,
as is often proclaimed” (pp. xcix., c.)

_Reader._ Enough! enough of such nonsense. Do not ruin what little
reputation you still enjoy as a scientific man. What will the world say
when it discovers that you know nothing about the inertia of matter, which
is the basis of physics and mechanics? or when it hears that you confound
movement with activity, and activity with life? Every one knows that life
implies movement, because the more perfect implies the less perfect; but
who ever heard that mechanical movement implies life? Is a stone living
because it falls to the ground? Again, how would any one who is not an
idiot consider the matter on which we tread “the most precious thing we
know of”? Would you sell your honor for a cup of coffee and a pound of
sugar? That matter is _not without feeling_, _not without spirit_, and
_not without thought_, is a demonstrated blunder, of which I need not
repeat the refutation. But who can hear without merriment that
sensibility, organization, and thought are “tendencies” of matter? and
that they have been acquired by matter “in the course of many millions of
years”? and that this acquisition was brought about “by _well‐known_
natural processes”? I repeat, doctor, that such trash will ruin your
reputation. Buffoons and charlatans may be allowed to indulge in any
amount of absurdities; but a doctor has not the same privilege. Hence it
is not safe for you to speak of _well‐known_ processes, by which matter
becomes “conscious” of itself, when the whole scientific world knows
nothing of such processes, and may challenge you to substantiate your
foolish assertion.

I will tell you what is really _well known_. It is what a celebrated
writer teaches about the immateriality of the soul. “There is nothing,” he
says, “in this lower world that can account for the origin of our souls;
for there is nothing in our souls which admits of mixture or composition,
nothing which arises from the earth or is made of it, nothing which
partakes of the nature of air, or water, or fire. For nothing is to be
found in these natural things which has the power of remembering, of
understanding, or of thinking—nothing which can hold the past, forecast
the future, or embrace the present. The power of doing this is divine, and
its possession by man can never be accounted for, unless we admit that it
is derived from God himself. Accordingly, the soul is a distinct nature,
and has nothing common with the material things with which we are
acquainted.”(23) What do you think of this passage?

_Büchner._ It smacks of ultramontanism.

_Reader._ Just so! Bravo! Marcus Tullius Cicero an ultramontane!!

To Be Continued.




A Legend Of Alsace.


From The French Of M. Le Vicomte De Bussierre.

“I do love these ancient ruins.
We never tread upon them but we set
Our foot upon some reverend history.”

—_Webster’s Duchess of Malfy._



I.


Six leagues from Strasbourg a high mountain, pyramidal in form, rises
abruptly over the chain of the Vosges. On its summit are some antique
churches and chapels and an old convent. The fertile country at its foot
is peopled by a great number of smiling villages and several small towns.
Its sides are covered with fine forests, in the midst of which may be seen
the ruined walls of old monasteries, the crenellated and picturesque
towers of several mediæval castles, and the _débris_ of an ancient wall of
pagan times. This mountain, called in ancient times Altitona or
Hohenbourg, was once the principal bulwark of Alsace. In the VIIth century
it received the name of Mount St. Odile, and became a celebrated resort
for pilgrims.

A shady pathway, and not of difficult ascent, leads to the top of Mount
St. Odile, which commands a view as remarkable for extent as for interest
and variety. The whole of Alsace, and a large part of the Grand Duchy of
Baden, are spread out at the feet of the spectator; bounded on one side by
the jagged chain of the Black Forest, whose blue outlines are seen on the
horizon, and on the other by the Vosges, which are rounder and more
pleasing to the eye. A dense forest of pines covers the Vosges, and on all
sides, even on the highest crests, may be seen the ruins of old feudal
castles which hundreds of years ago played their _rôle_ in the history of
the province. The Rhine passes through the middle of this magnificent
valley. On each shore are forests, vineyards, meadows, and admirably
cultivated fields. A line of dazzling brightness marks the sinuous course
of the river, which, sometimes dividing, forms a great number of verdant
isles.

The dense population of the country around gives an idea of its richness
and fertility. Orchards surround the villages; rustic churches, covered
with deep‐hued tiles, rise up from the smiling groves; more imposing
belfries mark the towns, and the magnificent spire of Strasbourg points
out, through the transparent vapor, the old capital of the province. The
whole plain is furrowed by fine roads in every direction, which, bordered
by walnut‐trees, form an immense net‐work of verdure. Towards the north
the valley of the Rhine is lost in the vapory distance; on the south the
Vosges blend with the Jura mountains; and in perfectly clear weather the
glaciers of Switzerland may be seen at sunset, like gilded clouds on the
horizon.

This landscape is superb at all times, but is particularly beautiful on a
Sunday morning in spring‐time. A fresh verdure then covers the earth, and
the fruit‐trees, all in bloom, give the whole of Alsace a _parure de
fête_. The far‐off sound of the bells ringing in every direction to call
the people to prayer, and the varied sounds of the plain brought up by the
wind, mingle with the mysterious voices of nature, penetrating the soul
with a subduing and profound sentiment, and filling it with ineffable
peace.

Such is the aspect of the region where took place most of the facts I am
about to relate. But, before speaking of the development of the monastic
orders in Alsace, and of the convent of Hohenbourg and its illustrious
foundress in particular, I will briefly relate the details that have been
preserved respecting the introduction of Christianity into the province of
which we are speaking.

Tradition attributes the origin of the Alsacian churches to the immediate
successors of the apostles; but others date the Mission of S. Materne (and
his companions Euchaire and Valère) among the Triboci and the Nemetes, and
that of S. Clement among the Mediomatrici, only from the end of the IIId
century or the beginning of the IVth. They were the real apostles of the
valley of the Rhine. Some think they were called the disciples of S. Peter
merely to show that they were sent by his successors, and that their
teachings were in conformity with those of the head of the church.(24)

However this may be, there is no doubt that S. Materne founded the first
Christian churches of Alsace upon the ruins of old pagan temples in the
forests of Novient and in the towns of Helvetia and Argentorat.

Shortly after the conversion of Constantine, the Holy See sent Amandus and
Jesse, the first as bishop of Argentoratum (Strasbourg) and the other of
Augusta Nemetum (Speyer), of which city Constantius Chlorus is considered
the restorer or founder.

Among the eighty‐four bishops assembled at the Council of Cologne in the
year 346, the names of Jesse of the Nemetes and Amandus of Argentoratum
are found. S. Amandus, the first known pastor of Strasbourg, is at the
head of a long line of bishops who have given an example of true holiness,
and who have a claim on the admiration and gratitude of posterity. But
almost immediately after the death of Constantine the Great the spread of
the Christian religion in Alsace was arrested, partly owing to the rulers,
and partly to the bloody wars of which the Rhine valley was the theatre,
especially the invasion of Atilla, who either massacred the bishops or
carried them off with their flocks. This caused a vacancy in the See of
Strasbourg for many years. It passed under the spiritual jurisdiction of
Metz till 510, when the see was re‐established.

The great victory of Clovis over the Germans, and his baptism, gave rise
to a new epoch in the history of Alsace and in the spread of Christianity.
Argentoratum, which had been devastated by the barbarians, was restored by
Clovis and resumed its importance. The kings of the Franks built a palace
there which they often occupied.

Clovis re‐established the episcopal see at the beginning of the VIth
century, and laid the foundations of the cathedral in 510. From his time
the Christian religion spread more rapidly in the province, and was soon
professed by the whole country.



II.


Alsace shared in the development of monastic orders throughout Western
Europe. In the VIIth and VIIIth centuries a great number of convents and
pious retreats were erected in that province. The epoch of the early
martyrs was past, but other martyrs succeeded them, separating themselves
joyfully from the world and imposing on themselves the greatest
privations. That was the time of wonderful legends and acts of personal
renunciation. The life of S. Odile is a complete picture of that epoch. In
relating it I shall endeavor to preserve the _naïve_ and pious simplicity
of the chronicles from which it is derived, and which are the faithful
expression of the spirit of the times, and of the character and manners of
the people.

Erchinald, son of Ega, and major‐domo of the king, was, say the old
historians, one of the noblest as well as most powerful lords of the time
of Dagobert I. Leudet, or Leutrich, son of Erchinald, married Hultrude, a
princess of the royal race of Burgundy. Their son, Adalric, was the father
of S. Odile and the progenitor of some of the most illustrious houses of
Europe. Adalric married Berswinde, the niece, through her mother, of S.
Léger, Bishop of Autun, who suffered martyrdom in 685. Bilibilde,
Berswinde’s sister, or, as some say, her aunt, ascended the throne of
Ostrasia by her marriage with Childeric II. The king, united to Adalric by
the tie of friendship as well as of relationship, invested him with the
duchy of Alsace at the death of Duke Boniface. Adalric established his
residence at Oberehnheim, a town at the foot of Mount Altitona.

Few men have been depicted in such various colors as Adalric. Many ancient
writers represent him as a ferocious, cruel, and overbearing lord. Other
chroniclers, on the contrary, proclaim him as generous as he was just and
humane. The opinion of F. Hugo Peltre appears to be the most correct, and
it is confirmed by the different traits of the prince which have come to
our knowledge. He says Adalric was a man upright and sincere, but
tenacious in his designs. He showed himself to be a sincere Christian, and
in spite of his rank sought no pretext for dispensation from the duties
which his religion imposed upon him, but he had not entirely laid aside
the barbarous manners of his time.

Berswinde, whose rank equalled that of her husband, is represented by all
the authors of the life of S. Odile as one of the most accomplished women
of her day. They say her heart was filled with charity and the fear of
God. The deference accorded to her rank did not affect her piety or fill
her with pride. She was a perfect model of Christian humility. She made
use of her wealth to do good. Prosperity inspired her with tender
gratitude towards Him who is the source of every blessing. Every day she
was in the habit of retiring for several hours to the most secluded part
of the palace, for the purpose of prayer and meditation.

Adalric and Berswinde both longed for a more retired residence, where they
could pass a part of the year away from the bustle of the town and the
fatigue of business. The duke ordered his followers to explore the
neighboring forests to find a suitable spot for a castle and a church.
They soon informed him that the summit of Mt. Altitona, which rose above
Oberehnheim, was covered with the _débris_ of ancient buildings which
could be made use of in the construction of a vast and magnificent
residence. Adalric wished to ascertain by personal observation the
correctness of this report, and, after an hour and a half’s march, he
reached the place mentioned. It was a great esplanade, in a wild but
imposing situation, surrounded by very high walls of enormous stones
rudely put together, evidently by the most ancient inhabitants of the
province. Gigantic pines and old oaks had grown up with wonderful
luxuriance among these old ruins. But the buildings that covered the
esplanade had by no means fallen entirely to ruin, as his followers had
reported. They were partly ruined, to be sure, but a château and an
elegant rotunda, both of the Roman style, still remained entire.(25)

The duke, charmed with the beauty of the place, immediately knelt down and
thanked God aloud for having directed him to this spot. Then returning at
once to Oberehnheim he despatched that very same day a large number of
workmen to the mountain of Hohenbourg to commence the work.

Adalric, changing his original intention of building a large church, had
the antique rotunda magnificently repaired. It was then consecrated by S.
Léger, Bishop of Autun, and dedicated to the holy Patrons of Alsace. A new
chapel erected in honor of the Apostles Peter and Paul, the holy
protectors of Oberehnheim, was likewise consecrated by the holy bishop and
endowed by Adalric. The walls of enclosure were likewise repaired, as well
as the old château, in which the duke and duchess habitually passed the
summer months.



III.


Though the wealth and power of Adalric had increased from year to year
till he was invested with the hereditary fief of the vast duchy of Alsace,
yet one blessing was denied him. He had no heir to whom he could transmit
his wealth and title, and this profoundly afflicted him. Berswinde, too,
sympathized in his disappointment, for it is especially natural for the
great and powerful to wish to perpetuate their name and race. They both
did all that devotion and confidence in God inspire holy souls to do. They
had recourse to fasts, pilgrimages, and generous alms. Often prostrate
together at the foot of the altar they shed floods of tears, and besought
the Lord to hear their ardent prayer. At length, after some years of
married life (in the year 657, or, as some say, 661), Berswinde gave
birth—not to the prince so ardently longed for and whose advent was
anticipated with the joy and prayers of the whole province—but to a little
blind girl....

Adalric’s happiness gave place to a profound despair, and the paternal
love he had felt in advance for his child was changed into violent hatred.
He broke forth into bitter plaints. “God is angry with us,” said he, “and
wishes to punish us for some grave transgression; for he has overwhelmed
us with an opprobrium without precedent among those of my race, and which
would forever tarnish the glory of my house, should the birth of this
child be known.”

Berswinde replied: “Beware, my lord, of abandoning yourself to anger and
despair. Remember that when the disciples of our Saviour questioned him
respecting the man who was blind from his birth, he said to them: ‘Neither
hath this man sinned, nor his parents; but that the works of God should be
made manifest in him.’ Let us not murmur, then, against the decrees of the
Almighty. Until now he hath loaded us with benefits. Let us bless his holy
name in affliction as well as in joy.”

This mild and wise reply gave Adalric no consolation. The unfortunate
duchess only succeeded in calming his excitement by consenting to keep the
birth of her daughter a secret, to have her reared away from home, and
never to mention her before her husband.

The duke thought he was satisfying the law of nature by permitting the
child to live, and, acting according to the requirements of his rank and
his honor, in condemning her to vegetate in obscurity and poverty. He had
it proclaimed, at the sound of the trumpet, in the town of Oberehnheim
that the duchess had given birth to a still‐born child.

But Berswinde, remembering that one of her former attendants, upon whose
attachment she could rely, was married and now living in the borough of
Scherwiller, sent for her secretly. She came at once, and, finding her
mistress profoundly afflicted and shedding bitter tears, pledged herself
to bring up the child. Berswinde’s courage revived at this, and, kissing
the babe, she placed it herself in the arms of her faithful follower,
commending it to her “dear Saviour the Lord Jesus, and to the Blessed
Virgin Mary.”

The nurse carried the child away, but in spite of Adalric’s care to
conceal from his subjects the birth of the princess—in spite of the
oblivion in which its second mother sought to bury its existence, it was
almost impossible to prevent such a secret from transpiring in time. Five
or six months had hardly elapsed when it was reported throughout the
country that there was a blind child of unknown origin at Scherwiller,
which evidently belonged to people of high rank, judging from the care it
received. Some one recalled that the woman who took care of this
mysterious child was formerly in Berswinde’s service, and noticed that its
age coincided with the time of the duchess’ illness. The nurse lent an
attentive ear to this gossip, and did not fail to report it to Berswinde.
The latter, fearing the report might reach Adalric’s ears, ordered her old
attendant to leave her home at once, and repair to the Convent of Baume in
Franche Comté, a few leagues from Besançon, where the child would be
readily received and brought up. Berswinde had two motives for preferring
this monastery to all other places of safety: she hoped its distance would
ensure the child’s safety, and the abbess was the sister of the duchess’
mother.

The Abbey of Baume was not then under any particular rule;(26) but prayer,
reading, the chanting of the Psalms, the observance of the evangelical
counsels, the mortification of the senses, and manual labor, continually
occupied the humble recluses who lived there.

The young exile arrived safely at this peaceful asylum. She lived there
tranquilly, far from the tumult of the world, and received an education
fitted for developing the treasures of grace with which her soul was
enriched. Her destiny was evident almost from her cradle. The names
consecrated by religion were the first to strike her ears and for her
tongue to utter, and her first language was that of prayer. Her pious
aunt, and all who surrounded her, only spoke to her of holy things, to
which she lent a surprising attention, as if interiorly enlightened
respecting divine truths. Her mind was precocious and clear, and her
memory extraordinary. She understood the duties of a Christian better at
the age of four or five than many grown‐up persons.

It was thus, away from the world, that the daughter of Adalric became from
childhood the model of piety, drawing pure instructions, as from an
inexhaustible source, from the noble superior of Baume.



IV.


While these things were taking place in Franche Comté, Deodatus, Bishop of
Nevers, and son of S. Hunna, arrived in Alsace to preach the Gospel and
join the hermits who officiated at Novient (Ebersheim‐Münster), the most
ancient church of the province, and founded by S. Materne. The preaching
of Deodatus drew an immense audience, among whom Adalric and Berswinde
were the most assiduous. The duke, desirous of giving a public testimony
of the benefit he had derived from the holy bishop’s sermons, resolved to
build at Novient a convent and church in honor of SS. Peter and Paul, and
endow them with ample revenues.

He begged Deodatus to superintend the construction of the new buildings.
The work was commenced at once. Adalric refused nothing necessary for its
completion, and Deodatus, wishing the church to be very solid, used in its
construction the _débris_ of an old pagan temple in a neighboring forest,
which he razed to the ground. S. Materne had long before overthrown the
idols.(27)

When the church was finished, Deodatus and Adalric convoked, not only the
Alsacian clergy, but a great number beyond the Vosges, that the pomp of
the ceremony of consecration might equal the grandeur of the solemnity.
The duke and duchess came from Hohenbourg with a great retinue. The
duchess brought rich ornaments for the altar, and sacerdotal vestments
which she had partly wrought with her own hands. After the consecration
the duke gave S. Deodatus a sealed document conferring a great number of
farms on the new cloister, for the support of the Benedictine monks who
were to inhabit it and vow themselves to the worship of the Almighty.(28)

These events happened about the year 666. The franchises of Ebersheim‐
Münster were afterwards confirmed by Charlemagne.(29)

But let us return to the blind girl of the Convent of Baume, who was
destined by heaven to be the greatest glory of her race. Cut off from the
world by her infirmity and by her position, her life was one long
prayer—one long act of adoration. Nevertheless she was twelve or thirteen
years old before she was baptized, as all the most reliable chroniclers
declare.

It was then, as now, the custom to baptize children shortly after their
birth, and it is not to be supposed that Berswinde would neglect the
precepts of the church, or be more solicitous for the temporal welfare of
her child than for her eternal salvation. It is probable that the
ceremony, being private in consequence of Adalric’s anger, consisted only
in the application of water, or that there was some grave omission
rendering the baptism null. However this may be, it was in the designs of
Providence, as one of the old chroniclers says, that things should happen
thus in order that a miracle might mark the solemn admission of the young
princess into the Christian fold.

In those days, adds our historian, there lived in Bavaria a holy bishop
named Erhard, on whom rested the divine blessing. This prelate had a
vision in which he was commanded to go at once to the Convent of Baume. A
voice said to him: “Thou wilt find a young servant of the Lord, whom thou
shalt baptize and give the name of Odile. At the moment of baptism her
eyes, which hitherto have been closed, shall open to the light.”

S. Erhard did not delay obeying this order, but, instead of taking the
most direct route to Franche Comté, he passed over the steep mountains of
Alsace and Lorraine, that he might see his brother Hidulphe, of high
repute in the Christian world, who had voluntarily resigned the dignity of
Archbishop of Treves to retire into the wilderness and found the Abbey of
Moyenmoutier, where he might end his days in solitude and prayer. Erhard
wished his brother to accompany him in his mission. An ancient tradition
relates that, when the two brothers met, they flew into each other’s arms,
and during their long embrace their souls held an intimate and mysterious
communion which made words unnecessary. Hidulphe immediately prepared to
follow Erhard, that he might witness the miracle about to be wrought by
his means.

When the two holy pilgrims arrived at Baume, they asked to see the blind
girl, and, on beholding her, they both exclaimed, as if animated by one
spirit: “O Lord Jesus! who art the true light that enlightenest every man
who cometh into the world, let thy mercy be diffused, like a beneficent
dew, upon this thy young handmaiden, and grant sight to the eyes of her
body, as well as light to her soul!”

Proceeding then to examine the catechumen, they found her thoroughly
instructed in all the dogmas of the Christian religion, and were edified
by the intelligence and piety manifested in her replies.

The ceremony of baptism took place a few days after. All the inmates of
the abbey assembled in the church, and S. Hidulphe presented the young
girl at the font. Erhard, having said the prescribed prayers, proceeded to
anoint her eyes with the holy chrism, saying: “Henceforth let the eyes of
thy body, as well as those of thy soul, be enlightened, in the name of
Jesus Christ our Lord.” The nuns, kneeling around the church, awaited in
profound silence and prayer the operation of the miracle, and their
expectation was not vain; for, the moment Erhard ceased speaking, the
child’s eyelids unclosed, her large blue eyes opened to the light, and her
first look, which displayed the purity of her soul, was directed
heavenward, as if to thank the Almighty for the favor he had accorded her.

All the witnesses praised God aloud. Erhard gave the princess the name of
Odile, as he had been commanded. Then, turning towards the assembly, he
recalled to their minds that there is no instance recorded until the time
of Christ of the opening of the eyes of one born blind. “The miracle you
have just witnessed,” added he, “is likewise the work of our beneficent
Saviour. Beware of imitating the Jews, whose hearts closed more and more,
though they saw the wonderful deeds Christ wrought before them, that they
might be converted. God has permitted you to behold the wonderful event
that has just happened, in order that your spiritual eyes may also be
opened, and you may be the better disposed to serve the Divine Master, who
protects his servants in so extraordinary a manner, and permits hardened
sinners to be cast forth into eternal darkness!” Then, having blessed a
veil, the prelate placed it on Odile’s head, giving her at the same time a
golden _cassette_ containing precious relics, and predicting that Heaven
reserved still greater favors for her if she carefully preserved the
treasures of grace she had already received.

Hidulphe and Erhard left Baume as soon as their mission was accomplished;
but before their departure they recommended the abbess and her companions
to watch the unfolding of the rare flower which grew in their peaceful
cloister. Then, giving a last benediction to Odile, Erhard said to her: “O
my dear daughter! may we hereafter, through the mercy of Almighty God, be
reunited in the kingdom of heaven, and taste the joys to which we are all
called!”



V.


The two brothers, having learned the secret of Odile’s birth, decided to
inform Adalric of her miraculous cure, hoping to awaken in his heart the
feeling of paternal love. The retreat in which Hidulphe lived being only a
few hours’ distance from Hohenbourg, he was entrusted with the commission
to the Duke of Alsace, and Erhard returned directly to his diocese, where
the miraculous cure of Odile soon became known, and contributed greatly to
the propagation of the faith.

Meanwhile, Hidulphe repaired to Oberehnheim, and, as he possessed in the
highest degree the power of influencing men’s hearts, and his words
generally made a profound impression on high and low, he flattered himself
that, in informing the duke of what had just happened at Baume, his
feelings towards the young exile would be immediately changed.

But the affection of Adalric was fastened on other objects.
Notwithstanding the gravity of his fault, the blessing of Heaven continued
to rest on his house. After sending away the poor blind child in anger and
disdain, the duchess had borne him in succession four sons and a daughter
named Roswinde, who by their sanctity became the ornaments of the church
and of their country. From them sprang most of the royal families of
Europe.

The duke refused to send for Odile. Perhaps, without owning it to himself,
he experienced a certain fear of one so miraculously healed, and whom he
had so unjustly banished. Nevertheless, he was not entirely insensible to
the news, and, wishing to testify his gratitude to Hidulphe, he gave him
the lands of Feldkirch for his abbey of Moyenmoutier.

Odile, then, continued after her baptism to live in the Convent of Baume.
Her devotion, her indifference to the things of this world, and her
profound recollection inspired a sentiment of respect among the virgins
with whom she lived. With a grave and elevated mind, fervent piety, and an
active charity, she possessed uncommon beauty,(30) and a child‐like
simplicity marked with all the grace of her age. Not one of the recluses
of the monastery subjected herself to greater austerities than Odile. Her
fervor was particularly manifest during the solemn days in which the
church celebrates the great mystery of the Redemption.

Her countenance and her tears testified to the love with which her heart
was filled. It was evident that, at her first essay, her pure young soul
had soared heavenward with the swiftness of a dove on the wing.

But she was to experience the trials of life. The nurse, for whom she had
an affection truly filial, and who had sundered her family ties to be near
Odile, fell dangerously ill at Baume. Her sufferings lasted several
months. Doubtless God ordained it to be so, say the ancient chronicles,
that she might satisfy in this world the eternal justice, and that Odile’s
gratitude, generosity, and charity might be displayed. With the sanction
of the superior, she only left the bedside of the guardian of her infancy
to attend service at the chapel. She was at once servant, nurse, and,
above all, comforter. She inspired her patient with courage, so that she
humbly offered up her sufferings to our Lord, and awaited with joy and
hope the hour of her departure. When the hour of deliverance appointed by
Providence came, having received the last sacraments, she died peacefully
in the arms of Odile, who closed her eyes and buried her.



VI.


In spite of her cruel exile, Odile had for a long time felt an ardent
desire to behold her parents, at least once, and this feeling became
stronger after the death of her nurse, the only tie that recalled her
native land. She did not dream of being restored to her rank, or of
exchanging her peaceful life for the bustle of her father’s court. She
only wished to testify her love for her parents, and to be loved by them.

She had been told that Count Hugo was the most noble of Adalric’s four
sons. He was universally considered the handsomest and most accomplished
prince of his time. His illustrious birth was his least recommendation: he
was prudent and generous, and animated by that lofty courage and goodness
of heart so becoming to youth. Odile wrote to him, entrusting the letter,
carefully wrapped in a piece of scarlet stuff, to a pilgrim. Hugo, charmed
with the letter and, unlike most of the nobility of that time, knowing how
to write, henceforth kept up a frequent correspondence with her. Odile
often gave him serious advice, which he received with tender gratitude.
Finding him well disposed, she decided to open her heart to him. Hugo
joyfully hastened to intercede for his sister, begging his father to
banish no longer a daughter whose virtues would reflect so much honor on
his house. But the duke, with his inflexible pride, assumed a severe
expression, and, in spite of his partiality for Hugo, told him he had
particular motives, for which he was accountable to no one, for requiring
Odile to remain at Baume. He also forbade his son ever making a like
request. The young man was profoundly afflicted. Impelled by his ardent
love for his sister, and believing her sweet presence would justify him in
his father’s eyes, he immediately despatched horses and everything
necessary for such a journey, telling his sister to set off immediately.
Full of confidence in Hugo, and sure that her father had consented to her
return, she left Baume. It was a sad and painful leave‐taking, but she
consoled her aunt and the nuns by promising to return and end her days
among them. But Heaven otherwise decreed.

Odile had hardly left the monastery when she began to reproach herself for
too strong a desire to return to her family, and for the eagerness with
which she looked forward to a taste of earthly happiness. She remembered
that he to whom she wished to consecrate her life is a jealous God, who
wishes his servants, instead of clinging to human creatures, to consider
them as instruments of perfection. She shed many and bitter tears, but,
according to her custom, she had recourse to prayer, which assuaged the
trouble of her conscience and restored a sweet serenity and trust to her
soul.

Protected by holy angels, she arrived safely at the foot of the mountain
on which rose the new castle of Hohenbourg. Adalric was conversing with
his sons when he perceived a company of armed men accompanying a vehicle
that was slowly ascending the acclivity. He inquired who the strangers
were. “It is my sister Odile,” replied Hugo joyfully. “And who dared bring
her here without my orders?” cried the duke in an angry tone. The youth
saw the truth must be acknowledged, and, bending his knee before his
father, he said: “It was I, my lord. Impelled by my ardent love for her, I
wrote her she could come. I am guilty through excessive affection. Punish
me alone, if you will not forgive, for she is innocent.”

Hugo, relying too much on his father’s partiality, thought he should
escape with only a few sharp words; but Adalric, inflamed with rage,
raised the staff he held in his hand, and inflicted such a blow on his son
that he fell senseless at his feet. Ashamed and sorry for his rashness,
the duke raised him, and ordered that his bruises should be cared for.

Adalric’s anger had passed away when Odile arrived at the top of the
mountain. Kneeling, she lifted towards him the eyes once closed to the
light. The duke, recalling the miracle wrought in her behalf, felt, for
the first time, an impulse of affection, and, raising her in a kind
manner, he bade his sons to welcome her affectionately. At that instant
Berswinde and her daughter Roswinde came running out. The duchess kissed,
with many tears, Odile’s eyes, acknowledging that God had suffered her
child to be born blind that he might at a later day manifest his power by
repeating the miracle of the gospel. Our saint was then conducted to the
chapel. There, humbly prostrate, she thanked God for protecting her in her
journey and reuniting her to her family.



VII.


Although Adalric’s aversion to Odile was lessened, and he showed her some
kindness at her arrival, he was far from feeling the same love for her as
for the rest of his children. He assigned her a retired part of the
castle, and gave her as a companion a holy maiden from Great Britain who
was vowed to the service of God. He never admitted her to his presence,
and only allowed her the portion of a servant for her subsistence. Our
saint, overlooking this unjust treatment, led at Hohenbourg a life as
simple and retired as at the Convent of Baume, often finding means, by
really depriving herself of the necessaries of life, of aiding the needy.
It was not long before her father awoke to better feelings. Crossing a
court of the castle, one day, he met Odile carrying a covered dish. Laying
aside his usual coldness, he said mildly: “Where are you going, my child?”
“My lord,” replied she, “I am going to cook a little oat‐meal for some
poor sick people.” These words, timidly uttered, touched the duke. He
looked tenderly at his daughter, whose love and sweetness were unchanged
by his treatment, and exclaimed, with tears in his eyes: “Be not
afflicted, my dearest child, at having hitherto led a life of privation.
It shall not be so hereafter.”

In fact, from that moment the relations of Odile and her father were
changed. He began to treat her with marked favor, as if to pay the long
arrear of paternal love; but she, who was not cast down by misfortune,
showed herself unelated by prosperity. Disdaining the pleasures now at her
command, she continued to devote her whole life to God. Her days and
nights were passed in prayer and good works. Her example produced such an
effect that it was imitated by the rest of the family. Her sister Roswinde
renounced the pleasures of the world to bear the cross of our Lord. The
manners of her father and brothers were softened, and they endeavored to
practise the Christian virtues. Even the servants of the castle began to
live devoutly. She gained all hearts. She was such a friend to the poor
and unfortunate that Hohenbourg soon became their refuge. “Our dear
saint,” for such is the name the old historians of Alsace give her, was
not satisfied with bestowing on them kind words. She gave them all the
money and clothing she possessed. She often endured hunger and refused
food that she might aid the sick still more. Every day she descended the
steep mountain‐path to seek those who were unable to reach the castle, and
encourage them with her pious counsels. Her zeal in their behalf was
unbounded. She performed the most revolting offices with her own hands.
The unhappy regarded her not only as a benefactress, but as a friend to
whom they could open their hearts and consciences. The duke and duchess
soon became so fond of her that if any one wished a special favor they
begged it through her. Adalric’s repentance for his past injustice
exceeded the anger he felt at her birth. He once thought his conduct
justifiable, now he acknowledged it was inexcusable, thus showing himself
superior to most men of his station, who are unwilling to allow they are
ever wrong. He actually commended Hugo for his disobedience, and tried to
atone by particular favors for his cruel treatment at the time of Odile’s
arrival.

But this serenity could not last forever. Our saint, who had endured her
father’s coldness so heroically, now began to grow weary of a life of
grandeur. She was depressed by the flattery of which she was the object.
Duties that were purely worldly absorbed part of the time she wished to
consecrate to God. In a word, she often sighed after the retirement of
Baume and the life she led there. She finally asked her father’s
permission to return to her aunt and end her days in penitential works. “I
am misunderstood here,” said she; “I am treated with a respect of which I
am not worthy. You do not know what I really am, and, if I remain here any
longer, I may even forget it myself.”

But the duke opposed her departure, telling her that by practising the
Christian virtues at court she could do more good than by leaving the
world for the austerities of Baume. Prayers and tears were of no avail;
Adalric’s resolution was not to be shaken. Odile, despairing of her
return, wrote a touching farewell letter to her old companions. Their
sorrow was tempered by remembering that she was under the special
protection of God, who doubtless wished to make use of her in extending
elsewhere the glory of his holy name. Full of veneration for her memory,
they put carefully away among the precious objects in their church a
violet‐colored veil, embroidered with gold and silk of different colors by
the daughter of the Duke of Alsace when she lived among them, an exile
from the house of her father.

To Be Concluded Next Month.




Fac‐Similes Of Irish National Manuscripts.


Few of our readers are probably aware that the English government, for the
last ten years, has been making fac‐similes of the most important national
MSS., for publication and sale, by the process of photo‐zincography. The
_Domesday Book_ was the first work taken in hand. This wonderful record,
without a peer in the world, is a general survey of the land of England,
ordered by William the Conqueror in the year of our Lord 1085. It is the
undisputed testimony of the relations existing at that period between the
landlords and their tenants; and it describes the state of society which
existed in England under the Anglo‐Saxon kings up to the conquest of the
kingdom by the Duke of Normandy. So successfully was the printing of the
fac‐similes of the _Domesday Book_ accomplished, and so acceptable to
historical students of every degree was its publication, that, in the
spring of 1864, the Lords of H. M. Treasury unanimously endorsed the
proposal by the late Master of the Rolls (Lord Romilly) that the same
process of photo‐zincography should be applied to the reproduction and
perpetuation of some of the “National Records.” Three volumes of English
manuscripts and three volumes of Scottish manuscripts have been followed
by the preparation for three volumes of Irish national MSS., which will
rank (says Mr. William Basevi Sanders, the Assistant Keeper of Her
Majesty’s Records, in his _Annual Report_, printed in the year 1873, on
the fac‐similes photo‐zincographed at the Ordnance Survey Office,
Southampton) among the first of the many valuable publications which Sir
Henry James (the military engineer officer in charge) has been the means
of laying before the public.

Let us look over Mr. Sanders’s description of the Irish MSS. He has
gathered his information from the best sources, having consulted and
freely used O’Donovan’s edition of the _Annals of the Four Masters_, the
accessible works of Dr. Petrie, Dr. Todd, Dr. Reeves, and Prof. Westwood,
and more particularly from the elaborate investigations of Prof. O’Curry,
published in his _Lectures on the MS. Materials of Ancient Irish History_.

The first of these MSS., both in point of age and on account of the
remarkable history that attaches to it, is the volume known as _Domhnach
Airgid_, or _Silver Shrine_. This is a volume of the Gospels—perhaps the
oldest in the world—of the Vth century, and traditionally believed to have
been the private book of devotion of S. Patrick himself, and to have been
given by him to S. Mac Carthainn when he placed him over the See of
Clogher. The legend in which this curious story is narrated appears in the
_Tripartite Life of S. Patrick_, and O’Curry in his lectures gives the
following literal translation of it:

“S. Patrick, having gone into the territory of Ui Cremthainn, founded many
churches there. As he was on his way from the North, and coming to the
place now called Clochar, he was carried over a stream by his strong man,
Bishop Mac Carthainn, who, while bearing the saint, groaned aloud,
exclaiming ‘Uch! uch!’

“ ‘Upon my good word,’ said the saint, ‘it was not usual with you to speak
that word.’

“ ‘I am now old and infirm,’ said Bishop Mac Carthainn, ‘and all my early
companions on the mission you have set down in their respective churches,
while I am still on my travels.’

“ ‘Found you a church, then,’ said the saint, ‘that shall not be too near
for us for familiarity, nor too far from us for intercourse.’

“And the saint then left Bishop Mac Carthainn at Clochar, and bestowed on
him the Domhnach Airgid, which had been given to him from heaven when he
was on the sea coming from Erinn.”

The shrine which held this relic is composed of three distinct covers, of
different dates—of wood, of copper plated with silver, and the most modern
of silver plated with gold, richly ornamented with figures of the Saviour,
the Blessed Virgin, and saints, and with representations of animals, and
traceries, among which is a mounted figure, sword in hand, and displaying
with minute accuracy all the dress and accoutrements of an Irish noble of
the XIVth century.

The MS. itself is in such a state from age and damp as to make inspection
of its contents impossible, the leaves being all stuck together, and the
whole of about the consistency and appearance of a piece of brick. The
portions of which facsimiles will be given present a good example of the
better parts of it. It was originally the property of the monastery of
Clones, and was procured in the county Monaghan by Mr. George Smith, from
whom it was purchased for £300 (say $1,500) by Lord Rossmore, who
presented it to the Royal Irish Academy, where it remains at present.

The next MS. is as curious—the _Cathach_, or _Book of Battles_—a copy of
the Psalms, supposed to have been written by S. Columba. It consists of
fifty‐eight leaves of vellum, and appears to be perfect from the xxxist to
the cvith Psalm, all prior to which are gone, and is enclosed in a
handsome shrine. Why it was called the _Book of Battles_ is told by
O’Curry, from the _Life of S. Columba_, by Magnus O’Dohmnaill. S. Columba,
when on a visit to S. Finnen of Drom Finn, being very anxious to have a
copy of S. Finnen’s Book of the Psalms, made one surreptitiously by
borrowing the book, and copying it in the church after every one else had
left. S. Finnen had notice of this underhand proceeding of his brother
saint from one of his pupils, and accordingly, as soon as the copy was
finished, demanded possession of it. S. Columba refusing to comply with
this demand, the matter was referred to Diarmaid Mac Ferghusa Cerrbheaill,
King of Erinn, who pronounced against him in a judgment which to this day
remains a proverb in Ireland—_Le gach bóin a boinin_ (“To every cow its
calf”), and so, by analogy, “to every book its copy.” This adverse
judgment, closely followed by the accidental death of the son of
Diarmaid’s chief steward while engaged in a game of hurling with the son
of the King of Connaught—at that time a hostage at Tara—who was torn from
S. Columba’s arms, into which he had thrown himself for sanctuary, and put
to death, so enraged the saint that he stirred up his relatives in
Tirconnel and Tyrone to revenge the insult, and a bloody battle was fought
in Connaught, which ended in the rout of the king’s army: and this was how
the book obtained its name.

For thirteen hundred years the book was preserved as an heirloom by the
O’Donnells, having been handed down by S. Columba himself, who belonged to
that clan. It is now preserved in the Royal Irish Academy. Four pages have
been selected for copying, containing severally the first twelve verses of
Psalm lxxx., the last three of lxxxix., and the first seven of xc., the
whole of xciv., and the first eleven of xcv. The condition in which these
pages remain is wonderful, and reflects great honor upon the family who
have for so many ages and through so many national troubles and
disturbances preserved this relic with sacred care.

The next is the _Book of Durrow_, or _Gospels of S. Columba_, a volume
containing 248 leaves of vellum, written in columns by the hand of S.
Columba himself, as asserted in the following inscription on the fly‐leaf:
“Liber autem hic scriptus est a manu ipsius B. Columbkille per spatium 12
dierum anno 500”; and again, “Rogo beatitudinem tuam, sancte presbiter
Patrici, ut quicunque, hunc libellum manu tenuerit, meminerit Columbæ
scriptoris, qui hoc scripsi ipsemet evangelium per xii. dierum spatium
gratiâ Domini nostri.” This last inscription is quoted by Dr. Petrie as
conclusive evidence of the date of the volume, which is considered by Dr.
Reeves to be either as old as S. Columba’s day, or nearly so (a somewhat
curious hypothesis if the volume were written by S. Columba).

Until its presentation to Trinity College by Dr. Jones, Bishop of Meath,
this book was kept at Durrow, in King’s County, the monastery and church
of which were founded by S. Columba about the year 550, where the
tradition of its having belonged to their patron saint was preserved and
believed in by the monks. It was originally enclosed in a silver‐mounted
_cuhmdach_, or shrine, made for it by order of Flann, King of Ireland, who
reigned from 879 to 916, which was lost, as Mr. Westwood conjectures, in
1007, when the volume was stolen.

The portions selected for copying are pages 12b, 14a 118a, and 173a. The
first contains the prayer of the writer above quoted, under which is also
written, “Ora pro me, frater mi; Dominus tecum sit”; the second is the
first page of S. Matthew’s Gospel, the third the first page of S. Luke’s
Gospel, and the fourth the concluding page of the same Gospel, at the
bottom of which is written, “+ Miserere Domine Naemani + filii Neth +”
names which O’Curry states had not been identified at the time of his
lectures, though the surname seems to be very like that of the scribe
after whom another of the MSS. contained in this volume is called—_Mac
Nathi_.

The next MS. in order is the famous _Book of Kells_, a copy of the
Gospels, also traditionally ascribed to S. Columba—a tradition doubted by
some, but which Dr. Todd saw no reason to mistrust, as the book is
undoubtedly a MS. of that age. About the same time as that when the _Book
of Durrow_ was sacrilegiously deprived of its shrine, the _Book of Kells_
was also stolen out of the church from which it takes its name. The
circumstance is thus narrated in the _Four Masters_: “The age of Christ
1006.... The great Gospel of Colum Cille was stolen at night from the
Western _Erdomh_ [sacristy] of the great church of Ceandrrus. This was the
principal relic of the Western World on account of its singular cover, and
it was found after twenty nights and two months, its gold having been
stolen off it, and a sod over it.”

It continued in the possession of the Church of Kells till the time of
Archbishop Usher, after whose death it was granted with the rest of that
prelate’s library, in which it was then found, by King Charles II., to the
university of Dublin, and has been preserved in the library of Trinity
College ever since.

Of the pages chosen for copying, 6b, 7a, and 27a are entries concerning
lands, believed to be the only existing specimens, of pre‐Anglo and Norman
date, of deeds written in the Irish language. They are written in a rude,
rough hand, that looks unsightly in contrast with the character of the
contents of the volume proper. 34a is the beginning of S. Matthew’s
Gospel, and is entirely filled with the initial of “Liber generationis.”
123a, 124a, and 126b contain S. Matthew’s story of the crucifixion, 124a
being all taken up by the words, “Tunc crucifixerant Christum et duos
latrones,” written in a very singular fashion, and enclosed in a framework
profusely decorated. 200b contains a portion of the genealogy in the third
chapter of S. John, and 19b displays a collection of fantastic symbols,
with a very handsome capital Z, and the first two syllables of Zacharias
embellished with spirited figures of a dog pursuing a wolf.

It is impossible to exaggerate the elaborate ornamentation of this
remarkable volume, or the quaintness of the grotesque subjects introduced
into it. The gigantic initial letter, which is given as an example in this
volume, is filled in with an almost incredible interlacing of extravagant
impossibilities: Serpentine figures with human heads; intertwined sketches
of men spotted like leopards in attitude of earnest conversation; rats
sitting on the backs of cats, who are holding other rats by the tails, the
rats being engaged in eating a cake; human figures with impossible
combinations of their own and other creature’s limbs; strange shapes of
birds and fishes, geometrical designs and intricate arabesque traceries,
all woven together in the wildest dreamlike way, and having an effect that
charms the eye, and fills the mind with amazement at the fancy that
designed and the hand that executed them.

The next is another copy of the Gospels, known as the _Book of Dimma Mac
Nathi_, made, it is said, at the express desire of S. Cronan of Roscrea,
who died in the beginning of the VIIth century. The drawings in this book
are very rude, and the writing of some parts of it difficult to read,
though the scribe Dimma is supposed to have belonged to a family of
saints, one of whom, at any rate, was greatly distinguished as a penman.
It was purchased from Sir William Betham, its original place of deposit
having been the Abbey of Roscrea, and is now in the library of Trinity
College, Dublin.

Four pages have been chosen for copying. The first contains portions of
chapters 27 and 28 of S. Matthew’s Gospel, and has this note at the foot:
“Finit. Oroit do Dimma rodscrib pro Deo et benedictione” (“A prayer for
Dimma, who has written for God, and a benediction”). Between the 49th and
50th verses of the 27th chapter there is this other verse, the substance
of which only appears in the Gospel of S. John: “Alius vero, acceptâ
lanceâ pupugit latus ejus et exivit aqua et sanguis.” Here, however, the
piercing is made to take place before the death. The second is the
illuminated page preceding S. John. In it is depicted a bird, probably
intended for that saint’s symbol, an eagle, carrying a book in its talons,
surrounded by a border of arabesque design. The last two pages contain the
first thirty‐eight verses of the 1st chapter of S. John, the first written
along the full breadth of the page and with a handsome initial “In,” the
second written in columns.

The next MS. is another copy of the Gospels, known as the _Book of
Moling_, and supposed to have been written about the year 690 by S.
Moling, Bishop of Ferns. It was presented to Trinity College, Dublin, by a
member of the family of Kavanagh, by whom it had been preserved for many
generations in its metal _cumhdach_, or covering.

Four pages have been selected. The first is a figure of one of the
Evangelists, with a book in his left hand, and a pen, which he is dipping
into an ink‐horn, in his right. The second contains the 18th chapter of S.
Matthew, from the 8th verse to the 27th; the third, from the 27th verse to
the 16th verse of the 19th chapter of S. Matthew; and the fourth, the
concluding verses of the last chapter of S. John.

_The Book of Armagh_ has also been selected. This volume, a transcript of
one still older, supposed to have been the holograph of S. Patrick, was
ascribed by Sir W. Betham to Bishop Aedh of Stetty, whose death is
recorded in the _Four Masters_ in 698; and O’Curry conceived it to be as
old as 724, but Mr. Graves seems to have proved that it was written by the
scribe Ferdomnach in 807. It is a small quarto volume, consisting of 221
leaves of vellum, and containing an extract from the _Tripartite Life of
S. Patrick_, annotations on that saint’s life by Tirechan and others, his
confession or epistle to the Irish, the Epistle of S. Jerome to Pope
Damasus, the ten Eusebian canons, an explanation of Hebrew names used in
the Gospels, with various prefaces and arguments, the four Gospels and
remaining books of the New Testament, the life of S. Martin of Tours by
Sulpicius, with two epistles by Sulpicius and Severus, and concludes with
a prayer. It belonged to the Church of Armagh, being, as Prof. Westwood
relates, held in such veneration that the family of Mac Mayre held lands
from the See of Armagh by the tenure of its safe keeping; and in 1846 it
was presented to Trinity College, Dublin, by the Rev. Francis Brownlow,
into whose family it had passed in the XVIIth century.

Six pages have been selected, the first three of which contain the extract
from the _Tripartite Life of S. Patrick_. On the first column of page 18b
is the following account of a miracle performed by S. Patrick: “Sechnall
went afterwards to rebuke Patrick on account of a chariot he had. Then
Patrick sent the chariot to Sechnall without a charioteer in it, but it
was an angel that directed it. Sechnall sent it, when it had stopped three
nights there with him, to Manchan, and it remained three nights with him.
He sent it to Fiacc. Fiacc rejected it. After that where they went to was
round the church three times, when the angel said, ‘It is to you they have
been given from Patrick when he came to know your disease.’ ” The miracle
as here related is, as O’Curry very truly observes, not quite
intelligible, but the key to it is to be found in the _Tripartite Life_,
from which it had probably been taken. The story there is that once, when
Sechnall was at Armagh, he remarked that two chariot horses which he saw
there would be a fitting gift to Bishop Fiacc. Patrick was not at home at
the time, but as soon as he returned and heard this he had the horses
harnessed to a chariot, and sent them off, without a coach‐man, to Fiacc
at Stetty, where they arrived safely. The reason of S. Patrick making him
this present was to enable him to go to his cave on the hill of Drom
Coblai, where he used to repair on Shrove Saturday with five loaves, and
remain till Easter Saturday; and because “chafers had gnawed his legs so
that death was near him.”

Then come _The Gospels of Maelbride Mac Durnan_, Archbishop of Armagh from
885 to 927, a small and beautifully‐written copy of the Gospels, made
apparently by the same scribe, Ferdomnach, who wrote the _Book of Armagh_,
and at about the same period. The initial page of each Gospel is very
gracefully illuminated, and to each is prefixed a page bearing the figure
of its writer, surrounded by a border of delicate tracery. The pages
selected are the first four, comprising the “Liber generationis” and the
inscription in capitals, the face of folio 5 being the beginning of S.
Matthew’s narrative; the dorse of folio 65, which contains his account of
the scourging and mocking, and at the foot this note by the scribe: _Mór
assársa for Coimdid nime agus talman_ (“Great this violence upon the God
of heaven and earth”); the dorse of folio 69, containing the following
letter, written in Saxon, is probably the earliest known contemporary copy
of a petition for restitution of temporalities to an English bishop:

“Wulfstan, Archbishop, greets Cnut his Lord and Aelfgyfe the Queen humbly,
and I make known to you two, liege, that we have done as the certificate
came to us from you with regard to the Bishop Aethelnoth, that we have now
consecrated him. Now pray I for God’s love, and in the name of all God’s
saints, that ye will have respect to God and to the holy order. That he
may be admitted to the possessions that others before him were: namely,
Dunstan the good and many another: that he may be likewise admitted to
rights and honors. In which case it shall be for both of you meritorious
before God, and eke honorable before the world.”

At the end of S. Matthew’s Gospel there is, in addition to Archbishop
Wulfstan’s (of York) letter, this memorandum in Latin: “Cnud, King of the
Angles, has given to Christ’s Church an arm of S. Bartholomew the Apostle,
with the great pall and the golden crown of his head; and the port of
Sandwich and all issues of the water of the same from either side of the
river; so that a ship floating in the stream when the water shall be high,
at the distance of the cast of a very small hatchet from the shore, the
droits of the ship are to be received by the servants of Christ’s Church.
And no man whatsoever has custom in the same port except the monks of
Christ’s Church. Theirs also is the ferry over the port, and the boats and
toll of boats and of all ships which come to Sandwich from Peperness as
far as Northmouth. If, however, anything be found on the high sea, being
brought to Sandwich, Christ’s Church shall take half, and the remaining
part shall rest with the finders.”

The volume is preserved in the library of Lambeth Palace, but it is a
singular fact that it finds no place either in the catalogue of that
library published in 1812, or in the catalogue of the library of Corpus
Christi College, Cambridge, where Archbishop Parker’s collection of MSS.
is preserved.

To Be Concluded Next Month.




Congress Of The Catholic Germans At Mayence.


On the 16th and 17th days of June the Second Congress of the Catholic
Germans assembled at Mayence. This congress must be distinguished from the
regular annual congress of all the Catholic societies of Germany. The
constitution of the latter was formed during the stormy times of 1848. It
treats only upon religious questions, and excludes on principle the
discussion of politics during its deliberations; whereas the Congress of
Catholic Germans, which held its first session two years ago, has for its
object, according to its statutes, the defence of the liberty and the
rights of the Catholic Church, and the maintenance of Christian principles
in all the spheres of public life by all moral and lawful means,
especially by the use of constitutionally‐recognized and guaranteed civil
rights; and it therefore desires to be considered a political
organization. It is already in operation throughout Germany, in Prussia
particularly. Its sessions are held in Mayence—in that city which, owing
to its advantageous position in Middle Germany, opposite the confluence of
the river Mayence with the Rhine, was chosen by the Romans as a boundary,
and by S. Boniface as the central point for the Christianization of the
Teutons. It is true that “Golden Mayence,” the special and true daughter
of the Roman Church (_Aurea Moguntia sanctæ Romanæ Ecclesiæ specialis vera
filia_), as the inscription reads upon the old city seal, has, since the
beginning of this century, fallen greatly from its former splendor. In it
once resided an archbishop, who was the legate of the apostolic chair for
Germany, and metropolitan over twenty‐four bishoprics, which extended from
Brandenburg to Chur in Switzerland, and from Metz to Prague and Olmütz,
and which comprised the largest part of the old German empire; so that
next to the Pope he was called the greatest prince of the church (_Post
Papam secundus_, says Marianus Scotus (+ 1086) in his _Chron. Aet. VI._,
ad a. 750), and in his temporal position as elector and hereditary
chancellor of the empire ranked next to the emperor, and was called the
Prince of princes (Moguntius post imperatorem princeps est principum—_Vita
Arnoldi_). Mayence is now only a provincial city belonging to little
Hessia, and the boundaries of its bishopric are inconsiderable.
Nevertheless, in the present combat for the liberty of the church, it
occupies, and has for years occupied, an important place by reason of a
succession of great men, Bishop Von Ketteler at the head, and it cannot be
doubted that the city will in future be of great importance to the
Catholic interests of Germany.

The _centrum_ of the Catholic party in Mayence is the Casino zum
Frankfurter‐hof (Casino of the court of Frankfort), whose spacious and
imposing hall has not its equal in the city. In former times this hall was
used when a blow was to be struck at the interest of the Catholic Church;
but things are changed, and the Frankfurter‐hof is now the stronghold in
which the defenders of the Catholic Church meet together. Not until the
use of this hall was acquired, owing to the determined efforts of Falk
III., the people’s champion, so well known throughout all Germany, did the
Catholic party in Mayence begin to feel its own importance. For the past
twenty years its members have appeared regularly at every election upon
the battle‐field, to be as regularly defeated; but they were finally
successful in securing Canon Dr. Moufang as their deputy at the last
election for the _Reichstag_.

In the above‐named hall the Congress of Catholic Germans held its late
sessions. It was appropriately decorated for the occasion. In a prominent
place, surrounded by beautiful flowers, was seen the bust of our Holy
Father, Pius IX. Above, in golden letters, were written the words, “For
God and Fatherland,” and over this the sign of redemption with the
inscription, “In this sign thou shalt conquer.” Upon the pillars of the
hall were placed the coats‐of‐arms of the different bishoprics of Germany.
The crape hanging over those of the Archbishops of Cologne and Posen and
Gnesen, and that of the Bishop of Treves, was emblematic of the grief
which fills the heart of every Catholic when he remembers the three
venerable prelates who, forcibly removed from their episcopal sees, now
testify in prison to the divinity of Christianity and the inalienable
right of the church to that liberty in matters of faith and religion left
her by her Founder. The evening before the opening of the Congress many
members of the society met from all parts of Germany to greet one another.
Even the United States was represented in the person of the learned F.
Hecker. A superficial glance was enough to convince any one that the
nobility in particular desired by their presence to show their love and
affection for our persecuted mother, the church. For years the majority of
the Catholic nobles of Westphalia and the Rhine have been animated with a
deep religious feeling. The best names among the aristocracy are generally
found at the head of the numerous appeals in behalf of religion; and in
their own homes (a fact which is of great importance) these nobles do not
strive to emulate by outward splendor those “capitalists” whose lives are
spent in acquiring riches, but they rather seek to uphold the honor of
their names by the simplicity of their mode of life, in their daily
actions, by educating their children as Catholics should, and instilling
into them principles of honesty, morality, and every Christian virtue. It
makes a lasting impression upon whomsoever is admitted to familiar
intercourse with any of these noble families to see all the members of the
household devoutly assembled in the private chapel of the mansion, for the
adornment of whose altars no expense has been spared, there to attend the
Holy Sacrifice of the Mass; and in the evening to behold the father of the
family, by ringing a bell, again summons them into the chapel for evening
prayer and examen of conscience, at which the chaplain, but oftener the
head of the house, be he old or young, performs the duty of reading the
prayers. Fathers and mothers should imitate the example of these noblemen,
and when priests, on account of their faith, are imprisoned or exiled,
they themselves should take the place of the priests in their own homes.
Then will the zeal of priests grow stronger and Catholic faith take deeper
root. Would to God that we could see the same state of things in many
castles in Middle Germany, in Silesia, Bavaria, and in Brisgau (Baden), as
is now seen in Westphalia and on the Rhine!

But let us return, after this digression, to our Congress in the
Frankfurter‐hof. Its president, Baron von Loë, representative in the
_Reichstag_, who last year with manly courage defended the organization
against intrigues of all kinds, was received with universal applause when
he ascended the rostrum and opened Congress with the salutation, “Praise
be to Jesus Christ!” In a few but convincing words he explained why,
despite the serious aspect of the times, they had met in “Golden Mayence,”
where liberty of speech is yet permitted. (A short time ago a meeting at
Treves was dissolved because Herr Majunke, a representative in the
_Reichstag_, had said in the course of his remarks that Bismarck was only
mortal, and while lying upon his sick‐bed suffered as much as any beggar
who lies ill in his hut. Another meeting was broken up by the Prussian
police because the speaker had announced his intention of discoursing upon
one particular theme. Who knows what terrible things the police understood
by the word “theme”?) Then followed a long succession of congratulations
which the guests, coming from all parts of Germany, had personally to
offer. As space does not permit us to give a lengthened sketch of all
these speeches, we must content ourselves with simply giving the title of
the address and the name of the speaker.

Dr. Evels of Bonn spoke concerning the latest cultivated plant, which
grows only in Germany, and there sporadically, notwithstanding the most
careful attention from high quarters—that is, Old Catholicism. With this
exception, no dangers threaten the Catholic Church in Germany. Count
Bassenheim was the bearer of greetings from the Bishop of Basel, who asked
the prayers of the members for the persecuted friends of religion in
Switzerland. Baron Stillfried of Vienna assured the Congress that the
Catholics of Austria were united, and expected the salvation of Austria
only from intimate union with the church. Dr. Lingens of Aix‐la‐Chapelle
invited all present to attend the exposition of relics in the venerable
electoral city of the old German emperors, which exposition takes place
this year, and not again until 1881. Baron von Frankenstein of Bavaria
spoke on the state of affairs in his country, declaring his belief that
they would soon change for the better. Count Kageneck of Freiburg in Baden
looked confidently forward to a happy future, relying upon the just rights
of the Catholics and upon the powerful protection of God. Count Bissingen
of Würtemberg (Swabia) asserted that the fable of the Catholics hating the
empire finds no believers among the honest people of Swabia. Herr Baudri
of Cologne, the brother of the coadjutor‐bishop, an old, faithful warrior,
proclaimed in words of burning eloquence the earnestness with which the
enemies of the Catholic Church publicly declare that the destruction of
the church is the order of the day, and he denounced the corruption of
public opinion by the state, and the manner in which it subsidized the
press by means of the funds stolen from the church. He thanked divine
Providence for giving Germany such a united episcopate, and the present
affliction of the church only demonstrated the fact that not only in
Germany, but through the whole world, Catholics form only one family.
While our enemies, he continued, raise on high the torch of discord, which
has so frequently brought our fatherland to the verge of ruin, our
Congress should use every effort to build a new great and united Germany
upon the foundations of a Christianity similar to that upon which old
Germany became great and powerful. Herr Stroebel of Charlottenburg made
the next speech, and he was followed by the Rev. F. Altheimer, Curate of
Amorbach in Odenwald, Hellwich of Deidesheim in Palatine, Herr Wiese,
merchant of Werden, Baron von Schorlemer of Overhagen, Herr Busch,
contractor of Neuss, and finally by the junior editor of the _Germania_,
Herr Cremer of Berlin.

While the hall reverberated to the hearty cheers of the members, letters
and telegrams were constantly arriving from the interior and from foreign
countries, thus making perfect the picture of Catholic unity presented by
this assembly. Despatches from Austria were especially numerous, showing
thereby that in that country also the Catholics are keeping watch in the
struggle that has begun. The old imperial city of Vienna gladdened our
hearts with two telegrams. In the one the Prince von Fürstenberg salutes
us in the name of the Catholic societies of Vienna; in the other the
president of the Catholic people’s associations of Lower Austria sends his
best wishes that “the heroic battle which Germany’s bishops, priests, and
laymen wage with such sublime courage may find its end in a speedy victory
for the holy cause of the church,” and adds the assurance: “We Catholics
of Austria are firmly determined, confiding in God’s protection, to offer
the same resistance if the same attacks are made upon the church.” Six
telegrams from “green Styria” reached us, four of which were sent by the
Catholics of Grätz, and two by the Catholic societies of Marburg and
Wildon. “They desire to oppress you and us,” telegraphed Senator Karlon of
Grätz, “but we will yet be the victors; for Christ lives, Christ reigns,
Christ commands, and Christ will triumph.” To these were added a telegram
from the Catholic Society of Klagenfurth in Carinthia, and two others from
ever‐faithful Tyrol, from the society in Botzen, which numbers more than
3,000 members, and from the society of Innsbrück. The president of the
last society, Julius von Riccabona, sent us the following characteristic
Tyrolese wish: “As the snow melts on the high mountain beneath the rays of
the sun, so also may the intrigues against our holy church disappear
before the power of truth.” Charles Count of Schoenbrunn and George Prince
of Lobkowitz expressed in telegrams their respect, sympathy, and good
wishes, while from far‐distant Hungary the Catholic Political Society of
Presburg sent assurances of their love and affection. From Munich,
Bavaria, came telegrams, from the diocesan clergy of Eichstaedt, from the
Centrum member Lang of Kelheim, and from the society of Catholic men in
Wasserburg on the Inn. From Noerdlingen the society of Catholic men in
Riesa, numbering over 1,400 members, writes among other things: “We feel
in our hearts the afflictions which the Catholics of Prussia endure; we
pray for the bishops, priests, and laity who are imprisoned on account of
their religious convictions; we approve of the conduct and praise the
fidelity of our Catholic brethren; yes, we are edified by their unity in
faith and by their firmness, and we congratulate them on their
perseverance and courage, which, because it comes from God, will conquer
the world.... We shall never consent to give to Cæsar the things that
belong to God; if it should be demanded of us, we shall obey God rather
than man, and imitate the example of the Prussian Catholics.” From the
south came greetings from the society of men in Constance and from the
president of the Helvetian Pius Society, Count M. Scherer‐Bouard of
Lucerne, and finally from Hunfeld, Viersen, München‐Gladbach, Bochum,
Luedinghausen, Kluesedoerpen, Prussia, two from the city of Hanover, one
from the northern missionaries of New Münster in Holstein, and the last
from remote Dantzic. Among other despatches, there is worthy of special
mention the telegram of Prince Salvati, in the name of the Congress of the
Catholic Societies of Italy, which met at Venice, and the following from
London: “The Catholic Union of Great Britain extends to you a brother’s
hand to encourage you in the struggle with the evil spirit, and at the
same time it deplores the death of your champion, Malinckrodt. (Signed)
Duke of Norfolk, President of the Catholic Union of Great Britain.”

The greatest interest was shown when the mammoth address from the United
States was exhibited. It contained upon a roll of paper one thousand feet
long 30,000 signatures of Catholic men whose own or whose fathers’ cradle
had rested upon German soil. (A few days after this address was again
exposed in the great hall, and the endless roll of paper was drawn from
the table of the president up to the glass cupola, and from there letting
it fall down again upon the president’s table, it was taken up for the
second time to the chandelier, and from thence to the roof.) The fearless
expressions contained in this document, which, thanks to “our freedom of
speech,” could not be dwelt upon at length, and the grandeur of this
manifestation, showed the imprint of the youthful and vigorous mind of men
who glory in being citizens of the greatest republic in the world—the
United States. Not long ago we finished a great war in a great manner. It
was then the pride of Germans to be German. Since then, however, the
little banners of religious narrow‐mindedness have been everywhere
unfurled, and the so‐called liberal party has sacrificed not only its
principles, but the most important articles of the Prussian
constitution—the idea of a great Germany and peace and liberty. With the
exception of a huge military power, everything has dwindled away. The men
who won renown in 1870 and 1871 are no longer heard of. The men of the
_Centrum_ are our real consolation, for by their prudent and fearless
defence of truth, liberty, and justice they have obtained great merit and
are entitled to enduring praise.

To place their labors under the protection of God, the Catholic Congress
of Germany assembled early on the morning of June 16 in the venerable
Cathedral of Mayence, where they assisted at the Holy Sacrifice of the
Mass, and received holy communion from the hands of the Rt. Rev. Bishop
Herr von Ketteler.

The devotion of these men, gathered from all parts of Germany, was greatly
increased by the music, which was executed in a most masterly manner by
the cathedral choir, who gave selections from the following composers:
Vechi, Aichinger, Orlando Lasso, Palestrina, Croce, Vittoria, and Piadana.

In the session which was held with closed doors the president first spoke
of the sadness which filled the hearts of all the Catholics of Germany on
account of the untimely death of Herman von Malinckrodt, deputy to the
_Reichstag_. The memory of this wonderful man, like a mourning accord,
seemed to permeate all the transactions, whether in writing or in words,
and made itself felt even in the banquet‐hall. We shall not, however,
dwell any longer upon this theme, as we intend to give a short sketch of
the life of this faithful champion of the church.

Of the business transacted in the private session we shall make brief
mention. That which, as a general rule, is _last_ thought of in all great
Catholic undertakings, was in this instance the _first_ to receive
attention—we mean the finances. In this regard, however, the Congress is
deserving of no reproach, as it attached too little instead of too much
importance to money—a prince seemingly so insignificant, but yet one who
rules the world. The Catholic Congress, organized as it is throughout
Germany, stands in need of certain pecuniary means, which want will be
felt in future even more than now. For this reason every member is obliged
to give six _Silbergroschen_ (about fifteen cents). It must, however, be
understood that the collection of this money is not made without some
difficulty, since the organization is only in its infancy, and the number
of members constantly increasing.

We learn from the report of Herr Racke, High Treasurer of Darmstadt, owing
to whose self‐sacrificing labors the finances of our Union are in a very
prosperous condition, that the collections of last year amounted to 17,883
thalers, 14,000 of which were put out on interest, including 7,000 loaned
to different Catholic newspapers. Another question came up regarding the
existence of the Union. According to the law of Prussia in reference to
societies, a political society cannot act as a union or central society,
nor form branches depending upon the union; on the other hand, however, it
is lawful for one society to exist over all Germany, and it can have its
affairs conducted by authorized agents. Our union was from the very
beginning most anxious to correspond with this law. Notwithstanding this,
however, the Prussian authorities have pretended to discover the existence
of local branches, in consequence of which many of them have been
suppressed. The reason for this proceeding, which called into question the
existence of the Union itself, was Section 10 of the statutes, which has
reference to meetings held in different parts of the empire. To avoid
further vexations, this paragraph was stricken out, and at the same time
it was expressly said that Mayence was to be the headquarters of the
Union, and that there the annual general meetings were to take place.

Herr Racke, merchant of Mayence, and secretary of the Union, who had taken
upon his youthful and strong shoulders the principal burden of the
pecuniary affairs of the Union, then introduced a series of propositions,
for the examination of which three committees were appointed, viz., one
upon the social question of the day, another upon science, and a third on
the influence of the press; and finally he submitted certain rules of
proceeding.

The short address to the bishops assembled in Fulda, which was received
with enthusiasm, and which was now read, deserves a place in this
periodical. It is as follows:


    “RIGHT REV. BISHOPS.

    “In a momentous time like the present the Catholics of Germany
    assembled at Mayence respectfully desire to show their gratitude
    and admiration for the right reverend bishops of the fatherland,
    who have defended the rights and liberties of our Holy Catholic
    Church with such calm and fearless dignity; but, alas! our words
    of sympathy cannot reach several of the prelates, except through
    prison doors. In proportion as the distress of the church
    increases, the more do we feel ourselves bound in conscience to
    declare before Germany and the whole world that no power upon
    earth shall separate us from our dear bishops, appointed by
    Almighty God, and that no power of man can force us to recognize
    other pastors than those who are in communion with the Holy See,
    and who are recognized as true pastors by the successor of Peter,
    the chief pastor of the church.

    “Our dearly‐beloved bishops have become shining examples of
    apostolic courage as our leaders in these days of combat; and as
    true children of the church we will follow them, and leave the
    consequences to Almighty God.

    “The hand of God rests heavily upon us, and the end of our
    sufferings is concealed from the eyes of man. But we also know
    that this trial will be of benefit to us; we thank God that he
    deigns to allow us to combat and to suffer for his holy cause and
    for the liberty of his church.

    “ ‘Through the cross to the light’ were the words spoken in the
    last _Reichstag_ by that heroic warrior for whom all Catholic
    Germans pray, and who died in the defence of truth and right. It
    shall be our device also: ‘Through the cross to the light!’

    “With these sentiments we ask your episcopal blessing, and with
    the most profound veneration we subscribe our selves

    “The most obedient servants and sons of our revered German
    bishops.”


At one o’clock a banquet was held in the same great hall, at which 300
members of the Union were present, among whom was the Rt. Rev. Bishop
Ketteler of Mayence. It was he who proposed the first toast to the Holy
Father, which was received with enthusiasm, as it was the twenty‐eighth
anniversary of his appointment to the chair of Peter. The speaker reviewed
the long series of years of combat between light and darkness, and in the
increasing enthusiasm and affection of the Catholic people for Pius IX.,
the representative of unity, appointed by Almighty God, he saw an increase
of the unity which the church, like an impregnable fortress in the midst
of combats, exhibits, while the world threatens to split asunder. Baron
von Frankenstein proposed, as the second toast, the Grand Duke of Hessia
and all the German princes belonging to the Union, and made a few remarks
appropriate to the occasion.

The president, Baron von Loë, proposed the health of the leaders given us
by Almighty God, the Rt. Rev. Bishops of Germany, under whose guidance we
some years ago saved the thrones from the whirl of revolution, and under
whose direction we now hope to conquer the revolution which is preached by
the government. Among the other toasts given, we will only mention that of
the Rt. Rev. Bishop of Mayence, who paid a high tribute of praise to the
men of the _Centrum_ who had in Berlin defended with such courage and
skill the cause of truth, justice, and liberty. After the banquet the
different committees of the Union entered upon the discussion of the
proposed resolutions, while the presiding officers of the Congress
consulted upon the drawing up of these resolutions.

The same resolutions formed also the theme for the speakers in the public
evening sessions, to which such a great number of persons were attracted
that the hall of the Frankfurter‐hof, large as it is, was not sufficient
to contain all.

The first speaker, Baron von Wendt of Westphalia, passed in review the
public events that had transpired in Europe for the last year, and he
demonstrated in a convincing manner that hostility to the church had
everywhere appeared simultaneously, and was therefore the result of
preconcerted action. The explanation of this fact the speaker found in the
activity of modern liberalism, which had determined upon the complete
denial of Christianity, and which boldly avows that by adhering to the
principles of what its advocates are pleased to call humanity all those
inestimable blessings would be obtained which the Saviour has left us in
his sublime teachings upon the obligations and morality of a Christian
life. Like the work of redemption, so also would the church become
superfluous, and the state, to which liberalism gives the preference over
everything else, would then enter upon its inheritance, and, as in the
days of the pagan Cæsars, assert its ascendency even over the spirit.

Herr Cremer, the editor of a Berlin journal, next proceeded to point out
the imperfections to be found in the constitution of the German Empire,
which gave security only to material interests and military power, while
there was not an article which had reference to the moral problem of state
life and the fundamental rights of civil liberty. In the course of his
speech he with much humor and sarcasm drew attention to the fatal avowal
of Bismarck in regard to his own policy. When the question was proposed in
the _Reichstag_ as to whether Catholics had forfeited their rights to
citizenship and were dangerous to the state, the prince answered in the
affirmative. This “yes,” remarked the speaker, “was the most absolute
condemnation of his own policy which could have ever been pronounced by
any one; for no state was ever so powerful that it could dispense even for
a time with the co‐operation of one‐third of its inhabitants. This policy
must be changed, for nine millions of Catholics could not be forced to
emigrate or be declared outlaws like helots. This policy was in every
respect to be rejected as rotten and false, even if it did rest upon the
shoulders of this modern Atlas.” The vigor and readiness of expression
displayed by the youthful speaker caused him to be warmly applauded.

The V. Rev. Dr. Monfang, deputy to the _Reichstag_, delivered an admirable
speech upon the present state of society. The great change, he argued,
took place in the beginning of our century, and he attributed it to the
following causes: First, the French Revolution, which overturned the laws
of commerce and labor without regulating them anew; second, the wonderful
use to which machinery can be put, particularly by the application of
steam‐power, which, in union with the development of capital, directed
industry into entirely new channels; third, the exemption from taxation
brought about by the increase and facility of the means of commerce, which
keeps a certain class of labor in constant demand, and in a measure takes
it from the business men and the farmers; and, fourth, most especially to
that pseudo‐liberalism whose national economy regulates the relations
between employers and employed, between rich and poor, not in accordance
with true Christian principles, but according to the dictates of egotism.
The social question, the orator declared, resolves itself into this: that
a man, to be really happy, needs but three things—that is, a competency, a
respectable position in society, and inward peace of soul. After applying
this true remark to the condition of the working‐men, the speaker finally
passed to the solution of the social question, and said that as this
problem affects all the relations of human life, a general co‐operation
was necessary for its explication. The laborer himself must co‐operate as
well as the family, the parish, the state, the church. Without religion,
without prudent legislation for the protection of labor, without Christian
marriages among the laborers, without public spirit and united effort, it
is not possible to avert the evils which every day threaten the laboring
class more and more.

Herr Racke, the indefatigable secretary of the Union, spoke upon the
difficult subject of passive resistance to laws which are in direct
opposition to conscience. He adduced particularly from the best authors
upon state rights the evidence that the state has no right to demand from
its citizens absolute obedience to all its laws and regulations. Laws
which are in opposition to conscience, morality, and religion, be they
ever so formally enacted, are not laws in the sight of God, but are in
defiance of those of all law‐givers, of the only absolute Lord who is
above all states, all rulers, and all men, and from whose authority alone
even the state laws derive their power and obligation. The animated speech
of Herr Racke was also loudly applauded.

At the request of the president the Rt. Rev. Bishop of Mayence gave the
episcopal blessing, whereupon the public session was adjourned. The second
day also began with prayer, a High Mass of Requiem being sung for all the
members of the Union who had died during the last year. Then in a private
session followed the discussion and approval of resolutions. The
resolutions proposed by the officers of the Congress, and received by all
with acclamation, surpassed in importance all others which had yet passed.
We give them, therefore, a prominent place; they are a sign that the
Catholics of Germany have not lost their courage as yet, and they deserve
to be published verbatim. They are as follows:


    The Second Congress of the Catholic Germans declares:

    I. _Regarding the State of Christian Society._

    1. The violent persecution which the Catholic Church in some parts
    of Europe and South America now suffers, verifies the expression
    of the Holy Father that anti‐Christianity—that is, modern
    civilization—is incompatible with Catholicity.

    2. The certain result of a systematically‐arranged combat against
    the church of Christ, as well as against Christianity itself and
    the essential foundations of society, will be the dissolution of
    social and political order, endless war, and the destruction of
    the nation’s rights.

    3. The re‐establishment of permanent and national order is only to
    be looked for when political independence is again restored to the
    Holy See, and when all those rights are recognized which belong to
    the head of the Catholic Church by virtue of divine dispensation
    and historical development.

    II. _Regarding the State of Germany._

    1. The constitution of the German Empire, for the reason that it
    guarantees neither protection to personal liberty, nor to the
    independence of states, nor to the different ranks of society and
    incorporations, cannot establish the true welfare of the German
    people.

    2. The influence of the so‐called national party, which abjures
    the essential rights of the German people and of the
    representation of the people, will be the ruin of the German
    Empire.

    3. The exception laws, by which the German Empire, founded as it
    is by a common sacrifice, has deprived one‐third of the citizens
    of their essential rights, thereby destroying the peace and the
    power of Germany.

    4. The unlimited development of military power is incompatible
    with natural rights, civil liberty, and the spiritual as well as
    the material welfare of the German people.

    5. The unchristianizing of public instruction now in progress, the
    control by the state of the entire school system, founded as it is
    upon compulsion, and at the same time the suppression of the
    educational rights of the church and of the family, is a source of
    spiritual and moral ruin.

    6. The venal press, working in the interests of political
    servility and of property‐holders, continually misrepresents
    public opinion, and is the principal cause of the social evils
    that threaten Germany.

    7. The foreign policy of the German Empire, especially in its
    relations to the Holy See, is not in harmony with the principles
    and interests of the Catholic population of Germany, and is not
    capable of securing the preservation of the peace of Europe.

    III. _Regarding the State of the Working‐Classes._

    1. Like all other states of Europe, Germany is threatened by the
    discontent existing among the working‐classes.

    2. The principal reasons for this discontentment are: Decrease of
    the retail business; overtaxing the agricultural classes;
    miserable condition of the operatives in manufactories; and the
    endless development of money speculation.

    3. The real origin of these misfortunes is the enervation of
    Christian faith and morality in the higher as well as in the lower
    ranks of society, caused by modern rationalism and liberalism,
    whereby it has happened also that a great portion of the working‐
    classes have allowed themselves to be deceived by the illusions of
    irreligious and revolutionary leaders.

    4. The means of healing these social evils and reconciling all
    classes of society consist in the passing of laws prohibiting the
    exhausting of the bodily and financial strength of the people; in
    claiming that protection from the state to which all classes are
    entitled; in the continued effort to remove the particular defects
    of the present commercial laws by means of legislation; in
    establishing the rights of the working‐classes in accordance with
    Christian principles and the demands of general equity; in
    founding different industrial auxiliary houses, either through the
    union of the working‐classes and others, or through the friends of
    the working‐classes; in restricting the amount of labor to be
    performed by females and children; in the careful cultivation of
    the moral and religious life in the families of the working‐
    classes, especially by having Sunday kept holy, and by applying
    Christian principles to the sphere of business life; in the free
    development of Christian charity to alleviate inevitable want.

    IV. _Regarding the Rights of the Church._

    1. The Catholic Church is, according to divine ordination, an
    independent society, which has the right to exist publicly in all
    lands as the one and universal church of Jesus Christ, and to
    protect which every Christian government should feel itself bound.

    2. The ecclesiastico‐political system which the parties opposed to
    the church are endeavoring to carry out stands in irreconcilable
    and open contradiction to the constitution of the Catholic Church,
    founded by Almighty God, sanctified through all centuries,
    recognized by the state, and guaranteed by the law of nations.

    3. The power of the office of teacher, priest, and pastor, given
    by the Pope to the bishops, cannot be suspended or limited by any
    law of the state.

    4. Church and state are ordained by Almighty God to harmonious co‐
    operation. Their separation is to be lamented. If the hostility
    with which the modern state treats the church should make such a
    separation necessary, it will be more to the disadvantage of the
    state than to the church.

    V. _Regarding Liberty of Conscience._

    1. No state power has the right to impose obligations upon its
    subjects which are in opposition to the commandments of God, the
    decrees of Jesus Christ, and the precepts of the church.

    2. The apostolic courage with which the Catholic bishops, not
    fearing temporal loss, not even imprisonment and exile, defend the
    rights of God and of his holy church, as also the inalienable
    rights of Catholic conscience, and the priestly fidelity and
    firmness with which the Catholic clergy, not led astray by
    illusions and threats, remain true to the episcopate and the
    church, deserve the admiration and respect of all Catholics and of
    every right thinking man.

    3. The measures used against the bishops and priests of the
    Catholic Church do not succeed in their object; they grieve most
    deeply the Catholic people, but they cannot be persuaded to
    exchange a church founded by Almighty God for one founded by the
    state. In vain are all the experiments used to separate Catholics
    from their rightful superior.

    4. The Catholics of Germany recognize always the legitimately‐
    elected Bishop of Rome, the Pope, as the head of their religion
    and church. In him they revere the infallible teacher of faith,
    the high‐priest and the supreme watchman of Christianity. No power
    can separate the Catholics of Germany from the chair of S. Peter.

    5. The only prelates of the German bishoprics are those bishops
    who are legitimately appointed by the Pope according to canon law.
    Catholics obey and reverence these bishops, be they in prison or
    in exile.

    6. The Catholics of Germany recognize as pastors only those who
    are appointed by the Pope and legitimate bishops. With unshaken
    determination they repel every attempt to induce them to revolt
    against Catholic authority.

    VI. _Regarding the Mission of the Catholic Union in Germany_.

    1. The Catholic Union of Germany complains of the severity with
    which the state officers of the German Empire, particularly in
    Prussia, oppose their rightful endeavors to labor for the true
    welfare of the fatherland.

    2. The Catholic Union of Germany shall with undaunted courage
    defend their natural rights, the rights of the church and of the
    German nation, against revolutionary and bureaucratic force.

    3. The Union invites all Catholics to join the authorized
    organization, and in the confidence of assistance from God, which
    the Union implores for itself through the most Sacred Hearts of
    Jesus and Mary, they surely expect the speedy triumph of a just
    cause.


The other resolutions had reference to the adoption of a short prayer to
the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary, under whose protection the Union is
placed; then the appointing of a committee charged with the erection of a
monument to the memory of Herman von Malinckrodt; with the foundation of a
fund for exiled clergymen; to send an address to the oppressed Catholics
of Switzerland; with the making out of a list of the priests who have been
punished in defending the rights of the church; with the establishment of
an intelligence office for young Catholic merchants; with the
recommendation of the _Christian Blaetter_, published in Aix‐la‐Chapelle;
and finally with the recommending of various institutions for the removal
of social evils. All of these motions were not adopted, others were laid
upon the table, in order to concentrate the strength of the young Union
upon the momentous question to the Catholic Germans as to the best means
of ending the conflict now in progress against the church. No one will
deny the wisdom and prudence of this proceeding.

In the afternoon a pilgrimage to Mount Roch was determined upon; it is
four German, or about twenty‐four American, miles from Mayence, and is one
of the most charming places on the Rhine. The congress could not have
closed its labors in a more appropriate manner. Soon after twelve o’clock
the steamer _Loreley_, which was hardly large enough to accommodate the
vast crowd of pilgrims, commenced to move its engines. Inspired by the
pious sentiments which filled their hearts, the pilgrims made the air
resound with songs which charmed the ear, while the beautiful views, as
seen from the deck of the steamer, of the country lying between the Taunus
Mountains and the Rhine, captivated the eye. This little spot has justly
been called the garden of Germany. The whole shore is lined with villages,
rich in monumental reminiscences of past ages, handsome residences and
ancient abbeys, modern and mediæval castles. But the greatest pride of the
Rhineland are the luscious grapes which ripen upon these sunny hills. Who
has not heard of the Marcobrunner, the Steinberger, the Johannisberger,
the Ruedesheimer, and many other species of Rhine wine? The vine‐dresser
of the Rhineland is firmly convinced that in the whole world there is no
wine which in delicacy is equal to his. But let us proceed. The good
Catholic inhabitants of these vine‐clad shores saluted our steamer by
discharging cannons. The Prussian authorities had prohibited in some
places such signs of joy and sympathy to be shown “the enemies of the
state” who were passengers on the _Loreley_. The banner of the Chapel of
S. Roch, which is built upon a high mountain, had from a long distance
been seen waving, and we could also descry the great crowd which had
already taken possession of the top of the mountain. When we approached
the city of Bingen, situated at the foot of the mountain, nearly the whole
population awaited us on the banks of the river. A special deputation
saluted the Rt. Rev. Bishop of Mayence, who had come to address the
pilgrims. The immense crowd, praying and singing, then marched through the
city, which was ornamented with flags, and soon all the streets and paths
leading to the mountain were filled with men, so that it was very
difficult for the marshals to form a regular line of procession in order
to reach the top of the mountain. From this eminence only was it possible
to obtain a good view of the multitude, which was greater, perhaps, than
Mount Roch had ever before carried on its back. It was a splendid
spectacle, and the effect was greatly enhanced by the beauty of the
surroundings—the majestic river, whose course the eye could follow for
miles, the green islands that now and then appeared in the channel of the
river, the blooming vineyards, and the ever‐fertile valleys.

As the chapel could contain only a small portion of the assemblage, the
Rt. Rev. Bishop made his address while standing under the blue canopy of
heaven. We will only give a few extracts from his admirable discourse. In
his introduction he said: “We are here to‐day assembled upon this mountain
from all parts of Germany. Without knowing each other, we yet feel that we
are all united by the common bond of faith, a miniature picture of the
Catholic Church. We stand upon a venerable spot. Here lived S.
Hildegardis, that great prophetess of the middle ages, whom S. Bernard
visited to examine her prophecies. Long before her advent S. Rupert and
his saintly mother Bertha, whose relics are exposed for veneration in this
chapel, dwelt here. At our feet flows the river Rhine, in whose waters the
most beautiful cathedrals of Germany are reflected, and upon whose shores,
from the earliest ages, faithful and honest Catholics have lived. There
(pointing to Niederlingen, with its palace of Carlovingian date) stood the
cradle of Charles the Great, the founder of the old German power and
glory; there that great emperor spent his youth, who never unsheathed his
sword except for the protection of truth, and never lent it to an
unrighteous cause.”

In the course of his speech he made mention of a fact which he had
observed when provost of Berlin and delegate for the few Catholic
congregations in Brandenburg and Pomerania. “In the last century King
Frederick II. had determined to drain the marshes along the river Oder,
and had for this end summoned laborers from the Rhine and from the
Palatinate. Those from the last‐named place began their long journey after
they had received assurances that ample provision had been made for their
religious wants, and that lands would be given them for cultivation. These
promises, however, were not fulfilled. When the work was finished, the
poor people were distributed among the different Protestant cities in
Pomerania, in order to force the inhabitants, as it were, to cede to them
some territory. Some of them received as their portion the sandy plains
near Pasewalk. Here wooden sheds were erected, the best of which was
reserved for a chapel. Without a priest, these good people met together
every Sunday for divine service, sang their hymns as if for High Mass, and
an altar‐boy rang the bell at certain parts, just as it was done in their
former homes. Fifty years passed in this way without their ever having
seen a priest, and in the course of these fifty years _not one_ Catholic
became an apostate. This congregation was afterwards visited once a year
by a priest, and this state of things continued for another fifty years;
but during this whole time not a Catholic left his faith—a proof that our
Lord and Saviour, when the priests are expelled, has other means to keep
his own in the true fold. When in our own times institutions are
destroyed, priests are exiled, and bishops are cast into prison, we have
more reason than ever before to impress deeply upon our hearts the words
of Christ: Confidite in me; ego vinci mundum—‘Have confidence; I have
overcome the world’ (S. John xvi. 33). If all else perishes, at least one
divine institution remains which the state cannot destroy—we mean the
_Christian family_. In proportion as the other representatives of God are
prevented from fulfilling their duty, Christian fathers and mothers must,
following the example of S. Bertha, fill their vacancies. What obstacles
did not this saintly woman overcome! Her husband, who ruled over all this
part of Germany, was a heathen, and was killed in a battle with the
Christians; but notwithstanding this, she has given in her son a saint to
the church.”

Turning then to the subject of the schools, the Rt. Rev. Bishop reminded
them of a resolution passed about ten years ago by the Grand Lodge of
Belgium, which commanded the sister lodges to give their written opinions
as to the question in what manner they could best exercise a decided
influence over the public schools. They all agreed on this point: that the
schools should be separated from the church, and that it was not
sufficient to keep the children in school until they were fourteen years
of age, but that compulsory education should be continued up to their
eighteenth year, in order to thoroughly uproot from the minds of the
children the prejudices which they had received from their families and
from the church. To this the objection was raised that such a law would be
in direct opposition to the rights of parents; but in the reply, which was
afterwards published, it was expressly maintained that, if the state had
the right to cut off the heads of men, it could also set them right again.
In view of the present aspect of affairs in respect to the school
question, it is very easy to draw parallels.

At the conclusion of his address the Rt. Rev. speaker again returned to
the text of his discourse: “ ‘Have confidence in Jesus.’ Place not your
hope in princes, who cannot help you. The Holy Ghost has said it; they
also must die. Make no calculations, therefore, as from what earthly
source or from what earthly prince the salvation of the church may be
expected. Confide in me, says Christ. Fear not the power of falsehood, for
I have overcome the world. Be watchful and firm. While the world is
worshipping Mammon it is our duty to imitate the example of those
Catholics who have never bowed their knees before Baal, and who were found
worthy to make any sacrifice for their convictions. Be courageous and of
good cheer! At this time the church needs men of determination. Let every
one, then, do his duty, and God will strengthen us and lead us to
victory.”

These significant words, the truly apostolic appearance of the Bishop of
Mayence, the place, and the feeling exhibited by the vast audience, all
contributed to leave a deep impression upon their hearts. After some short
devotions in the chapel of grace, the pilgrims returned in a seemingly
endless procession, with song and prayer, through the beautiful vineyards
to Bingen. We were told that those in the rear of the procession were yet
upon the top of the mountain when the first had entered already the
parochial church of Bingen, where the Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament
was given by the Rt. Rev. Bishop, which ended the festive celebration of
the Second Congress of the Catholic German Union.

The Congress has given testimony that the Catholic people of Germany in
these our days will not be misled or permit violence to be offered to
them; it gave testimony also to the truth which Malinckrodt had expressed
one month before in the _Reichstag_, and eight days before his death, when
he said: “If they imagine that we will bow ourselves before their
Protestant ideas, which they clothe in the garment of the state, they are
greatly mistaken. They can trample us under foot, but we reserve to
ourselves the liberty not to become unfaithful to our convictions.”

The Union has many and powerful enemies; but an old German proverb says:
“Many enemies, many honors.” May Almighty God continue to protect it as
before! Then it will show by its success that, true to its motto, it has
worked for truth, justice, and liberty, and that it has excelled all other
organizations in patriotism.




Switzerland In 1873. Lucerne.


It sounds like a platitude when any one nowadays ventures to lament
returning to the prose from the poetry of travel, so universal is this
feeling, and so constantly is it expressed; yet it is impossible to avoid
noticing it when recalling a railway journey that followed abruptly on
weeks of Alpine rambles. My friend and I had been gradually gathering
discontent, it is true, from the causes I have already stated, and
yesterday, at Berne, had felt that a complete change was necessary; but
further than this we had not stopped to reflect. No sooner, however, had
we started in the train than the scream of the engine‐whistle, the jerking
of the carriages at the stations, the rush of passengers and hoarse cries
of the fruit‐sellers, grated discordantly on our nerves, and a sudden
pining for the grand mountains, with their quiet, simple life and its
elevating tone, took possession of us. Had we carried out our intention of
going to Lyons, it would speedily have grown into a real Swiss _mal du
pays_. Heartily, therefore, did we thank Mrs. C—— for having appeared so
opportunely, and acted the part of a good angel in saving us from a
species of suicide; for we felt that our spirits would have completely
evaporated long before we could have reached Notre Dame de Fourvières or
any other such congenial haven.

“Well, yes,” she answered; “the flat plains of France would assuredly have
proved too harsh a contrast. Now you will still have mountains, besides so
many other matters that must deeply interest you.”

These reflections having restored us to good‐humor, we fully enjoyed the
approach to Lucerne, as the train wound round the wooded hills alongside
the green Reuss, rushing on in full‐grown vigor from the lake, and past
the mediæval walls and towers that still guard the sturdy old town. The
sun was setting as we entered the station, just as happened a few nights
previously when we drove into Interlachen; but in other respects
everything was different. Here, the train was rapidly emptied of its
hundreds of Northerners, still brimful of their city ways, or ill at ease
in some faultless Alpine costume fresh from a London shop; while there,
though one could detect many season‐loungers, effort at display was not
thought of, especially amongst tourists, for dress and such externals had
long since lost their importance in the wear and tear of real
mountaineering. And what a noise and bustle and clatter steam, and
everything belonging to it, entails! Enough to drive one wild, after many
weeks of leisurely excursion habits—the tinkling bells of the steamboats
waiting at the pier to carry off impatient tourists to fifty different
destinations, the crowd of omnibuses, the jostling of porters, and, to
complete the trouble, the announcement that no rooms could be had at the
Schweizerhof or Lucernerhof, or various other _hofs_; although we had
telegraphed from Berne, and expected to find all ready. If we would try,
it was said, at the Beau Rivage—the hotel furthest off—there was just a
chance. Worn out by the noise and fuss, we two begged to walk, the
remainder of our party offering to drive on in a carriage without delay,
in order to secure any vacant places there might be before the omnibus and
its load of new‐comers should reach the hotel.

No arrangement could have been happier; for as we crossed the handsome new
bridge, on issuing from the station, the scene at once restored our
shattered nerves. The sun had just sunk behind the wood‐clad hills, dotted
all over with pretty villas and _pensions_, that rise to the northwest
above the town, and whose sharp, dark outline every instant became blacker
against the clear sky above, which, on its part, was rapidly changing from
one tint to another, each more delicate than the preceding one. Below, the
river moved like a mass of molten gold, whilst the covered bridge close by
and the old tower at the corner wore a dark, warm brown hue, all the
richer from the reflection of the waters beneath. Turning round towards
the lake, on whose margin we stood, the magnificent panorama of snow‐
tipped mountains which encircle its upper end transfixed us with
admiration. Every peak, every line, was visible in the clear atmosphere,
from Mount Pilatus, bathed in a flood of purple, right in front, to the
most distant of the long line rising beyond. In a few minutes the colors
in the west grew faint and fainter, but a fresh after‐glow lit up the
mountain‐crests opposite, fading gradually into the tenderest pink, until
one by one they sank into the approaching night. How wonderfully beautiful
it was! Impossible to be surpassed! And for an instant we felt half
tempted to become unfaithful to the glorious Jungfrau and lovely
Interlachen. But the abiding impression of all such scenes in this favored
land is, without doubt, one of marvel at the varieties of God’s creation,
and nowhere does one more cordially echo that inspired voice which of old
cried: “Let every spirit praise the Lord!”

Lost in admiration at this effect of color on water, wood, and mountain,
we grew deaf to the clatter of the passing crowd across the bridge, when
suddenly the sound of bells aroused our attention. It seemed as if every
church‐bell in the place had been set a‐ringing; and so it really was! We
listened; but, unaccustomed as we had now so long been to the beautiful
practice, some minutes elapsed before we recognized the true mark of a
Catholic country—the Ave Maria or Angelus bell! A learned divine has
written lately that it would simplify matters very much if the world were
classed in two divisions only—namely, those who say the Angelus, and those
who do not; or, in other words, those who, believing in the Incarnation
and Redemption, boldly and lovingly profess it before God and men, and
those Christians whose faith in the mystery is so feeble or their piety so
lukewarm that it gives them no happiness to acknowledge it, and who are
therefore worse than the heathens, who know not of it. No happier welcome
could have been given to us, who had been suffering from a spiritual
famine for the last few weeks. Calmed by the sweet sounds, which were even
softened by the gurgling waters at our feet, we followed our guide along
the quay, unmindful of its white dust, fussy tourists, and the general
unæsthetic aspect of its many monster hotels, our eyes fixed, as we
proceeded, on the _Hofkirche_, or principal church, which towers above it
at one end.

It was late when we emerged after dinner from the glare of lights and hot,
crowded _table‐d’hôte_ rooms of the Beau Rivage on to the balcony of the
hotel, and the same moon which had entranced us so recently when shining
on the Jungfrau was beginning to climb up the heavens, right behind Mount
Pilatus. The stern mountain stood opposite to us on the other shore, his
rugged form showing dark and unfriendly against the silvered background,
but a tremulous path of light came dancing towards us straight across the
placid waters. Tiny boats, that were hitherto indistinguishable in the
surrounding gloom, shot in numbers, freighted with mysterious figures,
across the luminous, quivering pathway; the green and red lights of
steamers were seen advancing gradually from out the distant darkness of
the lake, like wicked monsters rising from the deep to devour the elves
and nymphs gambolling peacefully in our midst, while close to us, round
the near curve of the bay, the town, still busy with life and movement,
shone in a perfect blaze of illumination, the lamps along its quay
glittering like stars reflected in the still waters underneath. Poet or
painter never imagined in their highest flights of fancy a more fairy‐
like, suggestive scene, and again we felt and acknowledged the truth that
no art or science of man can approach God’s own handiwork in its exquisite
variety and beauty.

It was impossible to sit indoors on such an evening, so we wandered down
to the walk beside the water’s edge, an impulse evidently shared by all
the inhabitants; for, as we passed on, it seemed as though every one,
including tradesmen with their wives and families, had come forth to
refresh mind and body after their busy day’s work. The promenade was alive
with people, either sitting or quietly sauntering up and down in
apparently happy groups, but without noise or boisterous sound, in perfect
harmony with the beautiful surroundings.

“This scenery surely must have a powerful effect on the inhabitants,” I
remarked to Mrs. C——, as we too at length sat down on a bench in front of
the hotel. “I can’t conceive living constantly within view of all this
beauty without having one’s mind raised to a higher tone by its
influence.”

“No doubt,” she replied; “and now you can understand the full meaning of
Swiss _Heimweh_, or _mal du pays_; how, when these people once begin to
pine for their mountains, it becomes a true malady. It does not follow,
however, that scenery, as a matter of course, produces admiration or
appreciation of its charms. You know the world‐old observation of this
lack in ancient Greek poetry. Nor have the modern Greeks any more feeling
for natural beauty than their ancestors; in fact, they positively dislike
the country. The Turks are different; but, generally speaking, southerners
never give it a thought. It seems to be more a matter of race than of
locality, and the Swiss, especially in these cantons, being Teutonic, have
the true German love of nature, which makes them so worthy of living in
this favored land! That accounts, too, for their love of the supernatural,
to which their lively faith has always given a religious form. The very
name of this Mt. Pilatus and its story show this tendency at once.”

“What is the story?” I inquired. “I remember reading about it, but have
quite forgotten. At this moment one might fancy anything—dragons,
concealed in caverns, swooping down on forlorn maidens, knights rescuing
Hildegardes and Kunigundes, or any other thing you like, on an evening of
this sort.”

“Oh! no,” she answered: “the homely, burgher lives of the Swiss rarely led
them to the romantic, but their simple piety, as I have said, clothed
their tales with a religious coloring. This, for instance, is where they
believe that Pilate committed suicide; that, having been banished to Gaul
by the Emperor Tiberius for failure in the administration of his province
when governor, he could no longer bear living in public, and his uneasy
conscience drove him from one wild district to another until he stopped
here; but even then he continued miserable, and finally threw himself into
the small lake near the summit yonder, over which his spirit still hovers.
He is the author of all the storms hereabouts. He cannot bear strangers,
but, especially if they disturb him maliciously by throwing stones into
this lake, he avenges himself by thunder and lightning and a general
confusion of the elements. They were so persuaded of this in the middle
ages that the Lucerners actually made a statute forbidding any one to
explore the mountains, and there are records of several persons being
severely punished for venturing up in defiance of the order. He regulates
the weather even now; for you can always tell by Pilatus what kind of day
it is likely to be. Have you never heard the lines?


    “ ‘Wenn Pilatus trägt sein Hut
    Darum wird das Wetter gut.
    Trägt er aber seinen Degen
    Darum wird’s wohl sicher regnen.’(31)


“The _Hut_, or Hood, is a little cloud which settles on the summit only,
but the sword is a long streak across the centre of the mountain, which
bodes rain and all manner of bad weather. There are ominous stories,
besides, of dragons and winged serpents, which were formerly seen to fly
from Pilatus to the Rigi at night, leaving fiery tracks behind them, and
tormenting the shepherds and their flocks.”

“Well! if ever there were an excuse for pantheism and belief in a spirit‐
world animating nature, it certainly would be in Switzerland! Everywhere I
go the mountains, cloudy sunsets, the whole moving face of nature, speak a
language ever varying in one sense, but uniform in leading one’s thoughts
upwards.”

“Yes; and even in bad weather you would not tire of it! Pilatus is never
so grand as when the storm‐clouds gather round his brow and roll down
pitilessly on this very spot.”

“I should very much like to know whether the people keep up their piety
now, and how they are likely to act in the coming religious storm,” I
remarked.

“I have just had an interesting conversation on that very point with an
old Lucerner,” said Mr. C——, who now rejoined us, and who, we noticed, had
stopped to speak to some acquaintance on the promenade when we first
started. “That was old H——, whom we met at Kissingen three years ago,” he
continued, addressing his wife. “He has retired from his appointment, and
returned to this his native town. He was rejoiced to see me, and offered
his services; and, thinking he might be useful as a guide, I have begged
him to call at our hotel in the morning. He gave me a most interesting
account of matters here. They are all staunch Catholics, he says, except a
few, who are lukewarm and seduced by the rationalism and liberalism of
Olten and Berne. From these alone do they fear dissension. But they are
not numerous. However, they tried last winter to get one of the churches
given up to them. Fortunately, the town council is orthodox and firm, and
Herr H—— is certain that Lucerne will be true to her name, and continue a
_light_ to her neighbors.”

“What a happy play on the word!” I remarked—“a genuine _jeu de mot_. She
certainly merits the title in a material sense already, with that girdle
of brilliant lamps shining like jewels along the quay.”

“It is not a _jeu de mot_ of my invention,” answered Mr. C——. “The name is
said to take its origin from the fact itself. Some of the Swiss towns,
such as Chur and Geneva, date from the Roman times of Switzerland; but
there are no traces of Roman buildings or settlements here. It is said,
however, that even then there was a lantern or kind of light‐house at this
spot for the boats on the lake, which was dignified by the Latin name of
_Lucerna_, or _light_; and this, amidst the vicissitudes of centuries, has
clung to it, and, as you say, is as suitable as ever. The town itself,
like so many others, is the offspring of a monastery somewhere about the
same time as St. Gall and Einsiedeln. But those old walls, with the quaint
towers which still encircle it, are only from the XIIIth or XIVth century.
The barbarians, you may remember, overran the continent several times in
the IXth, Xth, and XIth centuries, pillaging and burning on all sides; but
it was noticed that the walled towns escaped, for they did not understand
the art of besieging them. One of the German emperors, therefore, issued
orders that all the towns should erect fortifications, and that, in times
of war, the rural population should take refuge within them. Basel was one
of the first that was enclosed in Switzerland, being on the frontier. Then
St. Gall, which had sprung up round the great monastery, and was also near
the frontier; Zurich and Lucerne followed later. Lucerne has kept up the
old Swiss character better than almost any other town, from its position
near these forest cantons, which have more or less imbued it with their
spirit. The forest cantons,” he continued, as if in answer to my inquiring
look, “are those which border this lake, and give it the name of the ‘Lake
of the Four Cantons!’ They are Schwytz, Uri, Unterwalden; and now Lucerne
makes the fourth—the cradle of Switzerland and the noblest portion of its
people. Lucerne has hitherto been a sort of outpost for them—their point
of connection with the political world beyond; and so far it has always
held stoutly by its old friends. I remember the religious civil war and
the _Sonderbund_, between 1842 and 1848, and Lucerne was the head and
front of all that movement. Those old towns, amongst their various tales,
could tell many even of that period; for within their walls, as well as in
some of the churches, 1,800 prisoners were confined after the first
victorious resistance Lucerne offered the Protestant Volunteers. Amongst
the number was a certain Dr. Steiger, said to be the leader of the
Protestants. He lay in one of the towers, condemned to banishment and
imprisonment by the tribunals of Lucerne, when one night he escaped, aided
by three countrymen who were devoted to him, and finally fled to America.
I well recollect what a sensation it made, especially when, a few days
afterwards the great champion of the Catholics—a peasant—was found
murdered in his cottage! Then these Catholics made a defensive league
amongst themselves to resist the interference of the Protestant cantons in
their religious affairs, and which they therefore called the _Sonderbund_.
On this the opposite faction took their stand, asserting that its
principle was contrary to the spirit of the Confederacy. It was a good
watchword in any case wherewith to rouse their partisans, and they
succeeded in this so completely that the Diet soon voted that the league
ought to be put down by force. A large army was at once collected, and,
surrounding these Catholic cantons as with a cordon, they very soon
crushed them. How well I remember it all! Whether the experience is
recollected here it is hard to say; but Herr H—— muttered something about
their all being determined to stand up manfully for their faith, even if
it should ultimately be necessary to fight for it.”

“Fighting for one’s faith is sublime, and stirs one’s deepest feelings,” I
replied, “and that the spirit which induces it still exists, despite our
prosaic, material age, we have seen by the Papal Zouaves, and also, united
with love of country, in the Bretons, Vendêans, and others during the
French and Prussian war. But it is impossible to combine the idea of
fighting of any kind with this poetic scene, and I would rather go to
sleep to‐night dreaming of nymphs and sprites than of war and prisons, or
even of Pilate himself or any other gloomy visions in this fairyland. I
fear I am ungrateful for all your information, in feeling almost sorry
that we touched on these topics,” I said, laughing, as we reluctantly
turned homewards late that evening.

I had spoken wisely. Most difficult it is to pacify one’s mind after such
a conversation, and, between reflections on the past and speculations on
the future of these Swiss Catholics, the night was far advanced before my
eyes closed in sleep. Suddenly I was awakened by a full‐toned church‐bell
booming across the waters. It might again be the Angelus; but looking at
my watch, it was only a quarter before five o’clock, and moreover it was
still dark. Then it must be some convent‐bell summoning the community to
Matins and Prime. It was an uncharitable proceeding on their part, thought
I, to waken up a whole town; and the peal kept on for the entire quarter
of an hour. At half‐past five came another similar bell; and then, soon
after, a chorus of full tones, like that which had greeted our arrival on
the previous evening, rang out the Angelus from every church‐tower in the
place, followed at six and half‐past six by others in our immediate
vicinity. It was quite impossible to sleep; yet, tired though we were, the
joyful sensation of awakening in a Catholic land reconciled us to the
penalty it thus imposed. Up and out we should at once go in search of the
Masses which these bells indicated. But there be no such hurry, said the
hotel servants; for there would be eight o’clock Mass in the Hofkirche
close by. Then we discovered that, so far from the quarter to five bell
belonging to any convent, it was in truth rung in order to rouse the
towns‐people to Mass at the S. Peterskirche—the first each day of the
series which ended at eight o’clock at the Hofkirche. And then we
recollected how the same custom prevails in Germany, according to the
early habits of all German races; how hopeless it seems ever to be up and
out before the inhabitants of a small German town; and how, in the Rhenish
provinces for instance, the five o’clock Mass in summer, and the six
o’clock in winter, are the most fully attended, even in the severe seasons
of frost and snow.

We felt, therefore, like sluggards as we ascended the paved hill and
mounted the steps leading up to the Hofkirche. It was a bright morning,
and pleasant, good‐humored faces met us, as we paused to notice the
exterior, so plain and unadorned compared to the beautiful Cathedral of
Berne. But this seemed all the more suitable to the simple life of
Lucerne, with which the fact of the church standing, as it does, in the
midst of its cemetery, is in perfect harmony. A curious piece of mediæval
sculpture, representing the Garden of Olives, is let into the wall of one
of the towers, and we were examining it when to our surprise sounds of
music from the inside reached us. But a greater surprise awaited us when,
on entering the church, we found it perfectly full. A most devout
congregation occupied every seat in the nave. On one side knelt the men,
on the opposite the women. Whilst High Mass for the dead was being sung at
an altar outside the choir‐screen, in front of which was placed the bier,
Low Masses were going on at side altars near, and another at the high
altar behind. Everywhere earnestness and devotion were perceptible; and a
more striking contrast to our previous day’s experience in the Cathedral
of Berne, where daily services were unknown, it would be utterly
impossible to imagine. Yet what must such a morning have been there in the
olden days; for even now external advantages are in its favor. The Lucerne
church has far fewer claims to architectural beauty, and its general
ornamentation is in the bad taste of the last century. But these faults
were at the moment imperceptible to us, who had eyes only for the life and
spirit pervading the crowd of worshippers that filled it. It is a fine
church, however, in its own way, and quite in keeping with the character
of the inhabitants. The choir is imposing, and the metal‐work of its
screen excellent. There are old stained‐glass windows too; and a wood
carving of the Death of Our Lady over a side altar would be perfect, were
it not for the amount of gilding and gaudy coloring with which it has been
loaded.

But the benches are the most characteristic point in the building. At one
period they must all have been appropriated, though they are now free; for
each division still retains a shield, on which is painted a coat‐of‐arms
and the name of a citizen, or of his wife or widow, with the date of the
year, going back in some cases to the beginning of the last century. When
High Mass was over, the women in going out passed round by the bier, on
which they sprinkled holy‐water, followed by the men, who seriously and
piously performed the same act of fraternal charity. Thence we followed
them to the small mortuary chapel outside, but so filled was it by a
weeping group that we turned back and sauntered round the covered gallery,
or cloister, which borders this beautiful _Gottesacker_, or “God’s acre,”
as the Germans so truly call their cemeteries. Sauntering it certainly
was; for it was difficult to move quickly, so many were the inscriptions,
so well tended the hundreds of pretty graves. Marks of affection and
remembrance were visible at every step in fresh wreaths and baskets of
beautiful flowers, arranged with a taste and art that told what loving
hearts must have guided the skilful hands that made them. Some good oil‐
paintings and handsome monuments also adorn this gallery; but the most
attractive part of the whole burial‐ground is its eastern end. This is
appropriated to diminutive graves and crosses, hung with white bows of
ribbon and white flowers. We knew that in the Catholic Church there is a
special service for infants—one of pure joy without a word of grief; but
never before had we seen any particular spot set apart for these baptized
little angels. Later, we found that it is a custom universal in the
burial‐grounds of these Catholic cantons; but none that we afterwards saw
ever struck us so much as this one of Lucerne.

The whole place, too, was full of stone stoups, provided with water and
branches of blessed box, wherewith to sprinkle the graves. Foot‐passengers
have a right of way from an upper road through this churchyard, and we saw
many stop, as they passed, to perform this work of charity over a tomb,
with a pious aspiration for the repose of the souls. “Have pity on me, my
friends,” is a prayer well responded to in this touching _Gottesacker_,
where the dead still dwell in the hearts of the living, truly under the
shadow and protecting influence of the church and of the cross. The
doctrines of the Catholic faith in the communion of saints and
intercession for the holy souls in purgatory are here so practically
carried out, that they must get intertwined with the tenderest feelings of
each Lucerner, and developed in their best sense from childhood upwards,
becoming their comfort and mainstay from the cradle to the grave.

And then in what a beautiful position this old church stands—at the head
of the town, guarding its flock, and a beacon to the weary‐minded! From
our guide‐book we learned that originally it had formed part of a
Benedictine convent, and is dedicated to S. Leodegarius, or S. Leger. The
very name of this saint takes us back to the furthest antiquity, to the
earliest days of Christianity in these parts; for he was the great Bishop
of Autun in the VIIth century whose sanctity and courage shone
conspicuously during sixty years in the stormy times of the Clovis and
Clotaire kings and of their _maires du palais_, until he was at last
cruelly put to death by order of Ebroin, one of the most wicked of that
tribe, and who governed in the name of the Frankish king, Theodoric. It
tells, too, of those days when the present Switzerland, having been
included in Charlemagne’s empire, was still fluttering between his
successors in Burgundy and those in Germany; and how far the fame of
saints and martyrs spread and made their mark on countries which, in those
days of slow communication, were distant from their own. The convent
itself must have been an old foundation, for the church was formed into a
collegiate chapter in 1456, and the two existing towers belong to that
period. The remainder, destroyed by fire in 1633, was rebuilt soon after
in the unarchitectural style of that century. Probably we owe the
cloisters round the cemetery and the massive parochial house near, also to
the monastic period. Quite worthy, in any case, of Benedictine refinement
was the view obtained from the open arches on one side of the cloisters.
But alas for modern innovations! My friends remembered this as one of the
most lovely points of view in Switzerland some fifteen years ago; but now
the roof of that huge caravansary, the International Hotel, rises just
high enough close in front to shut out, from all but two openings,
everything save the sight of its own ungainliness. From these two,
however, it is possible to judge what the world has lost, looking out over
the lake and surrounding mountains; and we lingered long, drinking in the
charms of this matchless landscape, which again presented itself under an
aspect quite different from that of the preceding evening.

On returning to the hotel we found Mr. and Mrs. C—— deep in conversation
with Herr H——, who had come according to appointment. He was a shrivelled‐
up, active, little old man of about seventy, formerly professor in a
gymnasium in the north of Germany, but the aim of whose life had been to
save a certain sum, in order to return and end his days in his own beloved
Switzerland. This he had accomplished within the last two years. The C——s
had taken a great fancy to the old man when they made his acquaintance at
Kissingen, and he was now burning to be of some use to them. And a great
help he proved in planning the next week’s excursions, so as to make them
finish off at Einsiedeln on the 14th, the chief feast of that monastery.
The day was perfectly lovely, and the atmosphere so clear that he pleaded
hard to take us up to the Linden Avenue, a terrace walk, twenty‐five
minutes off, and commanding a magnificent panorama. But we should see the
mountains during the rest of our travels, we argued in reply, and our
minds were so full of Wordsworth and Longfellow, and, through them, of the
covered bridges of Lucerne, that we could hear of nothing else. Our party
consisted of Mr. and Mrs. C——, their two daughters, and a good‐humored,
boyish son of eighteen, besides my friend and myself; so at last a
compromise was effected by dividing our forces. One daughter went with Mr.
and Mrs. C—— to the Linden walk, while our new Swiss acquaintance politely
offered to conduct our division over his native place.

Our first visit, as a matter of course, was to “the Lion,” the pride and
glory of modern Lucerne! Turning off from the fussy, bustling quay,
leaving excitement and noise behind, we wandered through quiet, winding
streets that led to the former Zurich road, until, in a leafy recess
containing a large basin filled by trickling water, on which the sun
played through the foliage of the overhanging beech‐trees, this grand king
of animals lay right before us, hewn out of the perpendicular face of the
living rock. Overhead is carved the inscription, _Helvetiorum fidei ac
virtuti_.(32) This monument, erected in memory of the Swiss guards who
fell whilst defending Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette at Versailles, and
on the 2d and 3d of September, 1792, was designed by the great
Thorwaldsen, and executed by a Zurich sculptor, the expenses being
defrayed by subscriptions from all parts of Switzerland. The lion is
dying, the spear still in his side, a bundle of spears under him, but one
paw still firmly clasping the Bourbon shield. It is colossal; the whole
attitude full of strength, firmness, and sorrow—a sorrow inspiring such
sympathy that the longer one looks the more human it appears. Yet it is
not that hopelessly sad expression of his grand Chæronean prototype, which
once having had the good‐fortune to see on the spot, I never can forget.
But then what different events they commemorate! The Greek, the defeat of
an over‐glorious nation, crushed to despair; this of Lucerne, the loss,
but also the noble heroism, of a few of Switzerland’s sons only, who, if
they could be so faithful in the cause of strangers, what might not be
expected from them and their brethren in defence of their own hearths and
homes! And as we stood transfixed to the spot, unwilling to stir, it was
pleasant to hear from Herr H—— that foreign service of this sort has now
ceased. At least no body of Swiss serve abroad together, except as the
Pope’s guards, whose picturesque Michael‐Angelesque costumes must be
remembered by every one that visited Rome in its palmy days. Formerly, not
only did they serve as mercenaries in various countries, but there were
regular treaties in force between the Swiss government and foreign
sovereigns, authorizing the latter to recruit throughout the cantons.
These, however, have been swept away, and this “Lion” is now the only link
with those times. Close by is a chapel where, according to pious custom,
Mass is now and then said for the departed heroes, and the altar cloth of
which has been worked by the Duchesse d’Angoulême, one of Marie
Antoinette’s two children, protected and saved by those very soldiers.

We had not prepared ourselves for this beautiful, poetic work of art, and
hence it was perhaps doubly difficult to leave it; but time pressed, and
Herr H—— led the way back to the brilliant quay. He was eloquent on its
palatial hotels, and proud that in this particular Lucerne is so far ahead
of all other Swiss towns, except perhaps Geneva. But still, he said, this
did not compensate him for olden days. How different it had been in his
boyhood, in the years prior to 1820, when the present Schweizerhof Quay
did not exist! A long, covered wooden bridge, 1,300 feet in length, ran,
in its stead, from the middle of the town, near the Swan Hotel, right
across here to the foot of the Hofkirche. And then, to our intense regret,
we discovered that this was the chief bridge mentioned by Wordsworth in
his continental tour. He first speaks of the Hafellbrücke, still existing,
and then goes on to say:


    “Like portraiture, from loftier source, endears
    That work of kindred frame, which spans the lake
    Just at the point of issue, when it fears
    The form and motion of a stream to take;
    When it begins to stir, _yet_ voiceless as a snake.

    “Volumes of sound, from the cathedral rolled,
    This long‐roofed vista penetrate; but see,
    One after one, its tablets, that unfold
    The whole design of Scripture history;
    From the first tasting of the fatal tree,
    Till the bright star appeared in eastern skies,
    Announcing One was born mankind to free;
    His acts, his wrongs, his final sacrifice;
    Lessons for every heart, a Bible for all eyes.

    “_our_ pride misleads, our timid likings kill.
    Long may these homely works devised of old,
    These simple efforts of Helvetian skill,
    Aid, with congenial influence, to uphold
    The state, the country’s destiny to mould;
    Turning, for them who pass, the common dust
    Of servile opportunity to gold;
    Filling the soul with sentiments august—
    The beautiful, the brave, the holy, and the just.”


Then in a note he goes on to relate that the pictures on the “cathedral
bridge amounted to 240, all from Scripture history; subjects from the Old
Testament faced the passenger going to the cathedral, and those from the
New as he returns.” What would he have said could he have foreseen such a
speedy annihilation of his aspirations for their long maintenance, and
especially when replaced by all that drives away remembrance of that
“history” and tends to keep men’s thoughts fastened to earth instead of
raised to heaven!

When our first disappointment was over, we learned from Herr H—— that this
quay, now so venerable‐looking from its shady chestnuts, has been won from
the lake, like the Thames embankment, within the last forty years. It has
one advantage, namely: that the whole tourist‐life which brings such gain
to Lucerne has been added on to it, without in any way interfering with
the ordinary life of its inhabitants. Happily, it would be impossible to
change the old part without sweeping it entirely away—a summary proceeding
that no one would think of. The original town lies on a strip of land
between the lake and encircling hills, and is composed of solidly‐built
old houses in narrow streets, that are thoroughly sheltered, but without
any view, and consequently unfit for tourist requirements. Air and
landscape—the two essentials for the wealth‐bringing strangers—were
fortunately found available in the large space gained from the lake, while
the neighboring hills seemed as if especially created for the countless
_pensions_ that now cover them in every direction. “Travellers,” said Herr
H——, “—travellers are the great desire of Lucerne. They supply the place
of trade and manufactures, which we do not possess, except in a small way
in the Krienz valley yonder. Both here and throughout all these forest
cantons, the whole energies of the population are of late years directed
to this object. You will find them building hotels in all directions as
you travel through that district,” pointing to the upper end of the lake,
which we were lingering to admire from the promenade. “It sometimes seems
like over‐building, but the larger the houses, the more quickly they seem
to fill. The crowds that swarm here from June to October, from every
quarter of the globe, are quite marvellous. Since the French war,
especially, the Germans come in shoals. It is becoming like another
invasion of the northerners! I suppose we dare not call them Huns and
Vandals,” he continued, laughing. “But I confess I fear their influence in
the long run, for they are chiefly the population of the manufacturing and
commercial towns of Prussia and the North, and even when they are not
decidedly infidel, they are not overburdened with religion, and are
perfectly indifferent to its observances. I was stopping up at the Kaltbad
for a month this summer, and only a few out of 420 guests ever thought
about Sundays. ‘Who does, when at a watering‐place?’ said some. There was
no Protestant service, it is true, except the English, but still there
might have been some difference made between it and other days; but,
except amongst the Catholics, one could notice none, unless that the
dinner was sometimes rather better than on week‐days. And even the foreign
Catholics were often very lukewarm. It is a very bad example, to say the
least, for the natives. Fortunately, however, the strangers mix with them
very little, and they fall back into their customary life when these
crowds go home about the end of September. Then all is changed. The
country hotels shut up, and even here they dismiss their large staff of
servants, and only keep a small portion of each house open. But they are
looking forward to a great increase of winter business in Lucerne later,
when the St. Gothard tunnel, which is now begun, shall be finished;
though, of course, it will be nothing compared to the summer influx.”

“And what becomes of the poor servants?” I asked. “Are they turned adrift
on the world?”

“Oh! dear, no. They are engaged for the hotels at Nice and Mentone, and
all along the Riviera, in bodies of a hundred at a time. If you happen to
go south in November, you will doubtless fall in with many a Kellner or a
house‐maid you met up here in the summer. That is the form the Swiss
foreign service has taken in our days of steam and easy communication. And
very much they distinguish themselves. Both men and women are considered
more honest and active than those of any other nation, and consequently
are at a premium. That wonderful race of ‘Kellners’—a race apart—which
goes by the generic name of German waiter, is largely composed of the
Swiss element. Strangely enough, however, every waitress you meet, even in
these districts, is certain to come from the canton of Berne. The women
there have a _spécialité_ in that line. The peasants of the Catholic
cantons keep to the housemaid department, as a rule, and our Lucerne
maidens become ladies’ maids or governesses in English families. And very
well they turn out, too. Both in this town and in the rural cantons they
are a solidly good, pious population. Very conservative also; in fact,
most conservative, in spite of our staunch republicanism, and most united
at the same time.”

It suddenly occurred to us to ask whose funeral we had seen that morning.
“No doubt of some distinguished citizen?”

“No,” replied Herr H——, “not particularly distinguished; only an old and
highly‐respected tradesman. Oh! no; that is an every‐day occurrence. All
the neighbors consider it a duty to attend the High Mass and to pray for
each other. I was there, amongst others, just before I went to the Beau
Rivage Hotel; for, although I have spent so many years away from Lucerne,
I knew this man from my earliest childhood, and he has been working all
his life for every one you saw there this morning, so that the least we
might do was to go and pray for the repose of his soul, poor fellow! They
will do the same for each one of us in turn. Here is a column of
advertisements, composed of nothing but ‘Thanks’ from relatives,” he said,
drawing a Lucerne daily paper from out of his pocket, and amongst the
number we read the following touching one:

“The widow and children of —— return their heartfelt thanks to all the
kind friends who spontaneously attended the High Mass for, and the funeral
of, their lamented husband and father on ——. They are not only grateful
for this mark of respect, but they wish to assure these good neighbors
that the loving sympathy and the kind manner in which it was offered by
each, have done more to soften their grief than they can now express.”

“We are a small community,” continued Herr H——,“ only 14,500
inhabitants—simple folk, working our way on through life without any rich
manufacturers or overgrown proprietors, as at Zurich, Berne, and Geneva,
so there cannot be much rivalry or pretension. You will not find private
villas or large châteaus round this lake—nothing, for instance, even like
those handsome ones on the Lake of Thun; but we all hold together, and I
only hope the young generation will continue to walk in the footsteps of
their fathers.”

To Be Concluded Next Month.




Roger The Rich.(33)


A Ballad.

Dedicated, Without Permission, To Victor Emanuel.

God prospereth King Stephen!
  His sway is o’er the land.
The Empress Maud hath bowed her head;
Her knights are slain, her armies fled,
  Herself beneath his hand!
God prospereth King Stephen!
  The land is all his own.
From north to south, from east to west,
The whole wide kingdom is at rest—
  Firm sits he on his throne.
God prospereth King Stephen!
  Yet he hath cast his eye
On the rich lands of Sherbourn, spread
O’er many a hill and kie‐cropt mead,
  And many a bosky lea.
King Stephen sware a grimly oath—
  God wis he kept it true:
“Since Roger Niger (bishop then)
Hath led against us armèd men,
  Roger shall dearly rue!”
Roger hath lands and riches too,
  Marks forty thousand told;
And well I wot the monarch’s vow
Hath less to do with justice now
  Than with the bishop’s gold.
Roger hath to Devizes ta’en
  His wealth with all his speed;
Stout men‐at‐arms, and billmen true,
And bowmen armed with sturdy yew,
  Attend him in his need.
Now he hath stored his fortelace well
  With beeves and sheep and grain.
He standeth on his topmost tower;
And sayeth in the pride of power,
  The king shall knock in vain!
What, O my knights! the monarch cries,
  Shall he thus brave our wrath?
Shake forth our banner to the blast,
And gather round us, liegemen fast;
  We’ll sweep him from our path!
The king, with mighty following,
  Hath sat before the tower;
But massy walls and valiant hearts
Have nobly played their several parts—
  The bishop mocks his power!
And loudly sware King Stephen then
  A fearful oath to hear:
“Build me a gallows‐tree before
The haughty prelate’s guarded door;
  This yet shall cost him dear.”
Now they have built the gallows‐tree,
  And raised it in the air—
Its height is forty feet and three,
A laidly thing it is to see—
  And led his nephew there.
Roger the bishop stands and sees
  Young Roger led to die—
The nephew he had reared with care,
His only sister’s son and heir:
  A tear steals from his eye.
Now he hath turned him to his knights;
  His words are sad and low:
“God wot I am an old man now;
He layeth sorrow on my brow,
  He willeth I should go.
My nephew hath his course to run,
  And mine is near its close.
I straight will render up my lands,
My gold shall pass from out mine hands—
  I’ll yield me to my foe!
But as God lives he prospereth not
  King Stephen’s arms again;
His latest triumph he hath won.
Henceforth his is a setting sun;
  His efforts shall be vain!
God prospereth not King Stephen now—
  The Empress Maud hath fled;
Fitz‐Empress Henry snatcheth now
The golden circlet from the brow,
  The glory from his head.
God prospereth not King Stephen’s arms—
  Anjou is in the field,
And Winchester and Gloucester band
To wrest the sceptre from his hand,
  And vanquished he must yield.
God prospereth not King Stephen’s cause—
  Henry is named his heir;
Still may he sit upon the throne
Weakness forbids him call his own,
  In sorrow and despair.
God prospereth not his family—
  Eustace, his only son,
Pines from that moment, droops his head,
And, withering like a flower, is dead,
  And his last prop is gone.
God prospereth not King Stephen’s health—
  His heart is stricken sore;
Sleep shunneth now his eyes by night;
His days are stricken with a blight;
  He smileth now no more.
And still ’tis said God prospereth not
  The holder of those lands,
And Sarum’s heirs ne’er live to claim
The heritage of land and name—
  It slippeth from their hands;
For one, ’tis said, hath fallen by chance;
  Another falls in strife;
A father’s hand unwitting smote
Another scion through the throat;
  Law claims another’s life.
God prospereth not that family—
  Two hundred years have sped,
And still the bishop’s curse clings fast,
As fell and fatal to the last
  As when those words were said.
Then the Third Edward rendered back
  Unto the church its own,
And the broad lands to Robert gave
(Thou’lt see it figured on his grave);
  And now the curse is gone!




The Poem Of Izdubar.


M. FRANÇOIS LENORMANT, in continuing the publication of his _Essay on the
Propagation of the Phœnician Alphabet in the Ancient World_, and in
editing a _Selection of Cuneiform Texts_, has just issued two volumes of
important and interesting studies on _Primitive Civilizations_.(34)

The steps of this learned writer in the almost unknown regions which he
explores so fearlessly, and usually with so much success, are not always
perfectly sure; but, with a good faith so natural to him that it does not
seem to cost him even an effort, he knows how to retrace his path and
correct whatever may require rectification.

_Les Premières Civilisations_, several portions of which have been
published in various collections, reappears developed and raised to the
present level attained by scientific discovery. The work opens by a notice
of prehistoric archæology and fossil man, the monuments of the neolithic
period, and the invention of the use of metals and its introduction into
the West. Studies on Egypt follow, including the _Poem of Pentaour_ and
the _Romance of the Two Brothers_. The second volume, with the exception
of the “Legend of Cadmus, and the Phœnician Establishments in Greece,” is
entirely devoted to Chaldæa, presenting us with a Chaldæan Vêda, or
collection of liturgical and devotional hymns in honor of the principal
gods worshipped on the banks of the Tigris and Euphrates; the biography of
a Babylonian prince of the VIIIth century before our era, Merodach
Baladan, with whose name the Bible has already made us acquainted;(35)
and, lastly, the Babylonian epic poem of Izdubar. It is this last work of
which the range is the most general and the value the greatest in
connection with the comparative history of the Semitic races, their
national genius, and their religious ideas. It touches, amongst other
things, upon three points which it is important to put particularly in
relief, on account of the manner in which the inferences resulting from
them strengthen the ground of Christian apologists—namely, the myths of
one of the most important branches of the race of Sem (or, to speak
accurately, the race that was equally descended from Sem and Cham), the
Assyrio‐Chaldæan belief in the immortality of the soul, and the origin of
the signs of the Zodiac. There is also a fourth point—that of the
tradition of the Deluge.

It has been repeatedly maintained by the sceptic, M. Renan, and is in fact
one of his favorite ideas, that the Semites were radically incapable of
producing an epic poem. He refuses everything to this race—imagination,
the power of invention, the knowledge of the experimental method,
philosophy, and science. One thing alone he accords to them—the
monotheistic instinct. Now, the cuneiform tablets demonstrate that the
sciences, especially those of astronomy and mathematics, held a very
considerable place in the intellectual pursuits of the Babylonians and
Assyrians. The poem of Erech, published by Mr. G. Smith, is sufficient of
itself alone, by means of the fragments which are known to us, to reduce
to nothing all the assertions in his history of the Semitic languages, in
which M. Renan affirms that “the imagination of the Semitic races has
never gone beyond the narrow circle traced around it by the exclusive idea
of the divine greatness. God and man, in presence of each other, in the
bosom of the desert—behold the summary, or, as it is termed in the present
day, the formula, of all their poetry.”(36) Assuredly one never found
one’s self less in the desert in presence of God alone and of man alone
than in the Semitic poems of Chaldæa.

The veritable name of the hero on the banks of the Euphrates, sung by
Homer, has remained unknown to this day. It is constantly found written in
ideographic characters, which, pronounced phonetically, give the three
syllables Iz‐du‐bar; but we know that they were pronounced in quite a
different manner by the Assyrio‐Chaldæans. We are equally certain, from
the testimony of other cuneiform inscriptions, that this Izdubar was one
of the gods of Chaldæa. Nevertheless, he figures here as a simple hero,
and, according to M. Lenormant, is probably Nemrod, “the mighty hunter,”
as he is called in the Book of Genesis, alluding to a popular saying, of
which the remembrance is still preserved in Assyria, as well as in
Palestine, and also in the Egyptian tradition. The historical inscriptions
of Assurbanipal name Resen, one of the cities of Assyria, “the town of the
hunter.”(37)

The Izdubar of the Babylonian inscription, like the Nemrod of the Bible,
reigns over four cities,(38) three of which, named in Genesis, are
certainly identical with those mentioned on the tablet, and which
therefore furnish an argument in favor of the supposition. But however
that may be, Izdubar, whose name signifies “God of fire,” “God of the body
or mass of fire,” is without doubt the ancient Arcadian God of fire whose
worship had so great an importance in the primitive epochs; and this idea
throws much light on the Babylonian poem, to which it, in some sort,
furnishes the key. This poem is divided into twelve _cantos_, if we may so
call them, each forming a distinct episode and inscribed in a separate
tablet. Sir Henry Rawlinson has proved that each canto relates to one of
the twelve signs of the zodiac, and to one of the twelve months of the
year. The god of fire is thus represented as being one with the sun, and
the entire epic consists of a poetical history of the annual revolution of
that luminary, and its accomplishment in the course of twelve months,
around which revolution various incidental episodes have been grouped,
amongst others the narrative of the Deluge. The _dénouement_ of the poem
is the cure of Izdubar, who, at the instigation of the man saved from the
Deluge, plunges into the sea, from whence he issues delivered from a sort
of leprosy which had threatened his life. M. Gubernatis remarks that this
is identical with the Vedic myth of Indra, and also the Hellenic one of
Tithonus. Leprosy is invariably the malady of kingly heroes, and signifies
old age, which, according to popular belief, could only be cured either by
the waters of youth or by the blood of a child. The old solar hero, the
dying sun, sprang forth with renewed youth in the morning, after
traversing the sea of night—a symbol which would naturally possess an
additional force to the nations who beheld the departing sun‐god sink
beneath the Western sea. The Chaldæan epic presents us, therefore, with
the same mythological groundwork as the other polytheistic religions with
regard to the worship of fire and of the sun—a groundwork presenting a
point of contact among the Semitic, Aryan, and Egyptian races which it is
necessary to bear in mind in tracing the comparative histories of the
descendants of the sons of Noe.

The details of the Babylonian poem exhibit a mythology as multitudinous as
that of India or of Greece; the adventures also of Izdubar for the most
part closely resemble those of the classic heroes. He is a great
conqueror, who wins immortality by his splendid exploits and his mighty
labors, some of which remind one of those of Hercules. We see him
successively capture the winged ox, and put an end to the ravages of a sea
monster to which is given the name of Boul—two exploits almost identical
with those of Perseus. As in Egypt the sun, under the name of Osiris, is
the husband of Isis, the personification of the productive power, and
sometimes the moon, so in Chaldæa the sun, Izdubar, espouses Istar, the
moon, who is also the Assyrian Venus, and daughter of the god Sin. Istar
is, however, at this period, already a widow, having lost her first
spouse, whose name signifies “Son of Life.”

In the poem of Erech a great number of other deities appear, together with
Istar. Besides her father, Sin, who is god of the months, we have firstly
Anou, the Oannes of the Greeks, and the first personage of the supreme
triad; then the second member of this triad, Bel, the demiurge; and lastly
the third, Ao, Nesroch,(39) or Nouah. Around these great divinities are
grouped Adar, the god of the planet Saturn; Samas, god of the sun;
Nabo,(40) god of the planet Mercury, and his companion, Sarou; Bin, god of
the atmosphere and tempest; Nergal, of the planet Mars; besides a vast
army of Annunaki, or secondary genii; of Guzalu, or destroying spirits,
and others of inferior race and power. These deities did not agree among
themselves any better than did the gods of the Greek Olympus. Their heaven
appears to have been anything but an abode of peace or love; and in heaven
or hell they quarrelled alike. Istar seems especially to have
distinguished herself by her unaccommodating disposition.

It is believed that the account of the journey of Istar into hell (for the
story of such a journey in the _Odyssey_ and the _Æneid_ had also its
precursor in Chaldæa) formed one of the episodes of the poem of Izdubar,
although the tablet containing it has not yet been discovered; but we
possess it on another fragment, and one which is of great value, as it
furnishes an incontestable proof of the belief of the Assyrio‐Chaldæans in
the immortality of the soul. The abode of the dead is called the
“immutable land,”(41) and corresponds to the Hades of the ancient Greek
poets. It is divided into seven circles, after the model of the celestial
spheres, and is depicted as follows by the Chaldæan poet: “Towards the
unchangeable land; the region [from whence none return]; Istar, the
daughter of Sin, her ear—has turned: the daughter of Sin [has turned] her
ear,—towards the dwelling of the dead, the throne of the god Ir
...,—towards the abode into which he has entered, and whence he has not
come forth,—towards the way of his own descent, by which none
return:—towards the dwelling whereinto he has entered, the prison,—the
place where [the dead] have naught but dust wherewith [to appease] their
hunger; and mud for nourishment:—from whence the light is not seen, and in
darkness they dwell where shades (ghosts), like birds, fill the vaulted
space,—where, above the uprights and lintel of the portal the earth is
upheaped.”(42) Allusion is also made several times to this “unchangeable
land” in other poems in the collection of Assurbanipal, as well as to
spirits who wander back to earth, and dead who return to torment the
living. In a note on the religious belief of the Assyrians Mr. Fox Talbot
publishes two prayers composed to ask for eternal life to be granted to
the king. The meaning of the first is not perfectly clear, but of the
second, which is very explicit, we give the most important passage: “After
the gift of the present days, in the festivals of the land of the silver
sky, in the shining courts, in the abode of benedictions, in the light of
the fields of felicity, may he live an eternal life, sacred in the
presence of the gods of Assyria.”(43) Also, in a hymn to the god Marduk,
are traces of a belief in the resurrection of the dead. This deity is
repeatedly called “the merciful, who restores the dead to life.”

Thus, then, the Semites believed in the immortality of the soul; but
monotheism was far from being a privilege of their race, by which it would
be possible to explain the origin of the Judaic religion without
providential intervention and regulation; and thus we see the Chaldæan
poets combat along the whole line the assertions of M. Renan respecting
their belief and genius alike. Never did facts with more pitiless emphasis
give the lie to the learned; and it seems as if the historian of the
Semetic languages had had a secret presentiment of humiliations which
would result to him from a more generally extended study of Assyriology,
when at its outset, about fifteen years ago, he attacked it with a
determination which has not been forgotten.(44)

Another historical fact which may be gathered from the Babylonian epic is
the mythological signification of the signs of the zodiac. The cuneiform
inscriptions have already shown us that not only was Asia the cradle of
the human race, but that it was also the primitive nursery of
civilization. It can no longer be doubted that it was from thence, instead
of, as has been supposed, from Egypt, that Greece herself received
indirectly her first lessons in the arts, as it was also from thence that
she received her metals. It is equally in Chaldæa that we find the origin
of astronomy and of the zodiacal signs; the nomenclature of the latter, as
it remains at the present day, differing in no essential point from that
established by the Babylonian astronomers, although its value and
signification have hitherto been very obscure. This obscurity has been
dissipated by _The Poem of Izdubar_, which shows that the ancient Assyrian
mythology bestowed on the signs their figures and their names. The myths
relating to each of the months formed the subjects of the twelve episodes
of the poem. Thus, for instance, the second narrated the capture of the
winged bull; and the second month is designated as “the month of the
propitious bull,” and has Taurus for its sign. Again, the sixth song
related the marriage of Istar with Izdubar, and began with the goddess’
message to the hero: the sixth month is called “the month of the message
of Istar,” and has for its sign the archeress, of which we have made
Virgo, the virgin, who, according to the attestation of the prism of
Assurbanipal, was the goddess Istar herself. The eleventh tablet is
consecrated to the god Bin, “the inundator—he who pours abroad the rain,”
and the sign of that month is the shedder of water, or the vase pouring it
forth. Thus crumbles away the whole chronological scaffolding raised by
the school of Dupuis, according to whom the zodiacal signs were only to be
explained as having direct relation to agricultural labors, and the phases
of the seasons to be regarded in reference to the productions of the
earth—an interpretation which made it necessary to withdraw the origin of
man to an enormously distant period of the past, in order to reach a time
in which, owing to the precession of the equinoxes, the presence of the
sun in the sign Taurus should coincide with the season of ploughing. All
these calculations were equally fanciful with those founded on the famous
zodiac of Denderah, and it is now ascertained beyond all reasonable doubt
that the zodiacal signs have a religious or rather mythological, and not
an agricultural, origin.

—The above is in great part translated from an article by M. Gregoire in
the _Revue des Questions Historiques_, for April, 1874.




New Publications.


    LIFE OF ANNE CATHARINE EMMERICH. By Helen Ram. London: Burns &
    Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)


Many of our readers must have read that part of the record of Catharine
Emmerich’s visions by Clement Brentano which has been translated into
English. Those who have been pleased and edified by them will be delighted
with this life of the holy and highly favored ecstatic virgin. It is a
charming and wonderful life, especially that portion which relates the
history of Anne Catharine’s miraculous infancy and childhood. The volume
makes one of F. Coleridge’s series, which we have frequently had occasion
to praise. We have been surprised to see in the pages of a book issued
under the supervision of so accurate and careful an editor a number of
inaccuracies in style and typographical errors.


    BRIC‐A‐BRAC SERIES—NO. 2: ANECDOTE BIOGRAPHIES OF THACKERAY AND
    DICKENS. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1874.


These recollections and anecdotes of the two favorite English writers of
fiction are very readable, and those which relate to Thackeray especially
interesting.


    THE YOUNG CATHOLIC’S ILLUSTRATED SCHOOL SERIES, comprising: The
    Young Catholic’s Illustrated Primer, Speller, First Reader, Second
    Reader, Third Reader, and Fourth Reader. New York: The Catholic
    Publication Society, 9 Warren St. 1874.


Every effort which is likely, in any way, to help on the great work of
Catholic education, has of course our entire sympathy. Humanly speaking,
the destiny of the church in the United States is to be determined by the
education which we give to our children, and the almost universal
recognition of this truth by the Catholics of America is, we are
persuaded, the most certain evidence that we have really made progress. It
is only within a comparatively recent time that we have come to fully
realize the inevitable and fatal results of allowing our children to
frequent the public schools, and to thoroughly understand that the common‐
school system of education, based, as it is, upon the implied assumption
of the untruth of positive religion, logically and in fact leads to
infidelity or to what is scarcely less an evil—religious indifference. The
church without the school‐house is incomplete, and can at best do but half
work; and we consequently find that almost all of our bishops are now
beginning to demand that every parish shall have its parochial school.

We have been at some pains to examine the returns made by the different
diocesan authorities to the publishers of the _Catholic Almanac_, and we
find that last year there were in the whole country about three hundred
and eighty thousand children attending our Catholic schools. This is
probably less than half the number of Catholic children of school age in
the United States; still, we are already doing enough to show that
Catholic primary education must be recognized as one of the institutions
of the country, and that those who have control of it should set to work
without delay to give it a thorough organization. It is well to teach our
people that the public schools are dangerous to the faith and morals of
their children; it is far better to render them useless by bringing our
own up to the standard of excellence which the more abundant means and
opportunities of the state have enabled it to give to its educational
establishments. There are, we know, many parochial schools which are in
every respect equal to those of the state; but under the present system
everything is left to the zeal and energy of the pastor. What we want is a
system which will cause every parochial school to come up to the
requirements of a prescribed standard of excellence. In a word, the
necessity of the times demands the organization of Catholic education.

Each diocese should have its school boards and its official examiners and
visitors. Annual diocesan school reports should be published, accompanied
by remarks on the defects observed in the practical management of the
schools and in the methods of teaching.

Out of these diocesan school boards and school reports in due time a
national Catholic school system would grow into vigorous life. More of
this another time; at present we are glad to take note of the greater
desire for excellence in our elementary schools, shown by the demand for
improved class‐books.

As our system of education is distinctively Catholic, it of course
requires Catholic text‐books—books composed with a special view to the
principles which underlie the Catholic theory of pedagogy.

This truth has been recognized by the bishops of the United States, who,
both in the First and Second Plenary Councils of Baltimore, made this one
of the subjects of their thought.

That The Catholic Publication Society, which has done so much to elevate
the tone of our literature, has felt authorized to begin the issue of a
complete series of such works, is undoubtedly an indication of the general
feeling among Catholics of the want of improved class‐books, especially
for our elementary schools, which are by far the most important, since
they more directly concern the welfare of the masses of our people.

Whilst we are grateful for what has been done in this matter, we cannot
shut our eyes to the many defects of most of the text‐books now in use. We
have before us the Young Catholic’s Illustrated Primer, Speller, First,
Second, Third, and Fourth Readers; and we have read and examined them with
conscientious care, and we have at the same time compared them with
similar publications of other houses, and we therefore feel competent to
speak of their merits, if not with authority, at least with knowledge.
That they should be superior to any other books of the kind is only what
we had the right both to expect and to demand, and that they are has
already been generally recognized by the Catholic press of the country.

In the choice and arrangement of the matter we discern admirable good
sense and tact; in the illustrations, which are very numerous and nearly
all original, being explanatory of the text, excellent taste; whilst in
the mechanical execution we perceive the skilful workmanship that usually
characterizes the books of The Catholic Publication Society.

The series is graded in strict accordance with scientific principles of
education, and combines all that is important in the word and phonic
methods of teaching, without, however, excluding the _a, b, c_ drill.
Books must always remain the indispensable instruments for imparting
instruction in school, and hence it is of the greatest moment that the
pupil should from the very start be attracted to them. Most children enter
school eager to learn; the craving for knowledge is a divine instinct
implanted in their hearts by the Author of their being, which they have
already in a thousand ways sought to satisfy by their fruitless efforts to
penetrate the mystery of beauty with which Nature surrounds them. When
they enter school this intellectual activity should be stimulated, not
repressed. The books first placed in their hands should be simple,
offering many attractions and few difficulties, presenting to their minds
under new forms the objects with which observation has already rendered
them familiar, and which they now first learn to associate with printed
words. These truths have been felt and acted upon by the compilers of the
“Young Catholic’s Series,” which, in simplicity, in correct gradation, in
beauty and attractiveness, far surpasses anything of the kind that has yet
been offered to the Catholic English‐speaking public.

Another truth which can never be lost sight of in Catholic education is
that religion should be the vital element of the whole process of
instruction.

“Give me a lesson in geography,” said Mr. Arnold, “and I will make it
_religious_.” This is what Catholics desire: that the light of religion
should burnish as with fine gold all human knowledge. Indeed, in primary
education religion is almost the only subject of real thought, the only
power able to touch the heart, to raise the mind, and to evoke from
brutish apathy the elements of humanity, and more especially the reason.
As religion is the widest and deepest of all the elements of civilization,
it ought to be the substratum and groundwork of all popular education.

“Popular education,” says Guizot, “to be truly good and socially useful,
must be fundamentally religious.”

In the compilation of text‐books this is precisely the point which demands
the greatest amount of good sense and the most consummate tact. Religion
must run through the whole fabric like a thread of gold. It must form the
atmosphere in which the pupil breathes; it must give coloring to
everything, and everything must in one way or another be made to prove and
explain its dogmas, and yet there must be no cant, no attempt at
preaching, no dull moralizing, and above all no stupidity.

To accomplish all this, our readers will readily believe, is not an easy
task, and yet we have no hesitation in saying that if they will take the
trouble to examine thoroughly the “Young Catholic’s Series,” they will
agree with us in the opinion that it can stand the test of even this
standard of excellence.

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

We learn that the Holy Father has sent a letter of commendation to the
writer of “Italian Confiscation Laws” in THE CATHOLIC WORLD for Oct.,
1873, and ordered a translation of the article.





THE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XX., NO. 116.—NOVEMBER, 1874.




Church Chant _Versus_ Church Music.


An interesting colloquy took place in our mind as we finished the perusal
of the paper entitled “Church Music” which appeared in the August and
September numbers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD. We transcribe it as faithfully as
our memory serves us.

SCENE—_The cloister of a Benedictine monastery. Time, Anno Domini 1000. A
number of monks rehearsing for a festival._

GREGORIUS, _the choir‐master dictating from an open Gradual_. “Listen, my
brothers all. To‐morrow is the festival of S. Polycarp the martyr and the
name‐day of our good father, the abbot. On such a joyous festival we must
not fail to make his heart right glad with our chanting. Let us begin the
Introit. (_Sings._) ‘Gaudeamus omnes in Domino, diem festum
celebrantes.’ ”

(_All the monks repeating in chorus_) “Gaudeamus omnes in Domino, diem—”

(_They are interrupted by a loud knocking at the floor leading from the
cloister. Brother Gregorius, on opening it, is confronted by an aged
stranger with a long, white, flowing beard, bearing in his hand a roll of
printed music, on which the words __“__Boston,__”__ __“__Ditson__”__ and
the date __“__1874__”__ can be discerned._)

GREGORIUS. “Salve, frater.”

AGED STRANGER. “Prof. Hubanus, at your service; and having come from a
great distance, and happily being born at a much later date, I guess you
will find my services on this eve of your joyous festival of some value,
for I am well acquainted with all the best Masses published. By the way,
is one of the brethren lately departed this life?”

GREGORIUS (_with astonishment_). “No, God be praised! Brother Augustine
yonder did leave the infirmary vacant this morning, thanks to Our Blessed
Lady, that no voice might be wanting in the choir on the morrow; but
wherefore the question, good domne Hubanus?”

HUBANUS. “Because I heard you but just now rehearsing such a sorrowful, in
fact, so lugubrious, a _morceau_—an Offertory piece, I presume, for a
Requiem Mass—that I supposed you were getting up the music for some such
occasion.”

(_The monks regard the aged stranger with no little surprise, mingled with
curiosity._)

GREGORIUS. “We must have made indeed sad work of it in our rehearsing.
Worthy Hubanus, it was the _Gaudeamus_ you heard.”

HUBANUS. “The _Gaudeamus_, eh? (_Aside._ I don’t remember seeing that in
Ditson’s catalogue. I wonder what it is. _To Gregorius._) Would you mind
repeating it once more?”

GREGORIUS. “With pleasure. Sing, my brothers.” (_They sing the whole
Introit._)

HUBANUS. “Ah! fine; quite solemn! A Gregorian chant, I perceive. A very
plaintive movement. The _finale_ has an exceedingly mournful effect. In D
minor, is it not? Still, for a Requiem Offertory I think Rossini’s _Pro
Peccatis_, or Gounod’s _Ave Maria_, or ‘Angels ever Bright and Fair,’ for
a change, would please the congregation better.”

ALL THE MONKS. “Plaintive! Our _Gaudeamus_ mournful! Calls an Introit an
Offertory _piece_! Like a Requiem Offertory indeed! An _Ave Maria_ for
that too! What does he mean by D minor? (_Blessing themselves._) Ab omni
malo, libera nos, Domine!”

HUBANUS. “Oh! beg pardon. That is an Introit, is it? Indeed! But, as I
said, I have the honor to be born at a much later date than yourselves,
and we don’t bother ourselves with singing those things in my day and
country. We bring out the finest music, however, in our choir of the
Church of S. Botolph, in the United States, that you can hear. I’m the
organist and director.”

GREGORIUS. “Not sing the Introit! Why, good domne Hubanus, our grand and
joyous festival on the morrow would be robbed of one of its chief features
if we failed to sing the _Gaudeamus_—I mean _the Gaudeamus_ that you have
just heard.”

HUBANUS. “ ‘De gustibus non est disputandum.’ Hem! excuse my indulging in
the classics; those old Latin fellows say a good deal in a few words, you
know. But you don’t seriously mean to say that such monotonous
stuff—excuse my plain speaking on your plain singing—is fit for a joyous
festival? As my friend, Dr. ——, says in his late paper on ‘Church Music,’
‘to hear Gregorian chant for a long time, and nothing else, becomes
extremely monotonous, and burdens the ear with a dull weight of sound not
always tolerable.’ He says, moreover, that ‘this is admitted by all who in
seminaries and monasteries have been most accustomed to hear it.’ ”

GREGORIUS. “Your learned friend did not seek _our_ judgment, I assure you,
and I am at a loss to know who could have made so silly an admission to
him.”

HUBANUS. “But do you not ‘resort to every device,’ as he says again, ‘to
escape its monotony on festival days, by harmonies on the chant which are
out of all keeping with it,’ and so forth?”

GREGORIUS. “_We_ do not, I trust. What little harmony we sing is in strict
keeping with the mode of the chant; and as to escaping anything, we know
the rubrics, domne Hubanus, and respect them, and, what is more, we
observe them.”

HUBANUS. “On that score I have the advantage of you; for it doesn’t
require much knowledge of what you call rubrics to bring out a Mass and
grand Vespers with us. However, this question of plain chant is settled
long ago. It ought to have been settled long before you were born. For, as
Dr. —— continues in his paper, ‘No one will deny the appropriateness and
impressiveness of plain chant on certain solemn occasions, especially
those of sorrow; but it is confessedly unequal to the task of evoking and
expressing the feelings of Christian joy and triumph.’ Ah! Brother
Gregorius, you should have been born later.”

GREGORIUS. “Then we monks, and the generations of the faithful throughout
the world, have for the past thousand years been shut out from the
feelings of Christian joy and triumph, have we? Verily, either we or you
can have known very little of one or of the other, as the observation of
your learned doctor may happen to be true or not. Did the church put a lie
into the mouths of her cantors when she bade them sing, ‘Repleatur os meum
laude tua, alleluia; ut possim cantare, alleluia; gaudebunt labia mea, dum
cantavero tibi, alleluia, alleluia’?”(45)

HUBANUS. “You are a trifle sarcastic, Brother Gregorius; but I willingly
pardon it, for I’m a plain‐spoken man myself, and call a spade a spade.
Besides, you know, you can always fall back on the ‘De gustibus’—a
quotation I often find very convenient; but I warrant me your _prima
donna_ doesn’t find much satisfaction in exhibiting her fine soprano on
your dull chant, which you must confess, with Dr. ——, ‘is of limited, very
limited, range,’ and in my opinion as poor in expression as a kettle‐
drum.”

GREGORIUS. “I crave your pardon, worthy sir. You are a stranger and quite
aged—”

HUBANUS (_interrupting_). “Eighteen hundred and seventy‐four.”

GREGORIUS (_continuing_)—“as the length and whiteness of your beard
proclaim, while we have only the experience of one thousand years, the
lessons of the church, and the _taste_ as well as the examples of the
saints to profit by; but we must confess that of a _prima donna_ we have
never yet heard.”

ALL THE MONKS (_very decidedly_). “Never!”

HUBANUS. “Never heard of a _prima donna_! Why, when _were_ you born? I
mean, of course, the chief lady soprano who sings in the choir.”

(_Here all the monks burst out laughing._)

GREGORIUS (_having got his breath_). “Come, come, my ancient stranger,
that explains all. We knew you must be ‘chaffing’ us, from the very first,
with your ‘mournful _Gaudeamus_’ and your never singing Introits or
obeying the rubrics and the rest. Ha! ha! Truly, a ‘chief lady in the
choir’—_prima donna_, I think you named such a mythical personage—was only
needed to cap the climax of your excellent joke.”

HUBANUS. “Joke! I’m not joking at all. _We_ have ladies in our
choir—(_aside_) and it’s no joke to manage them either—(_to Gregorius_)
and pay them good salaries, as you must; for without that, you know, you
never _can_ have good music.”

(_Here the laughing of the monks suddenly subsided, followed by loud and
angry whispers, of which the __ word __“__heretic__”__ was unmistakably
heard. Brother Gregorius interposed._) “Judge not too hastily, good
brothers. True, no church which oweth obedience to our Holy Father; the
Pope, and which hath a right therefore to call itself Catholic, did ever
yet permit women to sing in church choirs; but what she might have done in
this matter in the country from which this aged stranger comes—be it ever
so contrary to all the rubrics and traditions known unto us—we will the
better learn from his own lips. Women, then, good domne Hubanus, do sing
in the choir in the Catholic churches of your strange land, standing,
perchance, beside the men‐singers?”

HUBANUS. “Where else would they stand? You see we put the sopranos and
tenors on one side, and the altos and basses on the other.”

GREGORIUS (_scratching his shaven crown in great perplexity_). “We have
yet to learn many wonderful things! Canst tell me, worthy Hubanus, how
comes it? Does your learned friend, Dr. ——, speak of this matter in his
celebrated ‘paper’? Doubtless he mentions some decree of the Sacred
Congregation of Rites which hath allowed this—this (_another scratch_)
unheard‐of novelty?”

HUBANUS. “I cannot remember that he made any allusion to it. In fact, I
fancy that he would rather _not_, and I am glad he didn’t. But where’s the
use of making a fuss over it? Haven’t women got voices as well as men, and
what did the Lord give them voices for, if he did not intend them for
use?”

GREGORIUS. “In the choir?”

HUBANUS. “In the choir, or out of the choir, what’s the difference?”

GREGORIUS. “Do the rubrics allow it?”

HUBANUS. “_Ma foi!_ I do not know. (_Aside._) I hope they do, if old
fogies like you are going to stir up _that_ question. (_To Gregorius._) No
lady‐singers! If that were to happen, my occupation, as well as theirs,
would be like Othello’s—gone. For hark you, Brother Gregorius, although I
know but little of your old‐fashioned, barbarous chant—can’t read a note
of it, to tell the truth—if women‐singers are banished from the choir,
music goes with them. The music I like requires the female voice. I
wouldn’t waste my time with a parcel of boys and on such music as they can
sing.”

GREGORIUS. “What music is this of which you speak so often? Hath the
church adopted a new style of melody which is not chant?”

HUBANUS. “No, not adopted precisely, but there is a new music—everybody
knows it—written by Mozart, Haydn, Mercadante, Peters, and several others,
which organists and choirs make use of in our day. Some prefer one, some
another, according to taste. ‘De gustibus,’ you know.”

GREGORIUS. “Yet tell me—for here the strangeness of your news almost
surpasses belief—how _dare_ the organists and choirs make use of _any_
melody in accompanying the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass and absolving the
Divine Office which has not been adopted, or at least distinctly
sanctioned, by holy church, to whom it appertains to dispose the ordering
even of the most minute rubric in these important matters concerning the
due praise of God and the sure edification of the people?”

HUBANUS. “All I can say is, we do it. It is tolerated in some places, and
my friend in his paper quotes some ‘Instructions’ which the cardinal vicar
in Rome issued to his own clergy to prove the toleration; but, to my
thinking, they sound very much like the careful mother’s permission to her
boy who asked leave to learn to swim—‘Certainly, my child, but don’t you
never go near the water, leastways any water that is over your ankles.’ ”

GREGORIUS. “I think I understand, for I have heard our good father, the
abbot, say that ‘he who would be well carried must not drive with too
stiff a rein’; and my holy novice‐master, Father Ambrose—to whose soul may
God grant rest!—did oft chide my hasty judgment upon my fellow‐novices,
saying in his sweet way, and after the manner of his wise speech, ‘Thou
wouldst _re_form monks, good Brother Gregorius, before they are formed.
All they need is a little _instruction_.’ At present every one is well
pleased with your music?”

HUBANUS. “Oh! that is quite another question. Dr. —— himself does not seem
to think so, for he says in his paper: ‘In consequence of the failure of
modern composers to meet the requirements of Catholic devotion, though
their music has been introduced into our churches and given every chance
of trial, complaints against it are heard on every side. We grumble about
it in our conversations; we write against its excesses in the public
journals; bishops complain of it in pastoral letters; provincial councils
are forced to issue decrees about it; the Sovereign Pontiffs themselves
not unfrequently raise their voices, sometimes in warning, sometimes in
threats—in a word, the _evil_ seems to have attracted a good deal of
attention.’ ”

ALL THE MONKS. “Ab omni malo, libera nos, Domine!”

GREGORIUS. “His account of your _music_—which you seem, nevertheless, to
prize so much more highly than our dear holy _chant_, which hath the
undoubted sanction of the church—gives pretty plain evidence that the
church hath not adopted it in any wise. It rather suggests the thought
that she would gladly be rid of it altogether, abstaining, however, like
Father Ambrose, from reforming musicians before they are formed, and
resolving, as he did often pleasantly say, to my comfort, ‘Thou shalt see,
Brother Gregorius, that I shall _make no change in our holy Rule_.’ ”

HUBANUS. “One would think you were born later, after all; for it would
appear that our Holy Father, Pius the Ninth—pity you haven’t lived to know
him, Brother Gregorius, for he is the dearest pope that has ruled the
church since the days of S. Peter—is in the van among the leaders of the
‘Gregorian movement,’ since a little while ago he made a decree that the
Gregorian chant should be taught in all the ecclesiastical schools of the
states of the church, _to the exclusion of every other kind of
music_—‘Cantus Gregorianus, omni alio rejecto, tradetur.’ You see he
wishes to get the Roman priests educated up to it—Rome rules the world—and
the thing is done. ‘Othello’s occupation is gone!’ But how in the world we
shall ever get up a Christmas or an Easter Mass that is fit to listen to
when that day comes is more than I can tell.”

GREGORIUS. “Despair not, good Hubanus. Remain with us past the morrow, and
thou shalt hear a holy Mass and solemn Vespers which will warm the cockles
of thy heart, chanted in strains of melody that belie neither the
sentences of joyful praise which are uttered nor the exultation which doth
lift the hearts of the brethren to heaven, and fill the festival hours
with a divine gladness. (_To the monks._) Brothers, let us rehearse the
_Gloria in Excelsis_.”

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

As the curtains of our memory dropped upon the scene we have just been
present at, our eyes caught sight again of the sentence quoted by Prof.
Hubanus: “In consequence of the failure of modern composers to meet the
requirements of Catholic devotion”—which _failure_ is so utter that, in
the judgment of the same writer, he “thinks it no exaggeration to say
that, if all their compositions, except a very few, were burned, or should
otherwise perish, the church would suffer no loss.”

But what of the figured musical compositions of those musicians who may in
our time be honored with the title of “ancient,” such as Palestrina and
his imitators? The music of this style forms, we are told, the staple of
what is commonly heard in S. Peter’s. The writer of the article we allude
to evidently believes any attempt to make such music popular would be no
less a failure. The intricacy of the style, the exceeding difficulties
attendant upon its artistic execution, and its restricted vocal character,
are “fatal” objections.

We fully agree with him. In our former articles on this subject (THE
CATHOLIC WORLD, December, 1869, and February and March, 1870) we not only
pronounced modern figured music to be in practice a failure as _church_
music, but intended also to be understood as asserting that the cause of
this failure lay chiefly in the melodious form of such music—the necessary
result of a tonality essentially sensuous, which renders it, despite every
effort of the artist, intrinsically unsuitable for the expression of the
“prayer of the church.” That there is _prayerful_ music we do not deny,
but it will never obtain any more positive sanction from the church than
she gives to the hundred and one sentimental “prayers” and turgid
“litanies” which fill the pages of our “largest books of devotion” _ad
nauseam_, and are equally supposed by the uneducated Catholic and the
ignorant Protestant to be the masterpieces of Catholic musical and
liturgical art.

We did not think it necessary, writing as we did for a special class of
readers, to explain the distinguishing characteristics of the church’s
“prayer,” being, as our learned friend says, fourfold—latreutic,
impetratory, propitiatory, and eucharistic. To us the church was not
wanting in wisdom in the adoption alone of plain chant to express her
divine prayer, whether it happen to be latreutic, impetratory,
propitiatory, or eucharistic. She never made any distinction that we know
of. But our learned friend, while he cannot help but admit that for the
purposes of adoration, propitiation, and supplication it is not only all
that could be desired, but is also better than any other melody, denies,
with an _ipse dixit_, its capability of expressing praise and
thanksgiving. Argument does not seem to be worth seeking. “Plain chant,”
he says, “is confessedly unequal to the task of evoking and expressing the
feelings of Christian joy and triumph.” And again: “It certainly must
borrow from figured music the triumphant strains of praise and
thanksgiving.”

Neither one nor the other. We confess to nothing of the kind. And
although, by the rule of argumentation, we are not called upon to prove a
negative, we refer to the response good Brother Gregorius has already
made, and would furthermore ask if the _Te Deum_, the _Exultet_, the
_Preface_ for Easter Sunday, the _Alleluia_ of Holy Saturday, or the
_Lauda Sion_, are confessedly unequal to the task assigned them?

As far as the question has any practical importance, we feel that not
another word need be said. Plain chant is in lawful possession, and cannot
be ousted by personal caprice or taste, nor by gratuitous assumptions of
its inability to answer the end proposed by the wise authority of the
church; still less by a proposed substitution of a system which, after
three centuries of vain efforts to supplant the rightful possessor, is
declared, even by its own friends, to be “a failure,” and the majority of
its painfully‐produced works fit only to be consigned to the flames.

We have, however, a question of more merit to discuss. If modern music has
failed to meet the requirements of Catholic devotion, it will be not a
little interesting to examine into the true cause of this failure. It will
be found to lie in its melodic form (not in the use of harmony), which
came into being with the introduction of the chord of the diminished
seventh and the substitution of the instrumental, factitious scales called
major and minor for the four natural vocal, authentic scales and their
four correlative plagal scales. Like seeks like, and as this chord of the
seventh was an inspiration of sentimental, languishing, passional feeling,
the new music sought its language in poetry, and chiefly in lyric poetry,
in which every sort of human passion finds smooth expression; and as this
latter is divided into regular feet, with recurring emphasis and cadence,
music soon found itself set to time. Its melody became measured. Pegasus
found himself in harness. To express the sublime, the heroic, was only
possible now by knocking down the bars, putting it all _ad libitum_, and
calling the phrase _recitative_; and as the passage from the sublime to
the ridiculous is proverbially short, the composition of many of these
recitatives, in their leaping intervals and startling contrasts, vividly
remind one of Pegasus let loose to scamper and roll unbridled in the open
fields.

The invention and perfection of musical instruments are coincident with
the rise and progress of the system of melody known as “modern music,” the
organ and piano holding the mastery. To these are due, in great measure,
the universal cultivation of the modern tonality, and the consequent loss
of appreciation of the tonality of the ecclesiastical modes. It is heard
in the lullaby at the cradle’s side, whistled by boys in the streets, sung
by children in popular melodies and hymns at school, confirmed by all the
concerts given by orchestras in halls, theatres, and public meetings;
every young lady strums it forth from her piano, every organist modulates
it in church, while all bells, from thousands upon thousands of churches,
jangle it forth from one end of Christendom to the other. That the church
has been able to withstand the pressure of all this, and still dares to
command her priests to chant “per omnia sæcula sæculorum” to her own
ancient mode, is, even in that simple and significant sentence, a proof of
her divine strength to resist the most alluring seductions and powerful
onslaughts of the world, and a note of calm defiance to its “fashion which
passeth away.”

We are now prepared to enter into a critical examination of the essential
character of music as distinguished from plain chant. In the first place,
we find, as we have already noted, that it is measured in its melody—that
is, it is written, as it is said, in _time_; and, as a consequence of its
lyrical movement, it became equally subjected to certain laws of
versification and of phraseology corresponding to the stanza. When
musicians began to write for the language of the church, and to set the
sublime prose of her _Gloria in Excelsis_, _Credo_, etc., to its form of
melody, this supposed necessity of making musical stanzas compelled the
application of what is known in music as the theme, on which certain
fanciful variations were built, shorter or longer, as the musician deemed
necessary to complete his “work,” altogether forming a sort of Procrustean
bed, on which the sacred words of the Liturgy were either dismembered or
stretched by repetition in order to make them fit the melody. To make the
“work” fit the words was not to be thought of; whence we judge it well for
the peace of Mr. Richardson that Mozart and Haydn have departed this life.
We remember, when a boy, long before we had made more than a child’s
acquaintance with the modern “Masses,” squeezing the _Kyrie Eleison_ after
this fashion on the framework of one of De Beriot’s celebrated airs for
violin and piano, and gave ourselves as much credit for the originality of
the “adaptation” as we are willing to give to the man who first of all (to
the misfortune of true church chant) tried to compose a musical theme for
the same words of prayer. We refer our readers to the late paper on
“Church Music” in the August and September numbers of this magazine, and
to the translation of the _Gloria in Excelsis_ of Mozart’s Twelfth Mass,
as given in one of our former articles, as proofs of the perfectly
outrageous extent to which this “adaptation” has already been carried.

Now, we affirm, as a principle, that the expression of the “Prayer of
sacrifice and of praise,” as we may term the Holy Mass and the recitation
of the Divine Office, should be consonant with, and conformed to, the
manner in which the church directs the celebration of the acts of the
same. The celebrant and his ministers, the acolytes and the chorus, do not
march, halt, turn about, or otherwise conduct themselves like soldiers or
like puppets on wires, neither do they hop and glide and go through set
figures like dancers. Melody in measure is therefore wholly unsuited to
the character and spirit of the acts of the performers.

In connection with the acts of Catholic worship, melody in measure is
therefore incongruous, unmeaning, and absurd. For, to put the question
plainly, if neither celebrant, ministers, chorus, nor people are to
march—to do which, even in her sacred processions, would be shocking and
profane—why sing a march? If they are not to waltz, why sing one? If the
church does not want to


    “Make the soul dance a jig to heaven,”


then, in the name of common sense, why shall Master Haydn be permitted to
offer the church singers a musical jig? The truth of the matter is that
such measured movements, added to the gymnastic feats of melody which
characterize the phrasing of the greater number of modern “Masses,” are
ignorantly supposed to faithfully express that Christian joy and triumph
which plain chant is quite as ignorantly supposed to be unable to inspire.

Let any one examine the church’s chant, and especially its movement, and
he will not fail to be struck with its remarkable consonance with, and the
sense of exact propriety of, its accompaniment to the movements and
demeanor of the sacred ministers and of all who are appointed to assist
them in carrying out the sacred functions of divine worship. How majestic
and dignified, how modest and devout, are its measures! A sort of
continuous procession of sound, resembling now the deep murmurings of the
waves of the ocean, now the gentle breathings of the wind, now the
prolonged echoes of distant thunder, now the soft whispering of the woods
in summer! Always grave and decorous in its phrasing. Never indulging in
trivial antics or in meretricious languishing and voluptuous undulations.
Time and arithmetical measures do not straiten and confine its heavenly
inspirations, for the thoughts of the soul, and chiefly the thoughts of
prayer, do not move like clockwork. One does not adore five minutes,
propitiate two minutes, supplicate half a minute, and give thanks ten
seconds; and to do either in 2/4 3/4 or 6/8 time would be the height of
the ridiculous. A friend tells us that the only time he ever had to do
either at High Mass was during the performance of that part of the score
called “_point d’orgue_.” Is it any wonder that music for the church is a
failure, and that plain chant still holds its own?

_Secondly._ The melody of modern music is essentially mechanical. Formed
as it has been upon improved instrumentation, it is neither more nor less
than a musical performance. The melody is therefore the chief thing; the
words and their expression are only secondary. From which, as a necessary
result—if the music be worth listening to—the most accomplished vocalists
that the pecuniary resources of the church can procure are called in to
render the selections. Hence, also, the introduction of women into the
choir, contrary to the laws and traditions of the church, the banishment
of the chorus from the sanctuary, and the erection of the detestable
Protestant singing‐gallery over the doorway of the church. This latter
flagrant innovation on the proper rubrical disposition of the choir has
been lately specially condemned in the “Instructions” of the cardinal
vicar at Rome. No one surely will have the hardihood to call modern music
an “ecclesiastical song,” as it should be called or it has no place in the
church. It is the song of professional singers, distinctly a mechanical
performance, and open, without the possibility of reform, to the most
shocking abuses. What organist cannot recall instances in which the male
and female singers carried on and perfected their courtship in the choir,
and where in the same holy (?) place eating and drinking were indulged in
during the sermon, and the daily newspapers read? The drinking of water or
the chewing of tobacco—well, we would like to see the priest who has been
able to banish either from his singing‐gallery. These and other numerous
irregularities we think ourselves fully justified in adducing as argument
in this connection, simply _because they exist_, are _common_,
_notorious_, and are a tolerated incumbrance with the mechanism; and, if
effectually banished, would leave the said mechanism subject to no little
friction and the production of tones of complaint which, whether they
proceed from unoiled hinges or choirs, are not agreeable, considered as
music.

Compare, again, the character and movement of those upon whom the
ceremonies devolve. They are not at all mechanical, but strictly personal.
In the first place, the actors are of a restricted class. They must be
either men or boys. Women and girls are not permitted to celebrate or
serve in any capacity at the sacred functions. The services of a graceful
and intelligent acolyte are exceedingly pleasant and edifying to behold,
but the stupidest and most awkward, blundering and unkempt boy would be
preferable, and must be preferred, before any number of the brightest,
most beautiful and quick‐witted girls, because he alone possesses the one
personal qualification requisite for that office—he is of the male sex.
Intelligence, beauty, and graceful manners are not employed by the church
for their own sake.

Again, the celebrant must be a priest, the deacon must have received
deacon’s orders, and all others who, although laymen, may, as acolytes and
choristers, aid the consecrated personages in their duties, are invested
with a quasi‐ecclesiastical character while in office. No one should ever
dream of engaging the services of Jews, Protestants, or infidels, or even
of Catholics whose lives were notoriously bad, or who scandalously
neglected receiving the sacraments, as our “gallery‐choirs” are
constituted in many a church in this country.

In the event of the priest not been able to sing, through any infirmity,
no layman of the congregation could take his place, although he were the
finest singer in the world, the very prince of _cæremoniarii_, and a
greater saint than S. Peter himself.

From which considerations it will readily be seen how unsuited music is
for the use of such persons acting in such a capacity.

Practically, music is the song of women. We shall show further on that it
is essentially effeminate. There is music which men and boys can perform,
it is true, but it is not the genuine article. The want of the female
voice for the soprano is always felt; and in some countries where women
are not yet admitted as church singers, and “church music” is highly
prized, this want is supplied by _castrati_. It is not the song of
ecclesiastics. That the use of it is _tolerated_, we know; that the
singing of women and _castrati_ in church is also tolerated, we know; but
the “Instructions” (we guarantee that nineteen out of twenty would agree
with us in saying that “Restrictions” would be their better title) of the
cardinal vicar on “church music,” referred to by the writer of the late
articles on that subject in THE CATHOLIC WORLD, remind us of the probable
“instructions” that would be given if the abuse of female acolytes were to
creep in to any great extent. We would find, without doubt, prohibitions
against the wearing of the hair in curls, or _frisée_, or _à la_
Pompadour, short sleeves, low necks, and crinoline. They would be
instructed also, without doubt, to wear a plain black cassock and linen
surplice, be shod like men, and let not their courtesies savor of the
_débût_ of actresses upon the stage of a theatre. If these instructions
would be faithfully observed _ex animo_, and boys were not extinct as a
sex in the congregation, we do not think they would very long have any
practical application.

Contrast now the character of plain chant with music as a suitable song
for the duly‐qualified church singers, from the priest down to the
humblest cantor. That it is the only song fit for the consecrated priest
needs no argument. Thank God, there is no “toleration” of “priests’
music,” “sacerdotal solos,” “Prefaces,” and “Pater Nosters,” _à la_
Mozart, Haydn, Cherubini, or Peters! It is distinguished especially by
that gravity of movement, that _modestie ecclesiastique_, in its
intonation, which becomes the sacerdotal character. Any other melody from
the mouth of a priest at the altar would scandalize not only the least
ones of the brethren of Christ, but the greatest also; and however
terrible the “woe” our Lord would pronounce upon those who might
scandalize the latter, we are not left in ignorance of what is reserved
for those who fall under his judgment for scandalizing the former. Any one
who has had the good fortune of assisting at a Mass chanted by a properly
vested chorus, in strict Gregorian melody, with organ accompaniment, if
you will—that is, nothing more than an accompaniment, as the cardinal
vicar desires—will assuredly bear testimony that it was not a musical
performance—that is, a melodious concert performed for its own sake in any
degree—but a religious performance, a chant of priests and the “likes of
them,” suggesting nothing of this world’s vanities or luxury, and as
unlike modern music and its mechanism as the melodious whisperings of an
æolian harp are unlike a hand‐organ with monkey _obbligato_.

What is, to say the least, astonishing, if not lamentable, is to see so
many priests devoted with ardor to the study of music, and so many more
sanctioning and furthering its inroads upon the domain which it behooves
them to cultivate, whilst remaining wholly ignorant of the chant, and
unable to intone the _Gloria in Excelsis_ or to sing a Collect or Gospel
without blundering at every inflection. We see no impropriety in pressing
these facts home upon those who are bound by the laws of their profession
to interest themselves in the claims which Gregorian chant makes upon
them, in order that they may decently perform the sacred functions
committed to their care—how sacred one single reflection will show. For
what is the song of the priest? It is not a private performance of his
own, but rather an inspired expression of the mind of the church, herself
the divine voice of God. When she prays and sings, she prays a divine
prayer, and sings a divine song. God prays and sings within the walls of
the church, the New Jerusalem, which has come down like a bride out of
heaven upon the earth. True, it is the priest who prays and sings; but let
him not forget that there is a Voice of supplication which ascends to the
throne of the Almighty and Eternal Majesty that is not his, and a song
which sounds sweetly in the ears of the Divine Mercy, and celebrates the
praises of the Most High, whose melody is not the inspiration of his soul.

The Divine, Incarnate Victim of Calvary is the Suppliant, and the Son of
David and of Mary is the Singer. And we are told—do our senses not deceive
us?—that his song is become extremely monotonous, and burdens the ear with
a weight of sound not always tolerable! No, we will not allow in excuse
that this sneer of disdain and expression of contempt is only for the
chorus, and is not meant for the consecrated priest. There is a divine
unity and faultless harmony in the “prayer” of Jesus Christ as the church
utters it. It is the seamless garment which clothes his mystic body; who
shall dare to rend it?

What master‐mind conceived and executed the magnificent and inimitable
spectacle which that prayer presents in a solemn Mass and Vespers to the
minds and hearts of devout worshippers? What cunning artificer devised the
harmony of a composition so complete? Who breathed into all those prayers
and anthems, hymns and psalms, Epistles and Gospels from Holy Writ, that
spirit of devotion and piety, and informed them with those lessons of the
purest morality and professions of the universal faith of Christendom?
What more than angelic Artist knew how to dye the martyr’s chasuble in
blood, and transfer the spotless purity of the lily to the stole of the
confessor and the virgin; to weave the robes of penance with the violet’s
mournful hue, and paint the verdure of the grass upon the ferial vesture?
Who is that heavenly Musician whose soul gave birth to that sweet,
intellectual, majestic melody espoused so happily to those chosen words of
devout contemplation, of lofty praise, of innocent joy, of dolorous
compassion, and of sanctified sorrow? We must look to other sources than
mere human science or artistic skill for a solution of these questions.
The mind and hand of a _divine_ Artist must be in that work whose unity
and harmony the hand of man will not sooner or later disfigure, mutilate,
reject, or destroy. That artist is the Holy Ghost, who is the Lord and
Life‐giver of the church, in whom the mystic life of Jesus Christ is
perpetuated by the like ineffable overshadowing which wrought his
conception in the womb of the Immaculate Virgin—that Spirit of wisdom,
from whom come all those inspirations of genius whose matchless
productions and marvellous power are the wonder of the world, the envy of
the flesh, and the hate of the devil.

But, no; we must believe that the divine Artist has failed, “confessedly”
failed, in this one of his masterpieces. Its noblest, highest purpose
found no adequate expression. Jesus Christ has been unable to manifest the
joy and triumph of his Sacred Heart, the sublimest purpose of his
eucharistic life, and his song is fit only to be chanted as a wail over
the dead or as groans of penance in sackcloth and ashes!

Do you believe it? We don’t.

To Be Concluded Next Month.




A Vision.


A vision of our Mary, heavenly Queen,
    Appeared to me in silence of the night.
    Around her flowed a stream of golden light
In which she stood with sweet, celestial mien
And beauty but before by angels seen.
    With rapture I beheld the blessèd sight,
    That beamed upon me ravishingly bright;
And while entranced, methought her eyes serene
    Did rest upon me, and a holy spell
My being thrilled with ecstasy unknown;
    But darkness soon upon my senses fell,
Though not before the bliss and joy were shown
    That those enjoy who with her ever dwell
In life eternal round the holy throne.




On The Wing. A Southern Flight. VII. Concluded.


“I wish you and Mary would go down to the Vernons, Jane,” said Frank,
coming into our room one morning about three weeks after my engagement
with Don Emidio. “I did not see Ida; but Elizabeth tells me she is not
well, and I believe it all arises from the annoyances to which they have
been exposed through the conduct of the Casinelli. It has grown into a
complete persecution, for people never forgive those they have injured.”

“What are they doing now to vex Ida?” asked Mary.

“I do not understand all the _pros_ and _cons_ of the matter; but I found
Elizabeth rather anxious about Ida, and she could not leave her to walk
with me, as she had promised last night.”

That, of course, was a very serious affair, and one which demanded
immediate rectification, at least in Frank’s opinion—as any similar event
would have done in the estimation of the other gentleman who so often
formed one of our small circle; for I had long since found out that I was
not to be allowed the privilege of a headache, or any other excuse for
solitude, without a rigorous investigation of the merits of the case being
set on foot by Don Emidio.

Of course Mary and I lost no time in going to Villa Casinelli. We took the
path that had been cleared through the vineyard, on purpose to save Mary
the fatigue of the longer way by the road. The _vigneroli_ had taken great
pains to make this little approach for the “padre’s friends,” as we were
always called; and they had thrown a plank with a fragile hand‐rail across
the little, rocky stream where they washed the clothes, and which stream
formed the boundary between the property of the Casinelli and that of
their neighbors. For a short walk it was nevertheless rather a fatiguing
one; for it was up and down all the way, and included one or two short
flights of stone steps.

In the early spring the yellow oxalis had covered the ground like a carpet
embroidered in gold and green. Now the beans had taken the place of the
gayer blossoms, and filled the air with their sweet perfume.

The donkey that took the cart full of clean linen twice a week to Naples
had his _al fresco_ stable beneath the shade of a venerable fig‐tree close
by—a blessing promised to his betters in Biblical times, and one which I
am sure he too merited in his degree, and I have no doubt considered the
fig‐tree as his own. Being noisy and loquacious, like all other two or
four legged creatures in Naples, he always greeted us with a loud bray
when we passed by.

I do not believe any donkey was ever so fond of expressing his opinions as
that particular animal. I had for some time tried to discover whether his
utterances predicted rain, according to the general belief that asses bray
when it is going to be wet. But not a cloud could be seen, and no rain
fell for weeks; and certainly this particular ass was by no means
barometrical in his utterances.

I sometimes had my fears that, as formerly it had been Paolino’s duty to
feed the poor beast, and that now the lad was in our service, perhaps the
fodder was sometimes forgotten by his young master’s younger sisters, and
that the loud, inharmonious greeting he gave us was meant as a perpetual
protest against the injustice of which we were indirectly the cause.

We found Ida suffering from nervous reaction occasioned by the effort to
appear cheerful and composed under the various annoyances, and by the
feeling that a good work had been put an end to by the malice of designing
people. In addition to which, her mother was exposed to a variety of
irritating insults which it was hard for her daughters to bear in
patience. Mrs. Vernon was exceedingly fond of flowers, and thoroughly
understood the cultivation of a garden. She had taken great pains with the
very small enclosure which was allotted to their apartment, and from it
the altar and their own rooms had been supplied in abundance. But now, no
matter how early in the morning she visited her garden, the Casinelli’s
gardener had always the advantage of her, and had picked not only the best
flowers, but even the strawberries, which she had been watching with the
kind intention of giving them to us. He plainly told her one day, when he
met her as he came out of her garden with a basketful of her flowers on
his arm, that he had gathered them by his mistress’ special desire. These
things were trifles in themselves; but they were a severe trial when they
came to be repeated day by day, in one form or another of petty insult and
daring impertinence, and generally directed either against Padre Cataldo,
who could not revenge his own cause, or against an aged lady in the
enjoyment of her few pleasures, or, lastly, in attacking the moral
character of the servants, and trying to spread about unfounded
accusations. Ida’s strong sense of justice, which amounted to a passion,
and which made it intolerable to her to see the weak “put upon,” had
worked her up into a state of nerves injurious to her health. Mary and I
spent the day with the Vernons, trying to divert their thoughts, and
preaching that patience which we were far from feeling ourselves.

About the time that these troublesome events were occurring we made an
excursion to the Carthusian church and monastery of San Martino, which
stands on the same summit as the Castle of St. Elmo, a little in front of
it, and facing the bay. It commands a glorious view of the city and all
the surrounding country; and the delight of visiting so beautiful a place
tempered my indignation at the robbery of the government in depriving the
monks of their home. Few things of the kind can be more beautiful than the
church, where formerly no woman entered. The walls, floor, and roof are
entirely composed of marbles of many colors. The altar‐rails, or rather
the low screen which cuts off the sanctuary—for rails there are none—is
sculptured _à jour_ in white marble, and looks like some exquisite lace‐
work. The choir behind the altar has also a marble screen of the same
wonderful open work. There are pictures by Spagnoletto of Moses and Elias
and the prophets. Nothing could be more appropriate to the austere life of
a Carthusian monk than that the chapel of his monastery should be
decorated by such an artist as Spagnoletto. Nor is the choice of subjects
less appropriate. Strength and depth of coloring; the expression of
masculine force in all the forms; bold outlines, deep shadows, and strong
lights, seem all in harmony with the condition of mind likely to be
eliminated by a life of silence and real, though not apparent, solitude;
for the monks, though many, dwelt alone in separate cells. It was a life
which called to mind the stern grandeur of Old Testament prophecies and
the ascetic life of the Old Testament prophets; while the richness of the
decoration; the elaborate carving—not in a friable material, such as wood,
but in enduring marble; the extraordinarily lavish use of precious stones;
the minuteness of detail, combined with the unity of plan, are just the
characteristics that we should expect to grow out of the leisure of
perpetual silence, and the digging deep down into the mines of thought
consequent on all but unbroken solitude. It was impossible not to be
struck with the whole as the outward growth of the peculiar inner life of
the remarkable order to which it had once belonged; and one marvels to
find that the extraordinary degree and nature of the beauty it possesses
had not addressed itself to the common sense of even a godless government
as a plea for its continued existence in the hands of those for whom it
had been reared. It should also be remembered that connected with this
life of leisurely meditation there were great opportunities for deep and
continued study; for the Carthusians are a learned order.

I may perhaps be fanciful in thus tracing the character of the edifice to
the tendencies of the order, for it must be owned that the present
building dates no further back than the middle of the XVIIth century, and
that S. Bruno, the founder of the order, probably never foresaw so
magnificent an abode for his silent disciples. But those who have observed
how, unless thwarted by unfavorable circumstances, every religious order
in the church stamps its character upon all that pertains to it, will feel
that there must have existed a synthesis between the inhabitants of San
Martino and the place itself, and that the white‐robed Carthusians were in
the very home which was specially appropriate to them, and in all ways
suited their devotional and intellectual tendencies. And in proof of the
above reflections it is well to remark that the beautiful pavement of the
church was designed by a Carthusian. We had of course been acquainted with
many of the valuable paintings in the monastery, so far as engravings
could make us so, and thus we hailed the Deposition from the Cross, by
Spagnoletto, which is in the sacristy, as an old friend, also the Baptism
of our Lord, by Carlo Maratta, and many of Vaccaro’s and Cesari’s
paintings. The sacristy and the chapter‐house are equally full of valuable
pictures. It is impossible to exaggerate what must ever be the refining
and elevating influence of such treasures of art, and such harmony and
beauty, combined with a religious vocation of the highest order,
heightened by the practice of silence and fostered by solitude.

The cloister breathes the very spirit of peace. The white‐marble Doric
columns gleam in the sunshine, and cut the tessellated pavement with the
black shadows of their shafts, carrying them up the white wall with the
arches of intense light between. I can imagine the monks learning to know
the exact hour of the day by the fall of those shadows without needing to
consult the old clock, also with a glaring white face, which is just below
the little belfry with its two bells, one large, one small, that the deep‐
toned toll of one or the sharp, quick tinkle of the other might denote the
various offices and duties to which they summoned the inmates. The
cloister court is laid out with formal box‐hedges enclosing little plots
of garden ground, and one garden more precious than the others,
_Gottesacker_,(46) where are sown the mortal remains of the departed
brethren, awaiting in the midst of their survivors and successors the day‐
dawn of immortality. There is an iron cross in the centre on a twisted
white‐marble pilaster. And the oblong square of this interesting cemetery
is surrounded by a white‐marble balustrade, with skulls carved at
intervals. In the centre of the court is a marble well of singularly
graceful proportions. Around it is a pavement of bricks symmetrically
arranged, but now with the blades of grass and tiny weeds intruding their
innocent familiarity where they have no right. Statues of saints, vases
and balls alternating, run along the entablature of the cloister. We
longed for a vision of the old, white‐robed inhabitants of this white
marble dwelling; and for once I felt not the lack of color, but, on the
contrary, perceived a harmony in the white and subdued gray tints,
relieved only by the blue sky and green grass. But when we looked out from
the _loggia_ on the wide view beneath us, it was not color that was
wanting. There lay Naples, with its motley buildings, backed by purple
Vesuvius, and the rose‐colored cliffs of Sorrento beyond. Nature had used
all the pigments of her pallet when she painted that lovely scene.

We paid another visit to a suppressed monastery—that of the
Camaldoli—before leaving Naples. There is nothing very remarkable in the
building itself or in the chapel. But the view is at once one of the most
beautiful and the most singular I have ever beheld. We had above an hour’s
ride on donkey‐back to get there; the carriage taking us no further than
the picturesque village of Antignano. The lane up which we wound amid
young chestnut‐trees, the remains of what was once a magnificent forest,
was at that time in all the verdant beauty of early spring. It was a
glorious day, and I ought to have enjoyed the ride. But, in the first
place, I have a feeling amounting to animosity against a donkey the moment
I have the misfortune to find myself on his back. I rather like him than
otherwise when cropping thistles by the roadside or in a huckster’s cart.
I appreciate his patient nature and long‐enduring powers when they are
unconnected with myself. But from the moment I find myself condemned to be
carried by him—that I feel his horrid little jogging pace under me, and
his utterly insensible mouth within the influence, or I should rather say
_not_ within the influence, of my reins—a feeling of antipathy to the
beast seizes me, and is rendered all the more painful to me that his
resignation and the long history of his habitual ill‐usage fill me with an
emotion of compassion painfully at variance with my intense dislike of him
in the character of a steed.

I do not think I ever suffered more in this way than during our ride to
the Camaldoli. I was escorted by a half‐drunken donkey‐boy, of the most
brutal disposition towards the unfortunate animal, whom I at once hated
and pitied. I was furious at the way he behaved to my donkey; while he,
not supposing I knew enough Italian to understand his abominable _patois_,
kept turning all my complaints and reproaches into ridicule to the other
donkey men or boys accompanying him. I would gladly have taken the stick
out of his hands with which he belabored my poor donkey. Indeed, at last I
succeeded in doing so; but nothing short of having Emidio with me to apply
the stick to the boy instead of the other animal would have sufficed to
soothe my irritation. Unfortunately, my future protector, who I felt
certain would punch any head I might wish submitted to that process, had
been called away to Rome on business.

The lane was very narrow, and, even had it been as wide as Piccadilly or
Broad Street, no doubt our donkeys would equally have considered
themselves bound to go in single file. Consequently we were not always
within reach of each other for any mutual assistance; and Frank, whom I
longed to call to my aid, was altogether absorbed in taking care of Mrs.
Vernon, to whom this donkey‐climbing of a steep mountain‐path amounted to
a perilous adventure.

Not many days after, we heard that two or three foreign gentlemen, making
the same ascent as ourselves, had been attacked and robbed by these most
obnoxious donkey‐men. I am afraid the observance of law and the moral
condition generally of little, out‐of‐the‐way villages like Antignano, in
the vicinity of Naples, is as bad as it well can be at the present time.

When we reached the summit, on which stands the monastery, we went at once
to the ridge of the hill to see the view; and I have seldom been more
struck by anything of the kind. Naples lay before us, about fifteen
hundred feet below; but what was so unexpected was the aspect of Mount
Vesuvius, right in front of us, and that of the Monte Somma and a series
of other mountainous heights of volcanic origin; and far away to the
Apennines, with the wide plains and cities lying in the bright sunshine,
Caserta, Capua, and all the Campania Felix. On the spot where we stood a
line straight from the eye would have hit about one‐third of the height of
Mount Vesuvius. To the right we could see all the range of mountains to
Salerno and Amalfi. On the other side were Pozzuoli, Nisita, Ischia, and
Baiæ. I will not multiply names, nor will I heap up epithets in the
attempt to describe what words cannot tell. In short, I forgot all I had
said in favor of the position formerly occupied by the Carthusians at San
Martino in my enthusiasm for the superior view once enjoyed by the
Camaldoli; and had the question been open to me, I believe my vocation to
the latter order would have been decided on the spot.

My donkey‐boy had sobered down by the time I had again to trust myself and
my steed to his tender mercies, and nothing occurred to mar the enjoyment
of our long but interesting excursion. It must, however, have been a far
more beautiful place before the present government of Italy, by permitting
the wholesale destruction of the magnificent trees which formerly clothed
the mountain’s sides, had done so much to impair the climate as well as to
destroy the beauty of the country. It is a fact in natural history that
trees emit warmth in winter as they produce coolness in summer; and
consequently that in a latitude like that of Italy they are specially
beneficial, as tending to equalize the temperature. It is notorious that
the climate of Italy has become hotter in the summer, while it is colder
in the winter than was the case formerly. The country has also been
subject to terrible ravages from mountain torrents, the downward course of
which was formerly intercepted by the grand old trees of immense forests.
Their impetuosity was broken and their waters partially absorbed. Now they
tear down the barren sides of the mountains unchecked, and devastate the
plains below, to the ruin of the crops and consequent impoverishment of
the country. It is the short‐sighted custom of the government to let whole
tracts of mountainous forest‐lands, leaving the lessee the liberty of
cutting down as it may seem good to him; and generally he is a greedy man,
in a hurry to make a fortune before the present _régime_ shall have come
to an end, as it must do some day.

I must not leave my readers to suppose that all our excursions and daily
drives were on the grandly æsthetic plan of those I have described. We
were not always mythological, classical, or even early‐Christian in our
researches, our walks or drives. We went shopping about the streets of
Naples in a thoroughly womanly fashion, and condescended to red and pink
coral, amber and tortoise‐shell ornaments, with a full appreciation of
their prettiness. The bracelets, earrings, and brooches made out of lava
never appeared to me otherwise than as remains of barbarism. Much of the
coral‐work, though very ingenious, is also in bad taste. But a string of
pink coral beads is always a beautiful ornament, and also always an
expensive one. Amber abounds, not of course as a native product, but
imported from the East. The tortoise‐shell is very delicately carved, and
inlaid with gold, and some of it is extremely pretty. There is also a
great deal of alabaster‐work in figures and vases, white and colored.
Neither Mary nor I could bear it, though we did our best to try and be
tempted by a shop in the Toledo(47) which was filled with it. It is always
connected in my mind with shell ornaments and wool mats. They are things
that generally seem to go together, and equally impress me with their
uselessness and ugliness. I must include in my list of horrors the lava
and even the terracotta figures of _lazzaroni_ and Neapolitan peasants.
Mary was rather disappointed at not finding shops of old furniture and
_rococo_. She had collected a variety of pretty and even valuable objects
when she was here many years ago; but now she was told by the Neapolitans
that the English and Americans had bought up all there was to be had of
that nature. No doubt, however, we might still have found treasures had we
known where to look for them. But the days are over when bargains could be
picked up in Continental towns. All those things have now a real
marketable value, and no vendors are ignorant of what that value is. Of
course there are occasional exceptions.

We went once to a flower‐show held in the Villa Reale, the beautiful
public promenade which runs by the sea‐shore and the Chiaia. I believe it
was the first of the kind which had been attempted, and as such was worthy
of all praise. But, apart from that consideration, it was inferior to most
of the numerous flower‐shows held in the rural districts of England. We
often drove up and down the Chiaia, which is the name of the fashionable
street of Naples, and along which there is a tan road for the sake of
horsemen, who ride backwards and forwards at a furious rate. It is neither
very long nor very broad; but the gentlemen who frequent it are evidently
greatly impressed with their manly bearing and distinguished horsemanship.
For my own part, I prefer a Neapolitan on the driving‐box to one in the
saddle. They are excellent coachmen and but indifferent horsemen, as all
men must be who are deficient in phlegm and in external calm. The horse is
a dignified animal, and demands corresponding dignity in his rider. We
used often to stop at the _caffe_ in the Via Reale, and refresh ourselves
with “granite”—that is, a glass of snow sweetened, and with the juice of
fresh lemons squeezed into it.

As a rule, I cannot say that the shops in Naples are particularly good,
and certainly they are very dear. The same may be said of provisions. And
as the taxes are every year on the increase, this misfortune is not likely
to be remedied. I frequently used to walk through the generally narrow and
always crowded streets of Naples accompanied by Frank, and as often
Emidio, who had arranged some point of meeting with my brother, would come
down from the heights of Capo di Monte, where his lovely villa stood, and
join us in our saunter through the busy city. I have seen him stop where a
piece of rope was hung near a tobacconist’s shop‐door, or at the corner of
the street, and light his cigar from the smouldering end which had been
set fire to for that purpose. I have never seen a burning rope in the
streets in England or in France for the accommodation of smokers.

We visited most of the churches, but they were as nothing to me after the
churches in Rome. The flower‐boys soon got to know us as we walked and
drove about, and the most lovely roses and bunches of orange‐blossoms
would be pressed upon us for a few pence. The boys would sometimes cling
to the carriage‐door with one hand, while the horses were going fast,
imploring us to buy the bouquets they held in the other, till I used to
think they must fall and be run over. But they are so lithe and supple,
and they seemed to bound about so much as if they were made of india‐
rubber, that at last I got hardened, and would stand to my bargain half‐
way down a street without any apprehension for the safety of my dark‐eyed,
jabbering flower‐boys. They generally addressed us in a jargon of Italian,
French, and English, and as generally sold their flowers for half the
price first named.

I greatly enjoyed the freedom and absence of restraint in these our
rambles; for, having my brother with me, I was not afraid of gratifying my
curiosity about the manners and customs of the humbler classes. I
frequently stood by the fountains in the streets, where the women washed
the linen, and entered into conversation with them; or I would buy
_fritture_ of various kinds (which is, in fact, fried batter, sometimes
sweet, sometimes savory). I did not find it always to my taste, because it
was made with rancid olive‐oil quite as often as with fat. But the piles
of light‐brown fritters lying on the little tables in the open streets, or
being tossed about, smoking hot, in iron pans, had a very inviting
appearance. Then I would get Frank to let me have a glass of lemonade from
the pretty little booths that are so numerous for the sale of that
delightful beverage, with festoons of fresh lemons hanging from the gayly‐
painted poles. I delighted all the more in my freedom that I knew, when I
should be Emidio’s wife, and drive about Naples as the Contessa Gandolfi,
I could no longer expect to enjoy these privileges. I said so one day to
Emidio, when I was taking my second glass of lemonade in a peculiarly
dingy and out‐of‐the‐way street in Naples. He laughed at the assertion,
though he did not for a moment attempt to deny it; and meanwhile he
enjoyed as much as I did the absence of all form and ceremony, which as
foreigners we could allow ourselves. It was then that jestingly he asked
me whether it should be put in my marriage‐settlements that he was to take
me, at least once, to the Festa di Monte Vergine. I could not understand
what he could possibly mean, until he explained that so much is thought of
this feast by the Neapolitan peasantry that if a girl has a good _dot_, it
is generally inserted in the marriage‐deeds that her husband is bound to
give her this gratification. The feast takes place on Whit‐Monday, and
Emidio assured me that my marriage‐portion was enough to entitle me to
more than one excursion to the sanctuary of the Madonna, if such was my
desire. It is held at Monte Vergine, near Avellino; and as we had not been
able to attend it during our stay at Posilippo, I declared that I should
expect to be taken some day, though I declined to puzzle our family lawyer
by the introduction of so strange an article in my marriage‐settlements.

We had reserved Pompeii for the close of our stay at Naples, because from
thence we meant to go on to Sorrento. We entered Pompeii by the “Sea
Gate,” having left our travelling‐bags and shawls at the little hotel
Diomède—such a grand name for such a mean, vulgar little place! How full
of flies it was! How bad was the food! How miserable the accommodations,
with advertisements of Bass’ pale ale adorning the walls! Nothing,
however, of the kind could diminish the interest with which we were about
to enter the dead city of the dead. Mary remembered having come to this
same little public‐house five‐and‐twenty years before. It has been added
to since then. At that time it afforded very little refreshment for either
man or beast. She had taken some tea with her, and they accommodated her
with hot water. Milk was not to be had, so she floated a slice of lemon in
the tea‐cup, after the Russian fashion. And all the time a handsome youth,
indifferently clad, and with the red Phrygian cap covering his crisp black
curls, sang a native song to the accompaniment of a small guitar, and
danced the while. The cotton‐plants were ready to give up their bursting
pods of snow‐white fluff in the fields around, and the heat was extreme.
The scene had been much less invaded in those days by ordinary sight‐
seers; but also, it must be owned, there was less to see, as many of the
most important excavations have been made since that date. As the heat was
very great, and as, even without seeing anything like all that is worth
seeing, we could not possibly devote less than two or three hours to
walking in those shadeless streets, it was decided Mary and I should be
carried by the guides in open sedan‐chairs. The guides are appointed by
government, and are thoroughly well informed on the subject, and are able
to answer most questions.

We first visited the Forum. It is, even in its utter ruin, very imposing,
for it stands on rising ground, and all the principal streets lead to it.
Several Doric columns, arches or gateways, and the pedestals which
formerly supported statues, remain. The Temple of Venus is close to the
Forum; the entrance steps are intact, and the altar stands in front of
them. Words fail me to express the intense melancholy of the scene, as we
wandered from Temple to Baths, and from house to house, down the narrow
streets—for all the streets are narrow—whose flag‐stones are dented by the
wheels of the chariots, and have a raised path for foot‐passengers, so
high that there are stones placed at intervals to enable one to step
across the road, with a space left for the wheels of the chariot to pass
between. This was to keep the passengers from having to step into the
water which in rainy weather must have poured down these gutterless
streets. From the houses being now all reduced to the ground floor, with
the exception of a few in which the stairs leading to the first story and
some portions of the wall remain, it cannot be said that any of the
streets produce at all an imposing effect. Perhaps the absence of this,
except in the ruins of the temples and public buildings, rather adds to
the pathetic sadness of the scene, by bringing all the more vividly before
us the fact of the utter and sudden destruction which swept away a vast
city of crowded human beings, leading the daily life of all of us, in a
few short hours! We saw the casts of several dead bodies that had been
found—one, of a man making his escape with a sack of money; another, of a
matron with her young daughter. What masses of hair, what round and
slender limbs, what beautiful teeth! It is ghastly, and yet fascinating;
for it seems to bridge over so wide a gulf of time, and by one touch of
nature makes us akin to the ancient dead. I felt this specially as we went
down the “Street of Abundance,” as it was named—mere dwelling‐houses and
shops on either side; a long, ordinary street, where men came and went in
their round of every‐day life, buying and selling and paying visits. The
green lizards ran over the whitened walls and the small, brown‐red bricks.
The sun poured down his relentless rays from a perfectly cloudless sky.
Except ourselves and the guides, no footsteps were heard, no sound broke
the death‐like silence. And at the far end of the “Street of Abundance,”
just beyond the limits of the doomed city, a solitary pine‐tree, looking
like a black spot in the white shimmer of the mid‐day heat, alone
indicated a world of nature and of life and growth beyond. Here is an oil‐
shop, full of the beautifully‐shaped, huge jars in which the oil was kept.
There, on that slab of marble, are the stains of wine. You see the oven,
with what once was soft white bread—the real bread; and you feel that it
might have happened a few years ago, and that somewhere or other, perhaps
even at Naples, it might happen again to‐morrow. And two thoughts rush in
upon us, one full of yearning pity, and one of awful inquiry—they were our
brethren, and where are they now?

The first eruption of Mount Vesuvius occurred in the reign of the Emperor
Titus, A.D. 79. Pompeii, Herculaneum, and even Naples itself, had suffered
before them from earthquakes, and a portion of the two first‐named towns
had been laid low. But nothing had ever happened to prepare the
inhabitants for the terrible calamity which was about to befall them,
when, in their villa at Misenum, the younger Pliny’s mother called the
attention of Pliny the elder to the cloud, in the form of a pine‐tree,
which she saw rising up into the heavens. When she did so, she did not
even know that it was from Vesuvius that the cloud ascended. Pliny the
elder invited his nephew, then only eighteen, to accompany him in his
galley to Retinæ, a town on the coast, whither he intended to go, with the
idea that the people might be in distress. But so little was any one
prepared for what was really about to occur that young Pliny did not even
lay aside his volume of _Livy_ which he was reading; while his uncle took
his tablets in his hand, that he might note down the curious phenomena he
was about to investigate, and left the house to go on board. It was with
great difficulty and at immense risk that he effected a landing and made
his way to Stabiæ, near Pompeii, where dwelt his friend Pomponianus. In
attempting to escape from thence in the night, he was suffocated by the
noxious vapors that accompanied the eruption. It would seem that young
Pliny continued his study for some hours, never realizing what an awful
tragedy was going on beyond the Bay of Naples. There had been shocks of
earthquake for some days previous, but these were not unusual occurrences,
and therefore excited but little alarm, until they became so violent as to
threaten utter destruction through the night. He seems to have been
seriously frightened about the same time as his mother; for each had risen
with the intention of calling the other. By this time the air was black
with falling ashes, and the morning light could scarcely penetrate the
gloom. Pliny would not leave his mother, while she, being aged and very
heavy, feared she should not be able to follow him, and implored him to go
away without her, which he would not do. They escaped together into the
country, in danger of being trodden down by the crowds of flying people,
and of being smothered by the falling ashes. The day was spent in agony
and terror, and all but total darkness. But that night they were able to
return to Misenum, though not to enjoy much repose, as the shocks of
earthquake still continued. Then the young Pliny learnt that his uncle,
whom he had, happily for himself, declined to accompany, had perished.
This eruption did not resemble the more recent ones, inasmuch as no lava
poured from the mountain, but burning stones of enormous size, and ashes,
together with volumes of steam, which poured down in torrents of water,
filled with ashes, upon the earth beneath. The shape of the mountain was
altered entirely by this eruption, as it has been in a much less degree by
that which occurred in April, 1872, and which our friends, the Vernons,
had witnessed. The Neapolitans firmly believe that their city will
ultimately perish as Pompeii has perished; and probably science is still
unable to prognosticate whether the awful mountain has or has not too far
exhausted its volcanic powers to produce a second destruction as terrible
as that which Pliny has described with such accurate detail, and yet in so
calm and unimpassioned a style.

Sensational writing is a discovery of modern times. We exhaust our subject
in describing it diffusely and minutely. But nevertheless the scene
Pliny’s letters call up before our imagination—the young lad poring over
his book in company with his devoted mother, and the brave and learned
elder Pliny calmly setting sail, tablets in hand, to study the scene, and
to assist those in danger, and then perishing in the attempt—is as replete
with pathos and human feeling as language can make it. It is full of a
language not put into words.

On the afternoon of the day we visited Pompeii we drove to Sorrento, and
took up our abode at a quiet little _pension_ recently established, and
literally hidden amongst orange‐groves. There was a small chapel close by.
Our rooms were bright and clean, and the greater part of the time we had
the house entirely to ourselves.

Let no one presume he knows the beauty of Italy who has not visited
Sorrento. Can anything be more lovely than the approach to Vico, Meta, and
Sant’ Angelo, and the aspect of these little towns nestling amid gardens,
with their feet in the blue ripples of that tideless sea?

The Sorrentines are a different race from the Neapolitans, and no love is
lost between them. They are a more reserved and more dignified people.
They make less noise, and are not so excitable. The land they live on is
not volcanic, the vegetation is more luxuriant, and the people are more
pastoral in their habits. The air is softer and less exciting than at
Naples. Mary and I felt as if we had drifted into the land “where it is
always afternoon,” and a lotos‐eating calm and serenity seemed to come
over us—a pleasant change after the nervous tension which Naples produces,
and which is singularly inimical to sleep.

Every description of food is better at Sorrento than it is at Naples.
Sorrento beef is excellent, and Sorrento pigs have a world‐wide reputation
for making good pork, though they are ugly animals to look at, having
large, flabby, white bodies on tall, thin, greyhound legs, and very large,
pink ears. Naples seems never at any time to have been well famed for
producing good food.

Nearly all Cicero’s letters to Papirius Pætus contain allusions to eating
and drinking, and in one he says: “It is a better thing, let me tell you,
to be sick with good eating at Rome, than for want of victuals at Naples.”

When he was thinking of buying Sylla’s house at Naples, he asks Pætus to
take some workmen to survey it for him, saying: “If the walls and roof are
in good repair, I shall perfectly well approve of the rest.” “If I can
procure a house at Naples, it is my purpose to live so abstemiously that
what our late sumptuary law allows for one day’s expense shall suffice me
ten.” This last sentence, when coupled with that quoted from the other
letter, looks rather like making a virtue of necessity. The marvel is that
the Naples market is not more abundantly provided with Sorrento produce.
The fruit is very good; and we all agreed we had never known the real
merit of cherries until we had eaten them at Sorrento, and even better
still at Capri. In our own land, in France, and even in cherry‐loving
Germany, I had always considered them as a very poor fruit, unless cooked
or preserved. But I entertained a very different opinion of them when I
had feasted on them in the South of Italy. They are as different as the
fresh oranges, picked from the tree, are from those that have been plucked
while green, and have ripened in a box during a long voyage.

I never cared for cherries in England. I used to believe in oranges as I
found them in the fruiterers’ shops. But now they appear to me a snare and
a delusion when eaten in the north.

When we arrived at Sorrento, the Empress of Russia and her daughter, the
grand duchess, were still there. We met them driving just as we entered
the town, and of course looked eagerly at her who was so soon to become
our own Duchess of Edinburgh, and were charmed with her amiable and
youthful expression, and with the pretty smile with which she returned our
bow. They were to leave Sorrento in a very few days. The yacht was already
moored close to the cliffs, awaiting them. The empress shed tears, as the
people crowded round to see her embark and wished her farewell in their
own graceful way and soft language. She said she had grown to love
Sorrento and its inhabitants more than she could express, and that she
should always hope some day to return amongst them.

The house in which Tasso was born is now converted into a hotel, much to
the detriment of all poetic sentiment.

Nothing can be more lovely than the neighborhood of Sorrento, though a
great deal is unapproachable, except on horseback, donkeys, or mules; and
much more is equally so for all but very vigorous pedestrians. We went
more than once to the small, picturesque town of Massa, at the extreme
point of the Peninsula. We visited Il Deserto, the name given to a
Franciscan monastery situated on the top of a somewhat barren hill, and
which commands a magnificent view. We found only a few lay brothers at
home, and about half a dozen orphan boys, who were there by way of
learning the art of agriculture. The land around the monastery was mostly
barren, and to the left was covered with brushwood. No agriculture was
there, at any rate. There was a large garden enclosed within walls; and as
the small agricultural were in it, I hoped to see some evidence of their
labors. I am bound, however, to speak the truth, much as it tells against
the expectations of Sorrento with regard to the future tillers of the
soil, as also, which is worse, against the efficiency of the Franciscan
instructors in this particular case. The garden was quite full of weeds. I
scarcely saw a vegetable or plant of any kind likely to prove edible to
anybody except our donkeys; but for them there was hope, as thistles
abounded. The juvenile agriculturists were by no means usefully engaged,
but were listlessly roving about, doing nothing in particular. They looked
bored; and I could not wonder at it. Certainly, the orphans learned no
agriculture, and I doubt if either the fathers or lay brothers can teach
it. It is to be hoped that at least they learn something else.

One bright morning we resolved on a trip to Capri. We chartered a boat, a
man, and two boys, the party consisting of Ida and Elizabeth Vernon, Mary,
and me. The wind was not altogether in our favor, and our three sailors
had hard work to row us. Nothing can well be more beautiful than the line
of coast, with picturesque ruins, deep sea‐caves, varied rocks, and green
slopes down to the water’s edge. We had resolved to spend one night at
Capri, and intended visiting the Blue Grotto the next day. But the wind
was blowing fresh, and it seemed but too probable that, if we did not
accomplish our visit at once, we might miss it altogether. Our boatmen
made no objection to this addition to our original bargain, and we soon
found ourselves rowing up to an entrance into the rock that did not
present a different appearance to many other such small, slit‐like
fissures and holes, some of which had been pointed out to us as the
sirens’ caves. We found two boats moored to the rock; one was empty, and
in the other was a lad.

We were given to understand that only two of us at a time could enter the
mysterious cave, and that our boat was a great deal too large to pass
through that low, dark hole in the rock which the restless blue sea was
lapping incessantly with a rapidity of motion that seemed to be
momentarily on the increase. We were moreover told that _il vecchio_(48)
was inside—a piece of information which, conveying no express ideas to my
mind, awoke a vague apprehension that perhaps I might have touched on the
abode of the Old Man of the Sea—a prospect not altogether desirable. There
was a great question who was to enter the little boat and first encounter
the passage and the old man. Ida and Elizabeth refused to be separated,
and Mary, with an exclamation—something about being responsible to their
mother for their safety—saw them embark with a pang. In an instant,
obedient to the sailor lad’s injunctions, they both disappeared, lying
flat down at the bottom of the boat. The sailor gave one vigorous stroke
of his oar, ducked down himself, and the boat was sucked into the awful
cavern between the heaving sea and the low arch. Mary and I sat silent. Of
course we knew there was no danger. It was what everybody did, and there
could be nothing to apprehend; nevertheless, I am free to acknowledge that
those twenty minutes, during which we were as much shut out from all sight
and sound of them as if they were gone to the bottom, while the
treacherous waves slapped and lapped the rock like some hungry live thing,
and in so doing almost closed the orifice through which the boat had
disappeared, were not by any means minutes of absolute serenity to our
nerves. Presently, however, the prow of the little boat reappeared, and in
a second up jumped Ida and Elizabeth like Jack in the box.

“Well!” we both exclaimed.

“Oh! it is beautiful. Make haste!”

“And the old man?” said I dubiously.

“Oh! yes, he is there,” was the only reply, and no more satisfactory than
my previous information.

Of course Mary and I, on getting into the boat, made ourselves as flat as
we could at the bottom of it; and suddenly a heaving of the sea shot us
into the grotto. Instantly I forgot the old man and everything else in the
marvellous beauty of the scene around me. The sides of the cave, one or
two large shelving rocks, and the roof were perfectly blue. The very air
seemed blue. The water itself was ultramarine. I dipped in my hand, and
instantly it shone and flashed like brilliant silver. We approached one of
the large rocks where there is a landing‐place. On it I beheld some
strange, dark object. Suddenly the object leaped into the blue water, and
was transfigured before my eyes into a huge silver frog, swimming about in
all directions with a white head above the water. It was my much‐dreaded
old man; and certainly the result, in point of color and brilliancy, of
the disporting of this venerable individual in the blue water, which
converted him into sparkling silver, was very remarkable. But it is not
often given, to female eyes at least, to behold a mortal swimming close to
her, and to notice the peculiarly frog‐like and ungraceful action which
swimming necessitates, and which is heightened by the apparent
foreshortening of the limbs from the refraction of the light in the water.
It suddenly flashed upon me: was it thus that Hero saw Leander?—minus the
silver of course. Poor Hero! The silver frog croaked an indescribable
_patois_, calling our attention vociferously to his own extraordinary
brilliancy. At length we entreated him to spare his aged limbs any more
aquatic gymnastics, and to return to his rock; which he did, resuming his
garments in some niche of a darker blue than the rest.

Meanwhile, our lad had rowed the boat close up to the other large rock on
the opposite side of the grotto, telling us that he would gather some
coral for us. It was getting dark, and, as we sat alone in the boat, we
could neither see nor hear him. A deep‐violet hue began to spread over the
grotto and the water. Evening was drawing near, and I began to conjure our
sole protector to leave his coral reefs and return to the boat. Then we
ducked down once more, and, with the edge of the boat absolutely grating
against the mouth of the cave, we emerged into the open sea and the fair
white light of heaven.

It happened once upon a time that some one, perhaps an ordinary traveller,
perhaps another professional and belated old man, went into the blue
grotto alone, and stayed too long. The wind blew hard, and the sea rose.
For three days no boat could pass through the closed mouth of the cave.
Happily, his friends succeeded in floating in a loaf of bread, which he
devoured on his solitary blue rock. I have often wished to know the
history of those three days. Did the sirens come and sing to him? Did no
mermaid bear him company, or was he left a prey to “the blue devils”?

We had a stiff breeze as we steered our course to the Marina Piccola, one
of the only two landing‐places of the Island of Capri. We determined, as
we were to be there for so short a time, to sleep at the small inn close
by, called the “Little Tiberius,” and which we found comfortable, though
very unassuming and not quite finished. We dined in the _loggia_, shaded
by a vine, and they brought us cherries the size of plums that melted like
a ripe peach, and beautiful oranges, gathered with the green leaves around
them.

The only way to get about on the little Island of Capri is on donkeys or
on foot. We chose the former, and directed our course to where stood the
Palace of Tiberius. The village of Anacapri is very picturesque, with its
narrow streets, sometimes raised a step or two, dark, wide doorways, and
domed roofs. We went to the top of the precipitous rock called “Il salto
di Tiberio,”(49) which falls sheer and smooth down to the sea, without a
break save a few tufts of wild flowers, and over which Tiberius is said to
have flung his victims, whose bodies then floated away to the coast of
Baiæ. When Augustus was dying, he said of his successor, “I pity the
Romans. They are about to be ground between slow jaws.” Never was the
cruelty of a coward better expressed than by these words.

I suppose the only history that will ever be correctly written will be
that which will date from the day of judgment—that day which alone will
clear up the falsehoods, misapprehensions, and delusions with which all
history abounds, and will leave probably only the devil as black as he is
painted, while it will also prove that many of our angels are fallen ones.
It is always difficult, perhaps impossible, to arrive at the secret
motives of a man who is a coward, is reserved, has a certain superficial
refinement of taste and intellect, and is cursed with absolute power.
Tiberius appreciated the extraordinary beauty of his favorite Capri; and
yet he dwelt there only to commit the most hideous crimes in secret, while
discoursing on the subtleties of grammar and the beauty of art, and
writing elegies and love songs. He seemed to have no human affection save
for the low‐born Sejanus, whom nevertheless years afterwards he accused to
the Roman Senate in a pitiful, whining letter, and who was torn to pieces
in consequence. He always hated those who in any way belonged to him,
whether by a natural tie or by that of a supposed intimacy. He hated Rome;
but even the terror and dread he had of it, giving way to the longing to
know how far his bloody orders were being carried out, he approached the
gates. That day his pet serpent, the friend of his bosom, was killed and
eaten by a million of midges.

“Multitudes are dangerous,” remarked the sententious emperor, and back he
went to the top of his solitary rock at Capri.

The same type of man returns from time to time upon the face of the earth
to show us the deep hell within itself of which, alas! the human heart is
capable. Robespierre was a man of affable manners, who loved flowers and
kept canaries. He had delicate white hands and a simper for ever on his
thin lips. In early life he wrote a pamphlet against capital punishment.
When his turn came to die on the guillotine, he showed no fraction of the
courage of the youngest and weakest of his many victims. He too was soft
and cruel. There are many such, but happily the outward circumstances are
wanting which would develop them into the monsters to which, as a race,
they belong.

We spent only a few hours at Salerno, just time enough to visit the tomb
of the great Hildebrand, S. Gregory VII., the little man with a great
soul, the spiritual Alexander of the church, who, as he said himself,
“without being allowed the liberty of speech or deliberation, had been
violently carried away and placed on the pontifical throne”; and through
volumes of intimate and interesting letters relates his sorrows, his
anxieties, and his efforts to the friend of his soul, Cardinal Didier, the
Abbot of Monte‐Casino. In the crypt we visited the altar and relics of S.
Matthew. The same evening we drove along the coast to Amalfi. It was
growing dark before we got there, and I think, though no one said a word
about it till we were safe in the Hotel of the Capuchins, we were not
altogether without some apprehension that the towering rocks, the dark
caves, the mountain heights, and the thick woodlands which filled us with
admiration, did not also suggest an unpleasant suspicion of possible
banditti. But here I stop. If Amalfi is not seen, it may be painted; but
it cannot be described in any words I know of which will tell its beauty.
The world has many jewels from nature’s casket, but few more lovely and in
more gorgeous setting than the little mediæval town of Amalfi.

I am writing these pages in an English village. I see a low line of pale,
misty hills to my left. A venerable church tower peeps from amid large
elms and red brick cottage chimneys. In front of my trim garden is a green
meadow. The white butterflies are coursing each other in the noontide
warmth, and the village children have crowned themselves with tall paper
caps, and are holding some jubilee of their own, the mysteries of which
are undiscernable to older minds. The clematis which climbs my porch
breathes soft, perfumed sighs at my open window. It is pretty, simple,
homely. But between this and the dreamlike beauty of Amalfi there lies far
more than the distance of many hundreds of miles. There lie the yearning
of the soul for the best of God’s beautiful creation—for the warmth of the
sun, that natural god of life and gladness—the thirst of the artist’s eye
for color, and the poet’s love of the language of song; there lie the
Catholic’s hunger for the land of faith and the longing for the regions of
old memories and heroic sanctities.

Yes, I love my own pale land, with her brief, scarce summer smiles, her
windy autumns, and her long, fireside, wintry evenings. But while I write
it and feel it, there comes up before my mind the rose‐tints and blue and
silver sparkle, the golden rocks and emerald verdure, of the land with the
“fatal gift of beauty,” and I feel my heart sink as I recall Amalfi.

A few more days, and we had looked our last on Southern Italy. There were
other reasons besides the thirst for sunshine and beauty why our leaving
Naples should prove so sad. There was the close friendship with the
Vernons and Padre Cataldo; and as regarded four hearts, there was
something more, I suppose, than friendship.

On leaving Amalfi we only slept one night at Naples (for Posilippo we saw
no more), and that was a dream‐tost, tearful night. We would not suffer
any of our friends to accompany us to the station. Public farewells would
be unbearable.

The last thing I remember, as I drove through the hot, bright streets
teeming with life, was two young girls with naked feet gayly dancing the
tarantella on the burning pavement. Lightly, trippingly, daintily they
danced—these two supple‐limbed daughters of the sunny south. How joyous,
how free from care, from afterthought or forethought, did they seem! A few
figs (they were just ripe) in summer, a few chestnuts and some yellow
bread of Indian corn, are all they need for food; and one scant frock,
that hides neither arms nor ankles, is all that decency demands. The sun
does the rest, pouring rich color into their veins, bright sparkles into
their eyes. And so at mid‐day shall they dance, on flags which would
scorch my northern skin, singing the while to their own steps,
unchallenged by police, unreproached by man, and know no harm, while we go
back to our mists and showers amidst our “advanced civilization.”

While writing this my eyes rest upon these lines: “Many take root in this
soil, and find themselves unable to leave it again. A species of
contemplative epicurism takes possession of them—a life freed from all
vain desires and sterile agitation; an ideal existence which is shocked by
no inconvenient reality. Others return to their hyperborean country,
bringing with them a luminous remembrance to light up the gray twilight of
their frozen sky for evermore; others still have quaffed the enchantress’
charmed potion, and can no longer resist the gentle desires which draw
them periodically back to her.”

May I also be numbered with those who return to the southern shores of
beautiful Italy!




The Three Edens.


Bloom’d the first Eden not with man alone,
  But woman, equal woman, at his side.
  And seemly was it when, together tried,
They fell together—for the two were one.
On Calvary stood the Mother by the Son:
  New Eve with Second Adam crucified;
  And as through Eve in Adam we had died,
Through Mary was our loss in Christ undone.
Then how should not the Paradise regained
  Behold its Eve beside her Adam throned;
Both risen, both ascended—unprofaned
  Each virginal body, by the grave disowned?
Else had our foe his conquest half maintained,
  The primal ruin been but half atoned.

LAKE GEORGE, FEAST OF THE ASSUMPTION, 1874.




A Discussion With An Infidel.



XIV. The Seat Of The Soul.


_Büchner._ You will admit, I presume, that “the brain is not merely the
organ of thought and of all the higher mental faculties, but also the sole
and exclusive _seat of the soul_. Every thought is produced in the brain,
every kind of feeling and sensation, exertion of the will, and voluntary
motion, proceeds from it” (p. 141).

_Reader._ Not exactly “from it,” but from the soul, as I have already
established; though certainly the brain is instrumental in all vital
operations. As to the brain being “the sole and exclusive” seat of the
soul I think that physiologists do not agree, and that philosophers have
something to object.

_Büchner._ It is now a recognized truth. “It took a long time before it
was recognized, and it is even to this day difficult for those who are not
physicians to convince themselves of its correctness” (_ibid._)

_Reader._ It must be difficult indeed; for although we have reason to
believe that the brain is, so to say, the central telegraphic office where
every intelligence from the other parts of the body is received, yet it is
but natural to suppose that there cannot be a central office if there are
no other offices destined to correspond with it. On the other hand,
philosophers teach that _the soul is the form of the body_; which implies
that there are other parts of our body, besides the brain, where the soul
must be present.

_Büchner._ “These philosophers are a singular people. They talk of the
creation of the world as if they had been present on the occasion; they
define the Absolute as if they had sat at its table for years; they babble
about the nothing and the something, the ego and non‐ego, the _per se_ and
_in se_, universals and particulars, perishability and absolute existence,
the unknown _x_, etc., etc., with a confidence as if a celestial codex had
given them exact information about all these ideas and things, and they
plaster up the simplest notions with such a confused mass of high‐sounding
and learned but incomprehensible words and phrases as to turn the head of
a rational man. But, in spite of all this, upon their metaphysical
eminence they are not unfrequently so far off from any positive knowledge
that they commit the most amusing blunders, especially in those cases in
which philosophy and science meet, and when the latter threatens to
destroy the results of metaphysical speculation. Thus almost all
philosophical psychologists have struggled with rare energy against the
theory of the seat of the soul in the brain, and continue in their
opposition without taking the least notice of the progress of experimental
science” (pp. 142, 143).

_Reader._ I am surprised, doctor, at your declamation against
philosophers. You have no right to denounce them either in general or in
particular. I admit that rationalistic philosophers richly deserve all the
contempt you can heap upon them, but it is not fair in you to attack them;
for they are better than you. To lay your own faults on the shoulders of
your opponents is an old trick. The burglar calls his victim a thief;
designing Freemasons always prate about Jesuitical machinations; and
writers whose philosophical baggage is as light as their pretensions are
high inveigh against those by whom they dread to be exposed, refuted, and
supplanted. Such is the case with you. While pretending to describe
others, you have made the portrait of yourself. It is certainly difficult
to find another man in the world who babbles with as much confidence as
you do about, or rather against, creation, the Absolute, and the unknown
x, etc., etc. Yet your opponents are not infallible, nor do they pretend
to be; but if they “commit the most amusing blunders,” it is not owing to
their “metaphysical eminence,” as you suppose, but rather to their
metaphysical incapacity. Science, you say, sometimes “threatens to destroy
the results of metaphysical speculation”; but you should have added that
metaphysical speculation oftentimes saves science from shipwreck; for
empiricism without philosophy is a ship without a rudder.

You denounce your adversaries as men who do not take “the least notice of
the progress of experimental science.” This is a calumny. In fact, you
yourself inform us that one of your adversaries is philosopher Fischer, a
man who not only took notice of the progress of experimental science, but
greatly contributed to such a progress by his own intelligent and
indefatigable labors. You cannot therefore pretend that such a man lacked
“positive knowledge.” Now, he says: “That the soul is immanent in the
whole nervous system is proved, as it feels, perceives, and acts in every
part thereof. I do not feel pain in a central part of the brain, but in a
particular spot and place.”

_Büchner._ “And yet what Fischer denies is undoubtedly the fact. The
nerves themselves do not perceive; they merely call forth sensations by
conducting the impressions received to the brain. We do not feel pain in
the place injured, but in the brain. If a nerve of sensation be divided in
its course to the brain, all the parts which are supplied by it lose their
sensibility, for no other reason than that the conducting of the
impression to the brain is no longer possible. Every man who has no
knowledge of physiological processes believes the feeling of hunger to be
in the stomach. This is not so; the brain alone makes us conscious of the
feeling. If the nerve uniting brain and stomach be divided, hunger is at
an end, nor does it return. Neither does anger arise in the liver, or
courage in the chest, but in the brain only” (pp. 143, 144). “Habit and
external appearance have led to the false notion that we feel in places
subjected to external irritation. Physiology calls this relation ‘the law
of eccentric phenomena.’ According to it, we falsely attribute the feeling
perceived in the brain to the place where the impression is made....
Persons who have lost their arms or legs by amputation often feel during
their whole lives, in atmospheric changes, pains in limbs which they no
longer possess. If all his limbs were removed, man would still feel them.
From these facts it can scarcely be doubted that there must exist in the
brain a topography by means of which the various sensations of the
different parts of the body arise. Every part of the body which can be
separately perceived must have a corresponding spot in the brain which in
some degree represents it in the forum of consciousness” (pp. 144, 145).

_Reader._ This answer, doctor, is not altogether satisfactory. “The
nerves,” of course, “do not perceive.” This I willingly admit; but neither
does the brain perceive; for it is the soul that perceives. The nerves
“merely call forth sensations by conducting the impressions received to
the brain.” This cannot be denied; but it does not prove the non‐existence
of the soul in the nervous system. Suppose that a pin or a thorn presses
the finger; before the impression can be transmitted from the finger to
the brain, its reception in the finger must give rise to a change of
relation between the soul and the finger itself; which would be
impossible, if the soul were not in the finger. For, if the soul is not in
the finger, the impression made by the thorn will consist of a merely
mechanical movement; and when this movement is communicated to the brain,
what sensation can be called forth? A sensation of pain? No; for mere
mechanical movement cannot produce a sense of pain, unless it is felt to
disagree with the living organism. Now, the pricking is not felt to
disagree with the brain, but with the finger. It is therefore in the
finger and not in the brain that we feel the pain; which shows that the
soul really is in the finger, and in every other part of the body in which
we may experience any sensation.

Your reason for pretending that “we do not feel pain in the place injured,
but in the brain,” is quite unsatisfactory. It is true that if a nerve of
sensation be divided in its course to the brain, all the parts which are
supplied by it lose their sensibility; but what of that? Those parts lose
their sensibility because they lose their sensitiveness; that is, because
the cutting of the nerve, by impairing the body, causes the soul to
abandon the organic parts supplied by that nerve. You argue that, if the
soul is not present in a given part of the body, when the nerve has been
injured, the soul was not present in that same part before the nerve was
injured. This inference is evidently wrong. The soul informs the organism,
and any part of it, as long as the organs are suitably disposed for the
vital operations, and abandons the organism, or any part of it, as soon as
the organs have become unfit for the vital operations. Hence, as you
cannot infer the non‐existence of the soul in the brain of a living man
from the non‐existence of the same in the brain of a corpse, so you cannot
infer its non‐existence in a part of the body before the cutting of the
nerve from its non‐existence in the same part after the nerve has been
cut.

The feeling of hunger, you say, is not in the stomach, because “if the
nerve uniting brain and stomach be divided, hunger is at an end.” Is not
this very curious? Men need none of your theories to know where they feel
hungry; and they not only _believe_, as you say, but also _experience_,
that their feeling of hunger is in the stomach. How can this be reconciled
with your theory? You try to discredit the common belief by observing that
we “have no knowledge of physiological processes.” This, however, is not
true; for although we may not possess your _speculative_ knowledge of
those processes, yet we have an _experimental_ knowledge of them, which
beats all your speculations. The simplest common sense teaches that a
theory contradicted by facts is worth nothing. Now, the fact is that we
experience the sensation of hunger in the stomach, and not in the brain;
and therefore no physiological theory that contradicts such a fact can be
of any value.

You pretend that “habit and external appearance have led to the false
notion that we feel in places subjected to external irritation.” This
assertion cannot be justified. Habits are acquired by repeated acts; and
to assume that habit leads us to a false notion is to assume that we are
cheated by our actual sensations; which is inadmissible. As to “external
appearances,” it is evident that they have nothing to do with the
question, as sensations are not external appearances, but internal
realities. Hence when we say that “we feel in places subjected to external
irritation,” we express a real fact of which we have experimental
evidence, and in regard to which no habit or external appearance can make
us err.

The fact that “persons who have lost their arms or legs by amputation
often feel during their whole life, in atmospheric changes, pains in limbs
which they no longer possess,” does not tend to prove that the brain is
the exclusive seat of the soul. Hence I dismiss it altogether. With regard
to your conclusion that “every part of the body which can be separately
perceived must have a corresponding spot in the brain which in some degree
represents it in the forum of consciousness,” I have not the least
objection against it; I merely add that no part of the body in which the
soul is not actually present can be represented in the forum of
consciousness. For if the soul is not in the finger when the thorn pricks
it, the soul cannot say, _I feel the pain_; it could only say, _I know
that a material organ, with which I have nothing to do, is being injured_.
The soul would, in fact, but receive a telegram announcing what happens in
some distant quarter. If a telegram comes to you from Siberia, announcing
twenty degrees of cold, do you feel the sensation of cold?

_Büchner._ Yet “the theory that the brain is the seat of the soul is so
incontrovertible that it has long been adopted in the rules of law in
regard to monstrosities. A monstrosity with one body and two heads counts
for _two_ persons; one with two bodies and one head, only for one person.
Monstrosities without brain, so‐called acephali, possess no personality”
(pp. 147, 148).

_Reader._ This is true; and therefore the soul certainly informs the
brain. But it does not follow that other parts of the body are not
informed. Hence your remark has no bearing on the question; and it remains
true that the soul, as the form of the body, is directly connected with
every part of the organism in which vital acts are performed.



XV. Spiritism.


_Reader._ May I ask, doctor, what you think of spiritism?

_Büchner._ I think it to be a fraud.

_Reader._ Of course, when a man denies the existence of spiritual
substances, he cannot but deny their manifestation. Yet the phenomena of
spiritism are so well known that we can scarcely be of your opinion.

_Büchner._ “Some of these phenomena, _clairvoyance_ especially, have been
laid hold of to prove the existence of supernatural and supersensual
phenomena. They were considered as the link of connection between the
spiritual and the material world; and it was surmised that these phenomena
opened a gate through which man might pass, and succeed in obtaining some
immediate clue regarding transcendental existence, personal continuance,
and the laws of the spirit. All these things are now, by science and an
investigation of the facts, considered as idle fancies which human nature
is so much inclined to indulge in to satisfy its longing after what
appears miraculous and supersensual” (p. 149).

_Reader._ I apprehend, doctor, that science has no means of showing that
“all these things are idle fancies.” Materialism, of course, assumes,
though it cannot show, that spirits do not exist; but materialism is no
science at all; and if the “investigation of the facts” has been conducted
by materialists, we may well be sure that their verdict was not unbiassed.
On the other hand, men of science, who are not materialists, a great
number of physicians, philosophers, and theologians, are convinced that
the phenomena of spiritism are neither inventions nor delusions. And,
though human nature feels a certain propensity to believe what is
wonderful, we cannot assume that learned and prudent men yield to this
propensity without good reasons.

_Büchner._ “This propensity has given rise to the most curious errors of
the human mind. Though it sometimes appears that the progress of science
arrests its development in some place, it suddenly breaks forth with
greater force at some other place where it was less expected. The events
of the last few years afford a striking example. What the belief in
sorcery, witchcraft, demoniac possession, vampirism, etc., was in former
centuries, reappears now under the agreeable forms of table‐moving,
spirit‐rapping, psychography, somnambulism, etc.” (p. 150).

_Reader._ You are right. Spiritism is only a new form of old superstitions
and diabolic manifestations. But you are mistaken, if you believe that
science can show such manifestations to have been fables. Your scientific
argument against spiritual manifestations is, you must own it,
inconsistent with your scientific process. Your process requires a basis
of facts; for it is from facts that science draws its generalizations. You
should, therefore, first ascertain that sorcery, witchcraft, etc., never
existed in the world, and that not one of the thousand facts narrated in
profane, sacred, or ecclesiastical history has ever happened; and then you
might conclude that all mankind have been very stupid to believe such
absurdities. But you follow quite a different course. You argue _à
priori_, and say: Spiritual manifestations are an impossibility; therefore
all the pretended facts of spiritism are impositions. This manner of
arguing is not scientific; for evidently it is not based on facts, and the
assumption that spiritual manifestations are impossible cannot be granted;
for it cannot be proved. Hence not only the ignorant classes, but also
educated persons, as you complain, believe in spiritual manifestations, in
spite of your pretended science; for, when they see the facts, they will
only smile at your denial of their possibility.

_Büchner._ But the facts themselves are incredible. “Magnetic sleep,
induced either by continued passes on the body, or spontaneously without
external means, as in idiosomnambulism, is stated to be frequently
attended by an intellectual ecstasy, which in certain privileged persons,
chiefly females, rises to what is called _clairvoyance_. In this state
those persons are said to exhibit mental faculties not natural to them, to
speak fluently foreign languages, and to discuss things perfectly unknown
to them in the waking state.... The person perceives things beyond the
sphere of his senses, he reads sealed letters, guesses the thoughts of
other persons, reveals the past, etc. Finally, such individuals sometimes
give us information about the arrangements in heaven and hell, our state
after death, and so forth; but we cannot help mentioning that these
revelations are ever in remarkable harmony with the religious views of the
church, or of the priest under whose influence the patient may be for the
time” (p. 151).

_Reader._ Poor Doctor Büchner! You are most unlucky in your allusion to
the church. Spiritism is not a priestly invention, nor is it practised
under the influence of the priest. The whole world knows that the practice
of spiritism is utterly forbidden by the church; and you cannot be
ignorant that your insinuation of the contrary is a slander. Perhaps your
Masonic conscience allows you to tell lies; but is it wise to do so when
the lie is so patent that no one can believe it?

_Büchner._ “There can be no doubt that all pretended cases of clairvoyance
rest upon fraud or illusion. Clairvoyance—that is, a perception of
external objects without the use of the senses—is an impossibility. It is
a law of nature which cannot be gainsaid that we require our eyes to see,
our ears to hear, and that these senses are limited in their action by
space. No one can read an opaque sealed letter, extend his vision to
America, see with closed eyes what passes around him, look into the
future, or guess the thoughts of others. These truths rest upon natural
laws which are irrefutable, and admit, like other natural laws, of no
exception. All that we know we know by the medium of our senses. There
exist no supersensual and supernatural things and capacities, and they
never can exist, as the eternal conformity of the laws of nature would
thereby be suspended. As little as a stone can ever fall in any other
direction than towards the centre of the earth, so little can a man see
without using his eyes” (p. 152).

_Reader._ Your reasoning is not sound, doctor. The stone can fall in any
direction, if it receives an impetus in that direction; it is only when it
is left to itself that it must fall directly towards the centre of the
earth. So also a man, when left to himself and his natural powers, cannot
see without using his eyes; but if acted on by a preternatural agency, he
may be made acquainted with what his eyes cannot see. Your mention of
natural laws is uncalled for. You will certainly not pretend that the
natural laws, which hold in regard to this visible world, can be assumed
to rule the world of the spirits. Moreover, when you say that “there exist
no supersensual and supernatural things,” because “the eternal conformity
of the laws of nature would thereby be suspended,” you merely make a
gratuitous assertion. For as you can raise a weight without suspending the
law of gravitation, so can other agents do other things conflicting with
the uniform execution of natural laws without the natural laws becoming
suspended. Thus your assertion that “there exist no supersensual and
supernatural things” is wholly gratuitous, and therefore cannot be the
basis of a sound argument against the facts of spiritism. “There is no
fighting against facts; it is like kicking against the pricks,” as you say
in one of your prefaces (p. xviii.)

_Büchner._ “Ghosts and spirits have hitherto only been seen by children,
or ignorant and superstitious individuals” (p. 152).

_Reader._ Did not Saul see the ghost of Samuel?

_Büchner._ “All that has been narrated of the visits of departed spirits
is sheer nonsense; never has a dead man returned to this world. There are
neither table‐spirits nor any other spirits” (p. 153).

_Reader._ How can you account for such a singular assertion?

_Büchner._ “The naturalist entertains, from observation and experience, no
doubt as to these truths; a constant intercourse with nature and its laws
has convinced him that they admit of no exception” (p. 153).

_Reader._ This is not true. Naturalists, with their observation and
experience of natural things, do not and cannot reject facts of a higher
order, though they have not observed them. Their non‐observation is no
argument, especially when we have other witnesses of the facts, and when
we know that the naturalists of your school are pledged to materialism,
and therefore shut their eyes to the facts which oppose their theory. The
majority of educated persons admit the facts; not indeed _all_ the facts
narrated, but many of them which no critical rule allows us to reject.

_Büchner._ Where are those facts? “The scientific impossibility of
clairvoyance has been confirmed by an examination of the facts by sober
and unprejudiced observers, and were proved to be deceptions and
illusions” (p. 153).

_Reader._ Of course there are juggleries and impositions; but what of
that? Would you maintain that there can be no doctors because there are
quacks? I appeal to your logic.

_Büchner._ “The faculty of medicine of Paris many years ago took the
trouble of submitting a number of such cases to a scientific examination;
they were all proved to be deceptions, nor could a single case be
established of a perception without the use of the senses. In 1837 the
same academy offered a prize of 3,000 francs to any one who could read
through a board. No one gained the prize” (_ibid._)

_Reader._ You forget, doctor, that in 1837 spiritism was as yet most
imperfectly known. It was only about ten years later that it developed
throughout America and Europe. Let the medical faculty of Paris again
offer a prize to any one who can read through a board; and no one doubts
there would be no lack of competitors. When we see that physicians and
others, owing to their own experience of spiritual manifestations, were
compelled to repudiate their previous materialistic opinions; when we know
that infidels by the same manifestations were brought to believe the
immortality of the soul; when the learned and the ignorant, the rich and
the poor, the layman and the churchman, the diplomatist, the philosopher,
and the theologian, bear witness to the reality of the spiritual
phenomena, and are ready to bring forward innumerable facts in support of
their affirmation, we do not care what the faculty of medicine of Paris
may have pronounced many years ago. You say that the faculty “submitted a
number of such cases to a scientific examination,” and that “they were all
proved to be deceptions”; but you would be very much embarrassed to say in
what that “scientific examination” consisted. On the other hand, the
proofs of the deception have never appeared; and the simple truth is that
the spiritual phenomena were _à priori_ rejected, as clashing with the
materialistic theory of the faculty. You pretend that “whenever the proper
means were employed to prevent deception, clairvoyance was at an end” (p.
153). Such an assertion proves that you are completely ignorant of what is
going on in the world, or that you are determined obstinately to ignore
whatever could compel you to acknowledge the existence of spiritual
substances.

_Büchner._ “I have had the opportunity of examining a clairvoyant, of whom
remarkable things were told, under circumstances when a deception on the
part of the magnetizer was out of the question. The lady failed in all her
indications; they were either absolutely false or so expressed that
nothing could be made of them. She, moreover, made the most ridiculous
excuses for her shortcomings. As she failed in her clairvoyance, she
preferred to fall into a state of heavenly ecstasy, in which she
discoursed with her _ange_ or tutelar genius, and recited religious
verses. In reciting a poem of this kind she once stopped short, and
recommenced the verse to assist her memory. She manifested, withal, in
this ecstasy, no superior mental capacities; her language was common, and
her manner awkward. I left with the conviction that the lady was an
impostor who deceived her patron. Still, several gentlemen present were by
no means convinced of the deception practised on them” (p. 154).

_Reader._ If these gentlemen could by no means be convinced of the
deception, must we not presume that there was no deception, and that your
peculiar construction of the case was brought about by a strong desire of
not being disturbed in your fixed idea that there is nothing but matter?
If “the lady failed in all her indications,” if “she made the most
ridiculous excuses for her shortcomings,” if “she manifested no superior
capacities,” it should have been evident to those “several gentlemen” that
she was a fraud. Their inability to be convinced of the deception would
therefore show that the lady did not fail in all her indications, but
manifested superior capacities. Be this as it may, the truth and reality
of spiritual manifestations cannot be disproved by particular attempts at
imposition. Spiritualists admit that many impositions have been practised
under the name of spiritual manifestations, but they aver that in most
instances cheats could not have been palmed off, even if designed; and
that in other cases there could be no possible motive for deception, as
the investigations were carried on in private families where the mediums
were their own sons and daughters.(50) Spirit‐rapping is a fact. Table‐
turning is a fact. Clairvoyance is a fact. Thousands of all conditions,
sects, and nations have witnessed, watched, and examined all such facts
with a degree of attention, suspicion, and incredulity proportionate to
their novelty, strangeness, and unnaturalness. What has been the result? A
verdict acknowledging the reality of the facts and the impossibility of
accounting for them without intelligent preternatural agencies. This
verdict disposes of your materialism. To deny the facts in order to save
materialism is so much time lost. Facts speak for themselves.



XVI. Innate Ideas


_Reader._ And now I should like to know, doctor, why you thought proper to
fill twenty‐seven pages of your _Force and Matter_ with a discussion about
innate ideas.

_Büchner._ For two reasons, sir. First, because “the question whether
there be innate ideas is a very old one, and, in our opinion, one of the
most important in relation to the contemplation of nature. It decides to
some extent whether man, considered as the product of a higher world, has
received a form of existence as something foreign and external to his
essence, with the tendency to shake off this earthly covering, and to
return to his spiritual home; or whether, both in his spiritual and bodily
capacity, man stands to the earth which has produced him in a necessary,
inseparable connection, and whether he has received his essential nature
from this world; so that he cannot be torn from the earth, like the plant
which cannot exist without its maternal soil. The question is, at the same
time, one which does not dissolve itself in a philosophical mist, but
which, so to speak, has flesh and blood, and, resting upon empirical
facts, can be discussed and decided without high‐sounding phrases” (p.
157). The second reason is, that “if it be correct that there are no
innate intuitions, then must the assertion of those be incorrect who
assume that the idea of a God, or the conception of a supreme personal
being, who created, who governs and preserves the world, is innate in the
human mind, and therefore incontrovertible by any mode of reasoning” (p.
184).

_Reader._ Do you mean, that, by refuting the theory of innate ideas, you
will cut the ground from under the feet of the theist and the
spiritualist?

_Büchner._ Yes, sir. Such is the drift of my argumentation.

_Reader._ Then your labor is all in vain. For you must know that we do not
base our demonstration of the substantiality and immortality of the soul
on the doctrine of innate ideas, nor do we assume that the notion of a God
is an “innate intuition.” Had you been even superficially acquainted with
the works of our scholastic philosophers, you would have known that innate
ideas are totally foreign to their psychological and theological
doctrines. You would have known that the axiom, _Nihil est in intellectu
quod non fuerit in sensu_—that is, “There is nothing in our intellect
which has not entered by the gate of the senses”—is not a discovery of
your Moleschott, to whom you attribute it, but is an old dictum familiar
to all the schoolmen of past centuries, and approved by the most orthodox
philosophers of our own time. Now, these philosophers, while denying that
we have any innate idea, admit at the same time that our soul is a special
substance and is immortal, and show that the human intellect can easily
form a concept of God as a supreme cause, and ascertain his existence
without need of innate intuitions. This might convince you that your
chapter on innate ideas has no bearing on the questions concerning the
nature of the soul and the notion of a God. Your assumption that if man
has innate ideas, he will have a tendency “to shake off this earthly
covering, and to return to his spiritual home,” is incorrect. For the
human body has no spiritual home, as is evident; and the human soul, as
having no previous existence in a separate state, has no home but in the
body, and the presence of innate ideas would not create in it a tendency
to shake off its earthly covering. On the other hand, your other
assumption, that, if man has no innate ideas, he is “a production of the
earth alone, and cannot be torn from the earth, with which he is
inseparably connected both in his spiritual and bodily capacity,” is even
more incorrect. For the absence of innate ideas does not mean, and does
not entail, the absence of an intellectual principle; and such a
principle, as evidently immaterial, is not a production of the earth, and
has no need of earthly things to continue its existence.

_Büchner._ How can a soul exist without ideas? And, if all ideas come
through our senses, how can a soul exist without being united to the
organs? “Daily experience teaches us that man begins his intellectual life
only with the gradual development of his senses, and in proportion as he
enters into a definite relation to the external world; and that the
development of his intellect keeps pace with that of his organs of sense
and his organ of thought, and also with the number and importance of the
impressions received. ‘Every unprejudiced observer,’ says Virchow, ‘has
arrived at the conviction that thought is only gradually developed in
man.’ The new‐born child thinks as little, and has as little a soul, as
the unborn child; it is, in our view, living in the body, but
intellectually dead.... The embryo neither thinks nor feels, and is not
conscious of its existence. Man recollects nothing of this state, nor of
the first period of his existence in which the senses were dormant; and
this perfect unconsciousness proves his spiritual non‐existence at that
period. The reason can only be that, during the fœtal state, there are no
impressions whatever received from without, and so weak and imperfect are
they in the first few weeks that the intellect cannot be said to exist”
(p. 159).

_Reader._ It is plain that the new‐born child cannot form an idea of
exterior objects without the use of his senses. But is it true that the
new‐born child is not conscious of its own existence? Certainly not; for,
without a previous knowledge of its own existence, it would never be able
to attribute to itself the feelings awakened in it by exterior objects.
The mind cannot say, _I feel_, if it is not already acquainted with the
_I_. Nor does it matter that “man recollects nothing of the first period
of his existence.” Recollection is impossible so long as the brain has not
acquired a certain consistency; and therefore whatever happens with us in
the first period of our existence leaves no durable trace in our organs,
and is entirely forgotten. Hence your assertions “that the senses of the
new‐born child are dormant, and that its perfect unconsciousness proves
its spiritual non‐existence,” are both false. The child feels its being,
its senses are quite ready to receive impressions, and its soul is quite
alive to such impressions.

You say that “the development of the intellect keeps pace with that of the
organs of sense.” What do you mean by development of the intellect? If you
simply mean that the intellect is furnished with materials of thought in
proportion as sensible objects are perceived, and that, by being so
furnished, it can easily perform a number of intellectual operations, I
admit your assertion; but if you mean that the soul itself is
_substantially_ developed in proportion as the organs are growing more
perfect, then your assertion is both groundless and absurd. Now, it is
evident, by your manner of reasoning, that this second meaning is the one
you adopt. And therefore it is evident that your conclusion is wrong. “The
impressions,” you say, “are so weak and imperfect that the intellect
cannot be said to exist.” This is simply ludicrous. Would you allow us to
say that at night the impressions of light are so weak and imperfect that
the eye cannot be said to exist? Or that the impressions made on a piece
of paper by a bad pencil are so weak and imperfect that the paper cannot
be said to exist? It is obvious that the impressions do not cause the
existence of their subject; and, therefore, if the intellect “cannot be
said to exist” before the impressions, the time will never come when it
can be said to exist.

And now, suppose that a newborn child dies without having acquired through
its senses any knowledge of the exterior world. What shall we say of its
soul? Will such a soul be entirely destitute of ideas, and unable to
think? By no means. Such a soul, after its short permanence in the body,
where it _felt_ its own being, will henceforward _understand_ its own
being as actually present in its own individuality; it will perceive its
own essence as well as its existence; it will be able to abstract from
_self_, and to behold essence, existence, and being, _secundum se_—that
is, according to their objective intelligibility; and, finally, it will be
able to commune with other spiritual beings with the same facility with
which, while in the body, it could communicate with the exterior world by
means of its organic potencies. I know that you do not believe this; but
your unbelief will not change things. The soul, when out of the body, is
competent to perform intellectual operations about intellectual objects as
freely and as perfectly as it performs the sensitive operations in its
present condition. If you consult the works of our philosophers and
theologians, you will find the proofs of my proposition. As to your
opposite assumption, since you have no means of establishing it, we are
free to dismiss it without further discussion.

_Büchner._ If the soul is a separate substance, how and when is it
introduced into the body? “The scientific and logical impossibility of
determining the time (of its introduction) proves the absurdity of the
whole theory, which assumes that a higher power breathes the soul into the
nostrils of the fœtus” (p. 160).

_Reader._ You are grossly mistaken, doctor. The impossibility of
determining the time of the animation of the fœtus proves nothing but our
ignorance. Do you deny that Paris was built by the Gauls on the plea that
you do not know the date of its foundation? Again, since the animation of
the fœtus is not an operation of the mind, how can you speak of _logical_
impossibility? Evidently, you write at random, and know not what you say.
As to the question itself, one thing is clear, viz., the child cannot be
born alive, unless its body has been animated in the womb.

_Büchner._ “Moses and the Egyptians entertained a decided opinion that the
child was not animated while in the womb” (p. 161).

_Reader._ False. Moses describes in the Book of Genesis the fighting of
Jacob and Esau while in the womb of their mother. Could he assume that
they would fight before being animated?

_Büchner._ “In some countries they know nothing of an animated fœtus”
(_ibid._)

_Reader._ False. Every mother will give you the lie.

_Büchner._ “The destruction of the fœtus and infanticide are, according to
Williams, common occurrences in Madagascar. It is also common in China and
the Society Islands” (_ibid._)

_Reader._ This shows the immorality of those nations, not their ignorance
of the fœtal life. But why should you appeal to the presumed ignorance of
barbarians against the verdict of civilized nations? Are you an apostle of
barbarity and brutality? Do you wish your reader to persuade himself that
the destruction of the fœtus is no crime?

_Büchner._ “The Roman lawyers did not look upon the fœtus as an individual
being, but as a part of the mother. The destruction of the fœtus was
therefore permitted to the women of Rome, and we find that Plato and
Aristotle had already adopted the same view” (p. 160).

_Reader._ Do not calumniate Aristotle. This great philosopher and
naturalist is decidedly not of your opinion. He teaches that the fœtus is
animated in the womb. And, pray, are the legal fictions of the Roman
lawyers of any weight against the facts averred by modern medicine? Do you
again appeal to ignorance against science?

_Büchner._ Physicians have not yet decided the question. “Even at birth,
when the child is separated from the mother, it is impossible to assume
that a ready‐made soul, lying in wait, should suddenly rush in and take
possession of its new habitation. The soul, on the contrary, is only
gradually developed in proportion to the relations which, by the awakening
senses, are now established between the individual and the external world”
(p. 161).

_Reader._ No, sir. If this last assertion were true, it would follow that
every child would be lifeless at its birth; for without a soul no animal
life can be conceived. What is “gradually developed” is not the substance
of the soul, but the exercise of its faculties. This is a point already
settled. As to your other assertion, that the question has not yet been
decided by the physicians, I need only say that, although there are
different opinions regarding the time of the animation of the embryo, yet
no physician (unless he is a materialist) denies that the embryo is
animated long before its nativity. Hence your notion of a ready‐made soul
lying in wait, and suddenly rushing in when the child is born, is only a
dream of your fancy or an unworthy attempt at ridiculing the proceedings
of nature.

What you add about the development of the child’s mind by means of the
senses, education, and example does not prove the _subjective_, but only
the _objective_, growth of the mind, as you yourself seem to concede (p.
162). And as the objective growth means an accidental acquisition of
knowledge without any substantial change of the soul, hence nothing that
you may say in refutation of innate ideas can have the least weight or
afford the least ground against the doctrine of the immortality and
substantiality of the soul.



XVII. The Idea Of A God.


_Reader._ From the non‐existence of innate ideas you infer, doctor, that
“the idea of a God, or the conception of a supreme personal being, who
created, who governs and preserves the world, is not innate in the human
mind, and therefore is not incontrovertible” (p. 184). On the other hand,
you say with Luther that “God is a blank sheet, upon which nothing is
found but what you have yourself written” (_ibid._) Do you mean that our
notion of God is merely subjective—that is, a creation of our fancy
without any objective foundation?

_Büchner._ Yes, sir. “We can have neither any knowledge nor any conception
of the _absolute_—of that which transcends the surrounding sensual world.
However much metaphysicians may vainly attempt to define the absolute,
however much religion may endeavor to excite faith in the absolute by the
assumption of a revelation, nothing can conceal the defect of the
definition. All our knowledge is relative, and results from the comparison
of surrounding sensible objects. We could have no notion of darkness
without light, no conception of high without low, of heat without
coldness, etc.; absolute ideas we have none. We are not able to form any
conception of ‘everlasting’ or ‘infinite,’ as our understanding, limited
by time and space, finds an impassable barrier for that conception. From
being in the sensual world accustomed to find a cause for every effect, we
have falsely concluded that there exists a primary cause of all things,
although such a cause is perfectly inaccessible to our ideas, and is
contradicted by scientific experience” (p. 179).

_Reader._ How do you show that we have neither any knowledge nor any
conception of the absolute? or that our understanding is limited by time
and space? or that, from being accustomed to find a cause for every
effect, we have _falsely_ concluded that there exists a primary cause of
all things? or that its existence is contradicted by scientific
experience? Of course you cannot expect that a rational man will swallow
such paradoxes on your puny authority.

_Büchner._ We know neither absolute truth, nor absolute good, nor absolute
beauty. This I have shown by proving that all our notions of truth, of
good, and of beauty are the fruit of experience, observation, and
comparison, and that such notions vary according to the character of the
nations in which they are to be found. It is only after this demonstration
that I concluded “that we can have neither any knowledge nor any
conception of the absolute.”

_Reader._ Yes; this is the only point which you have tried to establish,
and you have failed, as I am ready to show. But that our understanding is
limited by time and space you merely assert. That we falsely conclude that
there is a primary cause you boldly assume. That God’s existence is
contradicted by scientific experience you impudently affirm, well knowing
that it is a lie.

And now, with regard to the knowledge of the absolute, you are much
mistaken if you believe that we know no absolute truth, no absolute good,
and no absolute beauty. We know absolute being; and therefore we know
absolute truth, absolute good, and absolute beauty.

_Büchner._ We know of no absolute being, sir.

_Reader._ Be modest, doctor; for you know of how many blunders you stand
already convicted. Absolute being is not necessarily “that which
transcends the surrounding sensual world.” The sun, the moon, the planets
have their absolute being, and yet do not transcend matter. Now, can we
not form a notion of the absolute being of these bodies? You say that “all
our knowledge is relative, and results from the comparison of surrounding
sensible objects”; but you should reflect that all relative knowledge
implies the knowledge of the absolute terms from the comparison of which
the relation is to be detected. Hence you cannot admit the knowledge of
the relative without assuming the knowledge of the absolute. Accordingly,
it is false that “all our knowledge is relative,” at least in the sense of
your argumentation. Nor is it true that all our knowledge “results from
the comparison of surrounding sensible objects.” There is a kind of
knowledge which results from the comparison of intellectual principles, as
the knowledge of the logical rules; and there is also a knowledge which
results, not from the comparison, but from the intellectual analysis, of
things, as the knowledge of the constituent principles of being. If I ask
you what is _distance_, you will soon point out any two sensible objects,
by the comparison of which distance may become known; but if I ask you
what is _syllogism_, or what is _judgment_, or what is _philosophy_, I
defy you to point out any “surrounding sensible objects,” by the
comparison of which such notions may be understood.

I need not discuss your assertion that “we could have no notion of
darkness without light, no conception of high without low, of heat without
coldness, etc.” I may concede the assertion as irrelevant for, whenever we
designate things by relative terms, it is clear that each relative carries
within itself the connotation of its correlative. But it does not follow
that all our knowledge is relative. How can we know, for instance, the
relation of brotherhood intervening between James and John, if we know
neither the one nor the other? Can we conceive the _brother_ without the
_man_? Or is it necessary, when we know the man, that in such a man we
should see his peculiar relation to another man?

You pretend that we are not able to form any conception of “ever‐lasting”
or “infinite”; and, to prove this, you affirm that “our understanding,
being limited by time and space, finds an impassable barrier for that
conception.” Very well; but what did you mean when you contended that
matter is “eternal” and “infinite”? Had you then any conception of
“eternal” and “infinite”? If you had not such conceptions, you made a fool
of yourself by using terms which you did not understand; while, if you had
such conceptions, then it is false that we are not able to form them. In
the same manner, have you any conception of the “absolute”? If you have
it, then it is ridiculous to pretend that we cannot conceive the absolute;
while, if you have it not, you know not about what you are speaking. Alas!
poor doctor. What can you answer? It is the common fate of the enemies of
truth to be inconsistent with themselves, and to demolish with one hand
what they build with the other.

But is it true that our intellect “is limited by time and space”? No, it
is not true. Imagination is indeed limited by time and space, as all our
philosophers concede; but intellect understands things independently of
either space or time. This is evident. For in what space do we place the
universals? To what time do we confine mathematical truths? _Two and two
are known to make four_ in all places and in all times—that is, without
restriction or limit in space and time; and the same is true of all
intellectual principles. Hence it is obvious that our understanding
transcends both space and time, and can reach the infinite and the
eternal. It is through abstraction, of course, and not by comprehension or
by intuition, that we form such notions; for our intellect, though not
limited by time and space, is limited in its own entity, and therefore it
cannot conceive the unlimited, except by the help of the abstractive
process—that is, by removing the limits by which the objective reality of
the finite is circumscribed. That we can do this I need not prove _to
you;_ for you admit that space is infinite, and pretend that matter itself
is infinite, as I have just remarked; and consequently you cannot deny
that we have the notion of infinity.

What shall I say of your next assertion, that, from being accustomed to
find a cause for every effect, “we have _falsely_ concluded that there
exists a primary cause of all things”? Do you think that the principle of
causality has no other ground than experience? or that, when we do not
“find” the cause of a certain effect, we are to conclude that the effect
has had no cause? I hope you will not deny that the notions of cause and
effect are so essentially connected that there is no need of experiment to
compel the admission of a cause for every effect. Hence we are certain,
not only that all the effects for which we have found a cause proceed from
a cause, but also that all the effects for which we cannot find a cause
likewise proceed from a cause. This amounts to saying that the principle
of causality is analytical, not empirical, as you seem to hold. Now, if
all effects must have a cause, on what ground do you assert that “we have
_falsely_ concluded that there exists a primary cause of all things”? Our
conclusion cannot be false, unless it be false that the world has been
created; for if it was created, we must admit a Creator—that is, a primary
cause. But the fact of creation is, even philosophically, undeniable,
since the contingent nature of the world is manifestly established by its
liability to continuous change. And therefore it is manifestly established
that our admission of a primary cause is not a false conclusion. I might
say more on this point; but what need is there of refuting assertions
which have not even a shadow of plausibility? The primary cause, you say,
“is perfectly inaccessible to our ideas.” I answer that, if the word
“idea” means “concept,” your statement is perfectly wrong. You add that
the existence of a primary cause “is contradicted by scientific
experience.” I answer by challenging you to bring forward a single fact of
experimental science which supports your blasphemous assertion.

You must agree, doctor, that a man who in a few phrases commits so many
unconceivable blunders has no right to censure the metaphysicians or to
attack revelation. It is rash, therefore, on your part, to declare that
“however much metaphysicians may vainly attempt to define the absolute,
however much religion may endeavor to excite faith in the absolute by the
assumption of a revelation, nothing can conceal the defect of the
definition.” Of what definition do you speak? Your own definition of the
absolute, as “that which transcends the surrounding sensual world,” is
certainly most deficient; but religion and metaphysics are not to be made
responsible for it. Why did you not, before censuring the metaphysicians
and the theologians, ascertain their definitions? We call _absolute_ a
being whose existence does not depend on the existence of another being;
and in this sense God alone is absolute. He is _the absolute_
antonomastically. And we call _absolute_ analogically any being also whose
existence does not depend on any created being, although it depends on the
creative and conservative action of God; and in this sense every created
substance is absolute. And we call _absolute_ logically whatever is
conceived through its own intrinsic constituents without reference to any
other distinct entity; and in this sense we speak of absolute movement,
absolute weight, absolute volume, etc. Without enumerating other less
important meanings of the term, I simply observe that the absolute may be
defined as that which is independent of extraneous conditions; and that
the greater its independence, the more absolute and the more perfect is
the being. Have you anything to say against this definition?

We must, then, conclude that all your argumentation is nothing but a
shocking display of false assertions, and, I may add, of “intellectual
jugglery.”

_Büchner._ I will accept your conclusion, if you can show that our
conception of a God is not a childish delusion of our fancy. “An exact
knowledge and unprejudiced observation of individuals and nations in an
uncivilized state prove the contrary to be the fact. Only a prejudiced
mind can, in the worship of animals practised by ancient and existing
nations, find something analogous to a real belief in a God. It by no
means corresponds to the idea of a God when we see man worshipping such
animals as he from experience knows may injure or be useful to him.... A
stone, a tree, a river, an alligator, a parcel of rags, a snake, form the
idols of the negro of Guinea. Such a worship does not express the idea of
an almighty being, governing the world and ruling nature and man, but
merely a blind fear of natural forces, which frighten uncivilized man, or
appear supernatural, as he is not able to trace the natural connection of
things.... A god in the shape of an animal is no God, but a caricature”
(pp. 184, 185).

_Reader._ True. But individuals and nations existing “in an uncivilized
state” are scarcely to be appealed to for a decision of the question. The
notion of worship implies the notion of a supreme being; but rude and
brutal men, thinking of nothing but of the development of their animal
nature and the pursuit of degrading pleasure, though they know that there
is some superior being, are not the men we ought to consult about the
nature and attributes of divinity. It seems, doctor, as if you had a great
predilection for uncivilized and barbarous nations. You have already tried
to countenance abortion and fœticide, on the ground that barbarians
admitted the horrible practice; and now you would have us believe that our
conception of a God is a childish delusion, on the ground that barbarians
worship the snake, the alligator, or any other caricature of a god. This
will not do.

_Büchner._ But civilized men are not much in advance of barbarians with
regard to the notion of divinity. “No one has better expounded the purely
human origin of the idea of God than Ludwig Feuerbach. He calls all
conceptions of God and divinity _anthropomorphisms_—_i.e._, products of
human fancies and perceptions, formed after the model of human
individuality. Feuerbach finds this anthropomorphism in the feeling of
dependence inherent in the human nature. ‘An extraneous and superhuman
God,’ says Feuerbach, ‘is nothing but an extraneous and supernatural self,
a subjective being placed, by transgressing its limits, above the
objective nature of man.’ The history of all religions is indeed a
continuous argument for this assertion; and how could it be otherwise?
Without any knowledge or any notion of the absolute, without any immediate
revelation, the existence of which is indeed asserted by all, but not
proved by any religious sect, all ideas of God, no matter of what
religion, can only be human; and as man knows in animated nature no being
intellectually superior to himself, it follows that his conception of a
supreme being can only be abstracted from his own self, and must represent
a _self‐idealization_” (p. 190). Hence it is plain that our idea of a God
is a mere delusion.

_Reader._ It is by no means plain, doctor. Feuerbach’s authority, you
know, is worth very little. Your German philosophers, as you own, “have
pretty much lost their authority, and are now but little attended to” (p.
158). On the other hand, “nothing,” says Herschel, “is so improbable but a
German will find a theory for it” (p. 155). Therefore let Feuerbach alone.

As for the reasons which you adduce in support of the assumption, we need
not go into deep reasonings to lay open their true value. Is “the history
of all religions a continuous argument for Feuerbach’s assertion”? No. For
the history of the Mosaic and of the Christian religion is a continuous
refutation of such a slander. Are men “without any knowledge or any notion
of the absolute”? No. This I have already shown to be entirely false. Men,
however, are “without any immediate revelation.” This is true, but it has
nothing to do with the question; first, because philosophy and reason are
competent without supernatural revelation to ascertain the existence of a
primary cause infinitely superior to all the natural beings; secondly,
because, although we have no _immediate_ revelations, we have the old
revelation transmitted to us by written and oral tradition, and by the
teaching of the living church. That this revelation “is asserted by all,
but not proved by any religious sect,” is one of those lies which it is
quite unnecessary to refute, as there are whole libraries of Scriptural
treatises, in which the truth of revelation is superabundantly vindicated.
I would therefore conclude, without any further discussion, that it is to
yourself, and not to your opponents, that you should apply that low
criticism with which you close the twenty‐sixth chapter of your work. For
it is you that “delight in hashing up cold meat with new phrases, and
dishing them up as the last invention of the _materialistic_ kitchen” (p.
194).

To sum up: Do you admit that man is a finite being?

_Büchner._ Of course.

_Reader._ Do you admit that man had a beginning? That man is ignorant,
weak, wicked, and subject to death?

_Büchner._ Who can doubt that?

_Reader._ Then man by _self‐idealization_ cannot form an anthropomorphic
notion of a supreme being without involving limitation, ignorance,
impotence, malice, an origin, and an end of existence. Such, and no other,
would be the result of self‐idealization. Now, our notion of God is that
of a being eternal, infinite, omniscient, omnipotent, holy, immense. Is
this anthropomorphism?

To Be Continued.




Destiny.


From The French Of Louis Veuillot.

It is the lot of mortals here below
That they shall ever crawl from bad to worse,
Approaching step by step the dismal tomb—
Instance an aching tooth, with no relief
Save by its loss. Cure comes by sacrifice.

All victories are seeds of further strife—
Of strife that never ends but in the grave,
In which he only conquers who succumbs:
            And this is destiny.

Ye dreamers of love‐dreams, of glory, wealth,
Who, growing old, are scouted by the world,
And then swept on into forgetfulness!
All disappears—laurels, affection, gold!
Blame not your faults that so things come to pass,
            For this is destiny.




The Veil Withdrawn.


Translated, By Permission, From The French Of Mme. Craven, Author Of A “A
Sister’s Story,” “Fleurange,” Etc.



XXII.


The following day was as gloomy as might have been expected from the
evening before. Never had I suffered such inexpressible anguish and
distress.

It is useless to say that I went to church alone, as on the preceding
Sunday, but I was not as calm and recollected as I was then. I was now in
a state of irrepressible dissatisfaction with everything and everybody,
myself not excepted, and yet I was very far from being in that humble
disposition of mind which subdues all murmuring, extinguishes resentment,
and throws a calm, serene light on the way one should walk in. I regretted
my hastiness of the evening before, because I realized that a different
course would have been more likely to further my wishes. In short, I felt
I ought to have managed more skilfully, but it never occurred to me I
might have been more patient. I found it difficult, above all, to calm the
excessive irritation caused by the recollection of Lorenzo’s manner
throughout our interview. I compared it with his appearance on the day
when he spoke to me for the first time concerning her.

What tenderness he then manifested! What confidence! What respect even!
Even while uttering her name—alas! with emotion—how manifest it was that,
while desirous of repairing his wrongs towards her, he felt incapable of
any towards me! Not a week had elapsed since that time, and yesterday how
cold, how hard! What implacable and freezing irony! What an incredible
change in his looks and words! Was it really Lorenzo who spoke to me in
such a way? Was it really he who gave me so indifferent and almost
disdainful a look?... No, he was no longer the same. A previous
fascination had recovered its power, and the fatal charm over which I had
so recently triumphed had regained its empire over a heart which I was,
alas! too feeble to retain, because I had no sentiments more profound and
elevated than those of nature to aid me!

As I have already said, I did not try to fathom Faustina’s motives. I
ought, however, to say a few words concerning her, if only through charity
for him whom she had followed, like an angel of darkness, to disturb his
legitimate happiness!

That she had long loved him I do not doubt—loved him with the unbridled
passion that sways all such hearts as hers. She thought he would return to
her. She believed she was preparing for herself a whole life of happiness
by two years of apparent virtue. Mistaken, wounded, and desperate, she had
at first yielded to an impetuous desire of perhaps merely seeing him once
more; perhaps, also, to avenge herself by destroying the happiness that
had defeated her dearest hopes.

She had calculated on the extent of her influence, and had calculated
rightly. But in order to exert it, I was necessary to her design, and she
played with consummate art the scene of our first encounter. She wished to
take a near view of the enemy she hoped to vanquish; she must sound the
heart she wished to smite. Alas! all that was worthy of esteem in that
heart was not perceived by him, and it was natural to underrate a treasure
not appreciated by its owner. What could I do, then? What advantage had I
over her, if, in Lorenzo’s eyes, I was not protected by a sacred,
insurmountable barrier which he respected himself? What was my love in
comparison with her passion? What was my intelligence in comparison with
that which she possessed? My beauty beside the irresistible charm that had
even fascinated me? Finally, my youth itself in comparison with all the
advantages her unscrupulous vanity gave her over me? In fact, I think it
seemed so easy at the first glance to vanquish me that she was almost
disarmed herself. But I also believe she soon discovered something more in
me than all she found so easy to eclipse. She saw I might in time succeed
in acquiring an ascendency over Lorenzo that no human influence could
destroy. She saw I might kindle a flame in his soul it would be impossible
to extinguish—a flame very different from that which either of us could be
the object of. She saw I might lead him into a world where she could no
longer be my rival, and that I wished to do so. She discerned the ardent
though confused desire that was in my heart. In a word, she had on her
side an intuition equal to that which I had on mine. She perceived the
good there was in me, as I had fathomed the evil there was in her, and she
knew she must overpower my good influence, which would render him
invulnerable whom she wished to captivate. She made use of all the weapons
she possessed to conquer me, or rather, alas! to conquer him—weapons
always deadly against hearts without defence. The very esteem she had
heretofore won became a snare to him when her pride, her passion, changed
their calculations—an additional snare, a danger that, combined with
others, would be fatal!...

If I speak of her now in this way, it is not to gratify a resentment long
since extinguished. Neither is it to palliate Lorenzo’s offences against
me and against God. It is solely to explain their secret cause, and to
repeat once more that human love, even the most tender, is a frail
foundation of that happiness in which God has no part; and honor likewise,
even the highest and most unimpeachable, is a feeble guarantee of a
fidelity of which God is not the bond, the witness, and the judge!...

I saw Lorenzo barely for a moment in the morning. I clearly perceived he
wished to make me forget what had passed between us the evening before,
but I did not see the least shade of regret. It was evident, on the
contrary, that he thought himself magnanimous in overlooking my
reproaches, and felt no concern at having merited them. In short, we
seemed to have changed _rôles_. As for me, I suffered so much on account
of the outburst I had indulged in that it would have been easy to call
forth acknowledgments that would have atoned for it. They only waited for
the least word of affection, but not one did he utter. Lando came for him
before two o’clock, and they went away together, leaving me with a sad,
heavy heart. I was not to see him again till my return from the Hôtel de
Kergy. Where would he pass the time meanwhile?... Would it really be in
Lando’s company? And was the business they had to settle really such as to
render it impossible for him to spend this last evening with me?... Would
it not have been a thousand times better to have remained silent, and, as
this was really our last day, and we were to leave on the next, would it
not have been wiser in me to have spent it wholly with him, ... even if
that included her?... Had I not committed an irreparable folly in yielding
to this explosion of unmistakable anger? This was indubitable, but it was
too late to remedy it. The die was cast. Lorenzo was gone! I passed the
afternoon, like that of the Sunday before, at church, but was pursued by a
thousand distractions which I had not now the strength to resist. On the
contrary, I took pleasure in dwelling on them, and my mind wandered
without any effort on my part to prevent it. I neglected, on the very day
of my life when I had the most need of light, courage, and assistance, to
have recourse to the only Source whence they are to be obtained, and I
returned home without having uttered a prayer.

Two hours later I was at the Hôtel de Kergy, and in the same room where
just a week before I had felt such lively emotion and conceived such
delightful hopes! But, ah! what a contrast between my feelings on that
occasion and those of to‐day! I seemed to have lived as many years since
as there had been days!...

Mme. de Kergy advanced to meet me as I entered, and I saw she noticed the
change in my face the moment she looked at me. I did not know how to feign
what I did not feel, and she had had too much experience not to perceive I
had undergone some pain or chagrin since the evening before. She asked me
no questions, however, but, on the contrary, began to speak of something
foreign to myself; and this did me good. I soon felt my painful emotions
diminish by degrees, and a change once more in the atmosphere around me,
as when one passes from one clime to another.

The guests were but few in number, and all friends of the family. Diana,
prettier than ever, and so lively as to excite my envy, was delighted to
see me, but did not observe the cloud on my brow; and if she had, she
would have been incapable of fathoming the cause. She hastened to point
out the various guests who had arrived.

“They are all friends,” said she; “for mother said you were coming to get
a little respite from society.”

Mme. de Kergy presented them to me one by one, and among the persons
introduced were several of celebrity, whom I regarded with all the
interest a first meeting adds to renown. But I saw nothing of Diana’s
brother among those present, and was beginning to wonder if I should never
see him again, when, just as dinner was ready, he made his appearance. He
bowed to me at a distance, appearing to have forgotten it was his place to
escort me to the table. A sign from his mother seemed to bring him to
himself, and he offered me his arm with some confusion, though without any
awkwardness. But after taking a seat beside me, he remained for some
moments without speaking, and then addressed his conversation to others
instead of me. I saw he was for some reason embarrassed, and I was
confused myself; for such things are contagious. He soon recovered his
accustomed ease, however, and when he finally addressed me it was with a
simplicity that set me, on my part, entirely at ease. His conversation
surprised and pleased me, and I felt I conversed better with him than any
one else. There was nothing trifling in what he said, and, above all, he
refrained from everything like a compliment, direct or indirect, and even
from every subject that might lead either to me or himself. Women
generally like nothing so much as a style of conversation that shows the
effect they produce, so it was not astonishing it had been employed with
me as well as with others. But this language had always embarrassed and
displeased me, and I now felt proportionately pleased with the unusual way
in which I was addressed—a way that seemed to raise me in my own
estimation. And yet he did not try to absorb my attention, but gave others
an opportunity of taking part in the conversation.

It soon became general, and I stopped to listen. I had then the pleasure—a
new one for me—of witnessing a kind of game in which thoughts and opinions
fly from one to another, wit mingles with gravity, and the intellect is
brightened by contact with the brilliancy of others. Gilbert was not the
only one in this circle who knew how to interest without fatiguing, and
excite, not by ridicule, but by a better kind of wit, the hearty, cordial
laugh that wounds neither the absent nor the present!

What struck me especially was the interest and almost deference with which
a man of well‐known eloquence, whose opinions had weight with every one,
endeavored to draw forth the opinions of others. It might have been said
he listened even better than he talked.

Thus during the whole time we were at table, and the evening that
followed, I realized the true meaning of the word _conversation_ in a
country where it originated, in the social world where it was coined, and
in the language which is, of all mediums, the most delicate, the most
perfect, and the most universal.

In spite of myself, I felt my sadness gradually vanish, and my laugh more
than once mingled freely in the merriment of others. I saw that Mme. de
Kergy observed this with pleasure, and a benevolent smile increased the
habitual sweetness of her expression. She was a woman whose unvarying
serenity was the result of great suffering, and who now sought nothing in
this world but the happiness of others; to whose pains she was as fully
alive as she was full of profound compassion.

She wore mourning, not only for her husband, but a number of children, of
whom Gilbert and Diana were the sole survivors. But far from centring her
affection on them, she seemed to have given to all who were young the love
she had cherished for those who were gone, and the vacant places they had
left in her maternal heart. I could not help regarding her with
astonishment, for I belonged to a country where it is more common to die
of grief than to learn how to live under its burden. I returned Mme. de
Kergy’s smile, and for an hour felt gay and almost happy. But by degrees
the burden, removed for an instant, fell back on my heart. The reality of
my troubles, and the thought of bidding farewell to this delightful circle
of friends, filled me with a melancholy it was impossible to repress. The
regret that weighed on my heart was for a moment as profound as that we
feel for our country when we fear never to behold it again.

I remained seated in an arm‐chair near the fire‐place, and fell into a
revery which was favored by Diana, who was at the piano. She was at that
moment playing with consummate skill an air of Chopin’s which seemed to
give expression to my very thoughts....

I awoke from my long revery, and felt a blush mount to my very forehead
when, raising my eyes, I found Gilbert’s fixed on mine.... And mine were
veiled with tears! I hastily brushed them away, stammering with confusion
that Chopin’s music always affected my nerves, and then, leaving my seat,
I approached the piano, where Diana continued to play one air after
another.... Gilbert remained with a pensive manner in the place where I
left him, looking at me from a distance, and trying, perhaps, to
conjecture the cause of my emotion.

But the approaching separation was sufficient to account for this. I was
that very evening to bid a long farewell to these new friends, whom
perhaps I should never meet again in this world! And when the hour came,
and Mme. de Kergy clasped me for the last time in her arms, I made no
effort to restrain my tears. Diana wept also, and, throwing her arms
around my neck, said:

“Oh! do not forget me. I love you so much!”

Her mother added with a tearful voice:

“May God watch over you wherever you go, my dear Ginevra! I shall follow
you in spirit with as much interest as if I had known you always!...”

Gilbert offered me his arm, and conducted me to the carriage without
uttering a word; but as I was on the point of entering it he said:

“Those you leave behind are greatly to be pitied, madame.”

“And I am much more so,” I replied, my tears continuing to flow without
restraint.

He remained silent an instant, and then said:

“As for me, madame, I may hope to see you again, for I shall go to Naples,
... _if I dare_.”

“And why should you not dare? You know well we shall expect you and
welcome you as a friend.”

He made no reply, but after helping me into the carriage, and I had given
him my hand, as I bade him adieu, he answered in a low tone: “_Au
revoir!_”



XXIII.


Our journey through France and across the Alps did not in the least
diminish the impressions of my last days in Paris. But everything was
mingled in my recollections like the joy and regret I felt at my
departure—joy and regret, both of which I had reason to feel, though I did
not try to fathom their cause. I was only conscious that in more than one
way the repose and happiness of our life were threatened, and it was
necessary we should take flight. It seemed as if we could not go fast
enough or far enough. The very rapidity with which we travelled by railway
was delightfully soothing, for it seconded my wishes. The sudden change of
scenery and climate, and the different aspect of the towns as soon as we
crossed the mountains, also gave me pleasure, because all this greatly
added in my imagination to the distance we had so rapidly come.

Lorenzo also, though doubtless for a different reason, seemed more at ease
after we left Paris, and gradually resumed his usual manner towards me. He
never mentioned Faustina’s name, and I had only ventured to speak timidly
of her once. As we were on the point of leaving, I proposed writing her a
farewell note, but he prevented me by hastily stammering something to this
effect: that my absence the evening before was a sufficient explanation
for not seeing her again, and it was useless to take the trouble of any
further farewell.

This new attitude surprised me. He had changed his mind, then, since the
day he urged me so strongly to be her friend!... It is true I had myself
expressed a vehement desire—too vehement, perhaps!—to break off this
friendship. But he did not try in the least to profit by my present good‐
will to renew it. It was evident he no longer desired it himself. His only
wish seemed to be to make me forget the scene that had occurred, as well
as the cause that led to it. Why was this? If I had really been in the
wrong, would he have forgiven me so readily? If, instead of this, his
conscience forced him to excuse me, did not the affection he now
manifested prove his desire to repair wrongs he could not avow, and which
perhaps I did not suspect?

These thoughts involuntarily crossed my mind and heart with painful
rapidity. I loved Lorenzo, or rather, I felt the need of loving him, above
all things. But if he himself loved me no longer, if he had become
treacherous, unfaithful, and untrue to his word, could I continue to love
him? Was this possible?... What would become of me in this case? Merciful
heavens!... I asked myself these questions with a terror that could not
have been greater had I been asking myself what would become of my eyes
should they be deprived of light. And this comparison is just, for there
could be no darker night than that which would have surrounded me had the
ardent, predominant feeling of my heart been left without any object. I
might suitably have taken for my motto: _Aimer ou mourir_—either love or
die—words often uttered in a jesting, romantic, or trifling way, but which
were to me full of profound, mysterious meaning. But this meaning was
hidden from me, and the day was still far distant when its signification
would be made manifest!

After crossing the Alps and the Apennines, and passing through Florence
and Rome, we at length proceeded towards Naples by the delightful route
that formerly crossed the Pontine Marshes, Terracina, and Mola di Gaëta.
Every one who returns to Italy the first time after leaving it experiences
a feeling of intoxication and joy a thousand times more lively than when
one goes there for the first time. The eyes wander around in search of
objects which once gave them pleasure and it had been a sacrifice to
leave. I yielded to this enjoyment without attempting to resist it.
Sadness, moreover, did not belong to my age, and, though intensely capable
of it, it was by no means natural to me. During the first weeks after my
return to Naples my mind was diverted from all my troubles and anxiety by
novelties that everything contributed to render efficacious and powerful.

In the first place, I was glad to find myself once more in my delightful
home, which, by the order of Lorenzo, had undergone a multitude of
improvements during my absence, and was now additionally embellished with
the contents of the boxes we had brought from Paris. It was Lorenzo’s
taste, and not mine, which had dictated the choice of these numberless
objects, the chief value of which in my eyes was derived from the
estimation he attached to them himself.

The anxiety that clouded his face seemed to have disappeared. He appeared
as delighted as I to find himself at home, and was quite disposed to
resume his favorite occupation in his studio. Consequently, the clouds
soon began to disperse from my soul; the sun once more began to brighten
my life.

Lorenzo soon insisted, with an earnestness equal to that he had before
shown to have me all to himself, that my door should now be constantly
open. My drawing‐room was filled with people of the best society and
highest rank in Naples, and, thanks to their cordiality and natural turn
for sudden intimacies (a characteristic, charming trait in that delightful
region), instead of feeling at all embarrassed among so many new
acquaintances, I felt as if surrounded by friends I had always known and
loved.

Above all, I at last saw Livia once more, and though through a double
grate, which prevented me from embracing her, it afforded me an unalloyed
happiness which left no regrets.

The monastery she entered was situated at one extremity of Naples, which
could only be reached by traversing an endless number of narrow, gloomy,
winding streets, in which it seemed impossible to move a step without
knocking down the people on foot, overthrowing their shops, and even
kitchens, established in the open air; and, if in a carriage, crushing the
children playing, running about, or sleeping in the sun.

The first time a person ventures into such streets he is terrified at
every step, and wonders he is allowed there. He feels guilty and like
apologizing to every one he meets. But he soon sees he has done no harm;
that everybody, young and old, mothers and children, the passers‐by, the
coachmen, and even the horses themselves, are endowed with a dexterity,
good‐humor, and at the same time an energy that make their way through
everything. In a word, they all have such quickness of sight, hearing, and
motion that not a day passes in which miracles of skill are not effected
in these narrow streets, which not only prevent accidents from happening,
but even from being feared, and you are at last unwilling to admit there
is any crowd in Naples so compact, any street so narrow, or any descent so
perilous, as to make it necessary to leave the vehicle you are in, or
which the coachman who drives, and the horses he manages, cannot pass
without danger.

At the end of some such way as I have described it was necessary, in
addition to all this, in order to reach the monastery I am speaking of, to
stop at the foot of an acclivity the horses could not ascend, not on
account of its steepness, which would have been no obstacle, but because
every now and then there were steps to facilitate the ascent of
pedestrians, but which rendered it impassable for equipages of any kind
whatever. It had therefore to be ascended on foot, and, when once at the
top, there was still a flight of fifteen or twenty steps to climb before
reaching the broad terrace or platform before the gate through which
strangers were admitted to the convent.

If this ascent was difficult, it must be confessed one felt repaid for the
trouble of making it by the view from the terrace. Here the visitor
wandered along the narrow, gloomy streets through the old, historic city,
as well as its more elegant quarters, towards that side of the bay where
Vesuvius was to be seen in its most striking aspect, and from the summit
of the volcano followed its descent to the vast, smiling plain, more
charming even in that direction than that to the sea by Ottagno, Stabia,
and Castellamare. On every side the eye reposed on the verdant orange‐
trees growing in numberless gardens. Such was the outer world that
encircled my sister’s cloistered home. Such was the view from every window
on this side of the convent. On the other there was a more quiet prospect,
perhaps even better suited to contemplation—that of the cloister, with its
broad arcades of fine architecture, which surrounded an enclosure planted
with lemon‐trees, in the centre of which stood a massive antique fountain
of marble. The pines of Capo di Monte stood out against the clear sky,
further off were the heights of Sant’ Elmo, and along the horizon
stretched the majestic line of mountains which form the background of the
picture.

When able to tear my eyes from this magnificent prospect, lit up by all
the fires of the setting sun, I suddenly found myself in the somewhat
gloomy vestibule of the monastery, whence I was conducted to a large
parlor divided by a grate, behind which fell a long, black curtain. Here I
was left alone, with the assurance I should soon see my sister. I felt an
emotion I had not anticipated, and for the first time it seemed as if the
most horrible separation had taken place between us. The admiration I had
just experienced, and my joy at the prospect of seeing her again, both
vanished. My heart swelled with painful emotion, and it was with more
terror than devotion I looked up at a large crucifix—the only ornament on
the bare wall in front of the _grille_. As to the grate itself, it filled
me with horror, and I did not dare look at it.

All at once I heard the sound of a light step, the curtain was drawn
quickly aside, and a beloved voice softly uttered my name: “Gina!” Turning
around, I saw Livia, my sister, standing before me! The shock I received
could not have been greater if, supposing her dead, I had seen her descend
from the skies and appear thus suddenly before me. She wore the white veil
of a novice, and her habit, as well as the band across her forehead and
the _guimpe_ around her neck, was of the same color. Her face was radiant.
The dazzling rays of the setting sun suddenly poured in through the door
of the cloister, left open behind her, and she seemed to be wholly
enveloped in light. I gazed at her speechless with affection, surprise,
and I know not what other indefinable emotion.... I was almost afraid to
address her; but she did not appear to observe it. The words that rapidly
fell from her lips were animated, natural, and affectionate as ever—more
affectionate even. And there was the same tone of anxious solicitude. But
she was calmer, more serene, and even more gentle, and, though at times
she had the same tone of decision, there was no trace of the sadness and
austerity she sometimes manifested, in spite of herself, in former times
when an invisible cross darkened everything around her. The band that
concealed her hair revealed more clearly the extreme beauty of her eyes,
and while I stood gazing at her as if I had never studied her features
before, I felt she spoke truly in saying “the grates of the convent should
neither hide her face nor her heart from me.” Never had the one, I
thought, so faithfully reflected the other.

As to her, she by no means perceived the effect she had produced. She was
anxious to hear all I had been doing while absent, and asked me one
question after another with the same familiarity with which we used to
converse when side by side. Glad to be able to open my heart in this way,
I forgot, when I began, all I had to say if I would conceal nothing from
her. But my account soon became confused, and I suddenly stopped.

“Gina mia!” said she, “you do not tell me everything. Why is this? Is it
because you think I no longer take any interest in your worldly affairs?”

“It is not that alone, Livia, but it is really very difficult to speak of
Paris and the senseless life I led there before this grate and while
looking at you as you are now.”

“I shall always take as much pleasure in listening to you,” said she, “as
you do in talking to me. I admit, when our good aunt, Donna Clelia, comes
to see me with her daughters, I often assume a severe air, and tell them
what I think of the world; ... but I must confess my aunt does not get
angry with me, for she depends on my vocation to procure husbands for
Mariuccia and Teresina, who are worthy of them, because, as she says, a
person who consecrates herself to God brings good‐luck to all the family.
She no longer regards me as a _jettatrice_, I assure you!”

She laughed as she said this, and I could not help exclaiming with
surprise and envy:

“Livia, how happy you are to be so cheerful!”

Her face resumed its usual expression of sweet gravity, as she replied:

“I am cheerful, Gina, because I am happy. But you were formerly livelier
than I. Why are you no longer so, my dear sister? Cheerfulness is for
those whose souls are at peace.”

“O Livia!” I cried, not able to avoid a sincere reply to so direct a
question, “my heart is heavy with sorrow, I assure you, and the
cheerfulness you speak of is frequently wanting.”

She started with surprise at these words, and questioned me with an
angelic look.

I did not delay my reply. I felt the need of opening my heart, and resumed
the account I had broken off. I described without any circumlocution the
life of pleasure to which I had given myself up, at first through
curiosity and inclination, and in the end with weariness and disgust. I
spoke of the day at Paris when fervor, devotion, and good impulses awoke
in my soul, my meeting Mme. de Kergy, and all I had seen and felt in the
places I had visited in her company.

Finally, I endeavored, with a trembling voice, to explain all my hopes and
wishes with respect to Lorenzo, and the nature of the projects and
ambition I had for him. With a heart still affected at the remembrance I
depicted the new happiness—the new and higher life I had dreamed of for
him as well as myself!

Livia listened with joy to this part of my story, and her face brightened
while I was speaking. But, without explaining the cause of my
disappointment, I ended by telling her how complete it was, and this awoke
so many bitter remembrances at once that I was suffocated with emotion,
and for some moments I was unable to continue....

A cloud passed over her brow, and she suffered me to weep some moments in
silence.

“Your wishes were good and holy, Ginevra,” said she at length, “and God
will bless them sooner or later.”

I paid no heed to her words. A torrent of bitterness, jealousy, and grief
inundated my heart, and, feeling at liberty to say what concerned no one
but myself, I gave vent to thoughts I had often dwelt on in silence, but
now uttered aloud with vehemence and without any restriction.

Livia listened without interrupting me, and seemed affected at my
impetuosity. Standing motionless on the other side of the _grille_, her
hands crossed under her long, white scapular, and her downcast, thoughtful
eyes fastened on the ground, she seemed for a time to be listening rather
to the interior voice of my soul than to the words I uttered. At length
she slowly raised her eyes, and said with an accent difficult to describe:

“You say your heart feels the need of some object of affection—that not to
love would be death? You need, too, the assurance that the one you love is
wholly worthy of your affection?... Really,” continued she, smiling, “one
would say you wish Lorenzo to be perfect, which of course he is not, even
if as faultless as man is capable of being.”

She stopped, and the smile that played on her lips became almost
celestial. One would have said a ray of sunlight beamed across her face.
She continued:

“I understand you, Ginevra; I understand you perfectly, perhaps even
better than you do yourself, but I am not capable of solving the enigma
that perplexes you—of drawing aside the veil that now obscures the
light.... Oh! if I could!” said she, clasping her hands and raising her
eyes to heaven with fervor.“ To solve all your doubts—to give you the
light necessary to comprehend this mystery clearly—would require a miracle
beyond the power of any human being. God alone can effect this. May he
complete his work! May you merit it!”

The bell rang, and we hastily took leave of each other. It was dusk when I
left her. She assured me I could make her a similar visit every week, and
this prospect made me happy. I was happy to have seen her—happy to feel
she could still descend to my level from the holier region she inhabited,
and that there was nothing to hinder me from enjoying in the future the
sweet intercourse of the past.

But however fully I opened my heart to Livia, I should have considered it
profaning the purity of the air I breathed in her presence to utter the
name of Faustina Reali. And, without knowing why, neither did I mention
the name of Gilbert de Kergy.



XXIV.


Naples at that time was styled by some one “a small capital and a large
city,” and this designation was correct. The society, though on a small
scale, was of the very highest grade, consisting of an aristocracy exempt
from the least haughtiness, and retaining all the habits and manners of
bygone times. However frivolous this society might be in appearance, its
defects were somewhat redeemed by an originality and lack of affectation
which wholly excluded the vexatious and insupportable _ennui_ produced by
frivolity and pretension when, as often happens, they are found together.
With a few exceptions, devoid of great talents or very profound
acquirements, it had wit in abundance, as well as a singular aptitude for
seizing and comprehending everything. If to all this we add the most
cordial reception and the readiest, warmest welcome, it will at once be
seen that those who were admitted to this circle could not help carrying
away an ineffaceable remembrance of it.

But the special, characteristic trait which distinguished Naples from
every other city, large or small, was, strange to say, and yet true, the
utter absence of all gossip, slander, or ridicule. The women unanimously
defended one another, and no man, under the penalty of being considered
ill‐bred, ever ventured to speak ill of one of their number, unless
perhaps by one of those slight movements of the features which constitute,
in that country, a language apart—very eloquent, it is true, and perfectly
understood by every one, but which never produces the same effect as
actual words. It was generally said, and almost always with truth,
whenever there was any new gossip in circulation, which sometimes
happened, that “no doubt some stranger had a finger in it”! To complete
this picture, we will add that there was a circle of ladies in Neapolitan
society who fully equalled in beauty and grace the generation before them,
which was celebrated in this respect throughout Italy.

It may be affirmed, therefore, without fear of denial on the part of any
contemporary, that the general result of all this was to produce a kind of
_beau‐ideal_ of gay society.

Among these ladies was one I particularly remarked, and who speedily
became my friend. Lorenzo had predicted this the day (afterwards so
fatally memorable to me) when for the first time the name of the Contessa
Stella di San Giulio met my eyes. To tell the truth, this remembrance at
first took away all desire to make her acquaintance. It seemed to me
(yielding no doubt to a local superstition) that the day on which I first
heard the name of Faustina could bring me no luck. But this prejudice was
soon overcome. It was sufficient to see her to feel at once attracted
towards her. At first sight, however, there was something imposing in her
features and manner, but this impression immediately changed. As soon as
she began to converse, her eyes, the pleasing outline of her face, and her
whole person, were lit up by an enchanting smile on her half‐open lips—a
smile that the pencil of Leonardo da Vinci alone could depict. It is among
the women who served as models to this great, incomparable master that a
likeness to Stella must be sought. It is by studying the faces of which he
has left us the inimitable type we recognize, notwithstanding their
smiling expression, a certain firmness and energy which exclude all idea
of weakness, nonchalance, or indolence. Stella’s physiognomy, too,
expressed courage and patience, and they were predominant traits in her
character. She was, however, vivacious, versatile, and so lively as to
seem at times to take too light a view of everything; but, when better
known, no one could help admiring the rare faculty with which heaven
enabled her to bear cheerfully the heavy trials of life, and feeling that
her gayety was courage in its most attractive aspect.

Married at eighteen, she had seen this union, with which convenience had
more to do than inclination, dissolved at the end of two years: her
husband died soon after the birth of her only child. From that time family
circumstances obliged her to live with an uncle, who was the guardian of
her child, and had, in this capacity, the right to meddle with everything
relating to both mother and daughter—a right which his wife, a woman of
difficult and imperious temper, likewise arrogated in a manner that would
have exhausted the patience of any one else; but Stella’s never failed
her. Feeling it important for the future interests of her little Angiolina
to accept the condition imposed by her widowhood, she submitted to it
courageously without asking if there was any merit in so doing. Her
liveliness, which had been so long subdued, returned beneath the smiles of
her child, and, as often happens to those who are young, nature gained the
ascendency and triumphed over all there was to depress her. Angiolina was
now five years old, and was growing up without perceiving the gloomy
atmosphere that surrounded the nest of affection and joy in which her
mother sheltered her, and the latter found her child so sweet a resource
that she no longer seemed to feel anything was wanting in her lot.

This intimacy added much to the happiness of a life which began to please
me far beyond my expectations. The gay world, with which I thought myself
so completely disgusted, took a new and more subtle aspect in my eyes than
that I had so soon become weary of. But in yielding to this charm it
seemed to me I was pleasing Lorenzo and seconding his desire to make our
house one of the most brilliant in Naples. Nevertheless, he resumed his
labors, and passed whole hours in his studio, where he seemed wholly
absorbed, as formerly, in his art. I found him there more than anywhere
else, as he was before our fatal journey. He had begun again with renewed
ardor on his Vestal, which was now nearly completed, and was considered
the most perfect work that ever issued from his hands. He attributed the
honor of his success to his model, and, though formerly more annoyed than
flattered by suffrages of this kind, I now welcomed the compliment as a
presage of days like those of former times.

The first time I entered the studio after my return I sought with jealous
anxiety some trace of the remembrance that haunted me, and seemed to find
it on every hand. In a Sappho whose passionate, tragical expression alone
had struck me before, and the Bacchante which seemed at once beautiful and
repulsive, I imagined I could trace the features, alas! too perfect not to
be graven in the imagination of a sculptor in spite of himself.... I saw
them, above all, in a Proserpine, hidden by accident, or on purpose, in an
obscure corner of the studio, which struck me as a sudden apparition of
her fatal beauty. Finally, I saw them also in the other Vestal, to which
the one I sat for was the pendant. It was then only I remembered with
pleasure he said when he first began it that _no one before me_ had
realized the ideal he was trying to embody.

Haunted by these recollections, I began to find my sittings in the studio
painful and annoying, but I did not manifest my feelings. I had acquired
some control over them, and felt it was not for my interest to revive, by
a fresh display of jealousy, a remembrance that seemed to be dormant, or
again excite a displeasure that appeared to be extinguished. Besides, the
likeness that haunted me so persistently became in time more vague and
uncertain, and seemed likely to disappear entirely. The current of gayety
and pleasure that now surrounded me absorbed me more and more. The very
light of the sun at Naples is a feast for the heart as well as the eyes.
It is a region that has no sympathy with gloom, or even the serious side
of life, and it must be confessed that the social ideal I have spoken of
is not the most salutary and elevated in the world. It must also be
acknowledged that if it is not absolutely true that this charming region
is the classic land of the _far niente_, as it has been called (for the
number of people everywhere who do nothing make me think all skies and all
climes favorable to them), it is nevertheless indubitable that every one
feels a mingled excitement and languor at Naples which oblige him to
struggle continually against the double temptation to enjoy at all hours
the beauty of the earth and sky, and afterwards to give himself up
unresistingly to the repose he feels the need of. When weary of this
struggle, when nothing stimulates his courage to continue it, he is soon
intoxicated and overpowered by the very pleasure of living. One day
follows another without thinking to ask how they have been spent. The
interest taken in serious things grows less, the strength necessary for
such things diminishes, all effort is burdensome; and as this joyous,
futile life does not seem in any way wrong or dangerous, he no longer
tries to resist it, but suffers the subtle poison which circulates in the
air to infuse inactivity into the mind, indifference and effeminacy in the
heart, and even to the depths of the soul itself.

Such were the influences to which I gave myself up, but not without some
excuse, perhaps. At my age this reaction of gayety and love of pleasure
was natural. After the experience I had passed through, I felt the need of
something to divert me—the need of forgetting. How, then, could I possibly
resist all there was around me to amuse and enable me to forget? Of course
I had not forgotten Mme. de Kergy, or Diana, or the eloquence of Gilbert,
but I had nearly lost all the pure, noble, and soul‐stirring sentiments my
acquaintance with them had awakened; and if any unacknowledged danger
lurked therein, it had so ephemeral an influence on me that all trace was
effaced, as a deadly odor passes away that we only inhaled for a moment.

As for my charming Stella, she no more thought of giving me advice than of
setting me an example. She shared with me her happiest hours in the day,
but I could not follow her in the courageous course of her hidden daily
life. I did not see her during the hours when, with a brow as serene, a
face as tranquil, as that with which she welcomed me at a later hour, she
immolated her tastes and wishes, and by the perpetual sacrifice of herself
earned the means of rendering her daughter as happy as she pleased. I saw
her, on the contrary, during my daily drive with her and Angiolina—one of
the greatest pleasures of the day for us all. To see them together, the
mother as merry as the child, one would have supposed the one as happy, as
fully exempt from all care, as the other!... We often took long drives in
this way, sometimes beyond the extreme point of Posilippo, sometimes to
Portici, or even to Capo di Monte. There we would leave our carriage and
forget ourselves in long conversations while Angiolina was running about,
coming every now and then to throw herself into her mother’s arms or mine.
I loved her passionately, and it often seemed to me, as I embraced her,
that I felt for her something of that love which is the strongest on
earth, and makes us endure the privation of all other affection. Angiolina
was, it is true, one of those children better fitted than most to touch
the maternal fibre that is hidden in every womanly heart. She had accents,
looks, and moods of silence which seemed to indicate a soul attentive to
voices that are not of this world, and sometimes, at the sight of her
expressive childish face, one could not help wondering if she did not
already hear those of heaven.

Lorenzo from time to time made a journey to the North of Italy, in order
to see to his property. His absence, always short, and invariably
explained, caused me neither pain nor offence. He seemed happy to see me
again at his return, and appeared to enjoy much more than I, even, the gay
life we both led. He devoted his mornings to work, but spent his evenings
with me, either in society or at the theatre of San Carlo, where,
according to the Italian custom in those days, we went much less to enjoy
the play, or even the music, than to meet our friends. As for gaming, I
had reason to believe he had entirely renounced it, for he never touched a
card in my presence. The twofold danger, therefore, which had threatened
my peace, seemed wholly averted, and I once more resumed my way with
confidence and security, as a bird, beaten by the tempest, expands its
wings at the return of the sun, and sings, as it flies heavenward, as if
clouds and darkness were never to return!

But in the midst of this new dawn of happiness I was gliding almost
imperceptibly but rapidly down, and suffering my days to pass in
constantly‐increasing indolence. It is true my good Ottavia, who had been
with me since Livia’s entrance at the convent, reminded me of the days and
hours assigned for the practices of devotion she had taught me in my
childhood, which, though not piety itself, serve to keep it alive. Without
her I should probably have forgotten them all. I thought of nothing but
how to be happy, and I was so because I seemed to have recovered absolute
empire over Lorenzo’s heart.... My lofty aspirations for him had vanished
like some fanciful dream no longer remembered. The charm of his mental
qualities and his personal attractions gave him a kind of supremacy in the
circle where he occupied the foremost rank, and had every desirable
pretext for gratifying his taste for display; while, on the other hand,
the aureola of genius that surrounded him prevented his life from
appearing, and even from being, wholly vain.

It was vain, however, as every one’s life is that has no light from above.
I was not yet wholly incapable of feeling this, but I was becoming more
and more incapable of suffering from it.

It is not in this way the vigor of the soul is maintained or renewed.
Livia alone had not lost her beneficent influence over me. A word from her
had the same effect as the strong, correct tone of the diapason, which
gives the ear warning when the notes begin to flatten. Every descent,
however gradual, is difficult to climb again, and I did not at all
perceive the ground I had lost till I found myself face to face with new
trials and new dangers.



XXV.


Several months passed, however, without any change in my happy, untroubled
life. Lando’s arrival, and shortly after that of Mario, were the chief
incidents. Mario’s visits were short and rare, for he seldom left my
father. He loved home, now he was alone there, better than he used to do;
and my father, relieved of a heavy responsibility by the marriage of one
daughter and the vocation of the other, enjoyed more than ever the company
of a son who gave him no anxiety and prevented him from finding his
solitude irksome. He only lived now in the recollections of the past and
for his profession, and Mario fulfilled with cheerful devotedness the
additional obligations our departure had imposed on him. He came from time
to time to see his two sisters, and had not entirely lost the habit of
favoring me with advice and remonstrances. Nevertheless, as my present
position obliged me to make a certain display he was not sorry to have a
part in, and as, on the whole, he did not find my house disagreeable, it
was not as difficult as it once was to win his approbation, particularly
as, notwithstanding the frivolous life I led, I was still (perhaps a
strange thing) wholly devoid of coquetry and vanity, which, almost as much
as my affection for Lorenzo, served as a safeguard in the world, and not
only shielded me from its real dangers, but from all criticism. This point
acknowledged, Mario, who did not consider himself dispensed by my marriage
from watching over my reputation, was as kind to me now as he would have
been implacable had it been otherwise. As I, on my side, by no means
feared his oversight, and he brought news of my father and recalled the
memories of the past, which I continued to cherish in my present life, I
welcomed him with affection, and his visits always afforded me pleasure.

As to Lando, he had been forced to tear himself away from Paris, and
devote to economy an entire year which he had come very reluctantly to
spend in the bosom of his family. He at once observed with astonishment
that I was happier at Naples than at Paris. As for him, he declared life
in a small city was an impossibility, and he should pass the time of his
exile in absolute exclusion. But he contented himself with carrying this
Parisian nostalgia from one drawing‐room to another, exhaling his
complaints sometimes in Italian (continually _grasseyant_), sometimes in
French sprinkled with the most recent _argot_, only comprehensible to the
initiated. But as, in spite of all this, his natural good‐humor was never
at fault, everything else was overlooked, and he was welcomed everywhere;
so existence gradually became endurable, and he resigned himself to it so
completely that by the time the Carnival approached he was so thoroughly
renaturalized that no one was more forward than he in preparing and
organizing all the amusements with which it terminates at Naples—vehicles,
costumes, _confetti_, and flowers for the Toledo;(51) suppers, dominos,
and disguises for the Festini di San Carlo,(52) without reckoning the
great fancy ball at the Accademia;(53) and, to crown all, private
theatricals with a view to Lent. With all this, he had ample means of
escaping all danger of dying of _ennui_ before Easter!...

I must acknowledge, however, that he found me as much disposed to aid him
as any one. I was in one of those fits of exuberant gayety which at
Naples, and even at Rome, sometimes seize even the most reasonable and
sensible people during the follies of the Carnival. But it must be
confessed these follies had not in Italy the gross, vulgar, and repulsive
aspect which public gayety sometimes assumes at Paris on similar
occasions. One would suppose everybody at Paris more or less wicked at
Carnival time; whereas at Rome and Naples everybody seems to be more or
less childlike. Is this more in appearance than reality? Must we believe
the amount of evil the same everywhere during these days devoted to
pleasure? I cannot say. At Rome, we know, no less than at Paris and
Naples, while people on the Corso are pelting each other with _confetti_
and lighting the _moccoletti_, the churches are also illuminated, and a
numerous crowd, prostrate before the Blessed Sacrament exposed on the
altars, pray in order to expiate the follies of the merry crowd. But it
seems to me no one who has made the comparison would hesitate to
acknowledge a great difference in the gayety of these places, as well as
the different amusements it inspires.

Stella was in as gay a mood as I. Angiolina (whose right it was) could not
have prepared more enthusiastically than we to throw _confetti_ at every
one we met, or pelt the vehicles in which most of the gentlemen of the
place, arrayed in various disguises, drive up and down the Toledo. These
vehicles are stormed with missiles from every balcony they pass, and they
reply by handfuls of _confetti_ and flowers thrown to the highest stories,
either by means of cornets, or by instruments expressly for this purpose,
or by climbing the staging made on the carriages to bring the combatants
nearer together.

Lorenzo, Lando, and even Mario were enrolled among the number to man a
wonderful gondola of the XVth century, all clad in the costume of that
period, and Lorenzo, by his taste and uncommon acquirements of all kinds,
contributed to render this masquerade almost interesting from an artistic
and historic point of view, and he was as zealous about it as any one.

We were in the very midst of these preparations when one morning he told
me with an air of vexation he had just received a letter from his agent
which would oblige him to be absent several days. But he was only to go to
Bologna this time, and would be back without fail the eve of _Jeudi‐
Gras_,(54) the day fixed for the last exhibition of the gondola. But his
departure afflicted me the more because he had not been absent for a long
time, and I was no longer used to it. I did not, therefore, conceal my
annoyance. But as his seemed to be equally great, I finally saw him
depart, not without regret, but without the least shade of my former
distrust.

The Carnival was late that year, and the coming of spring was already
perceptible in the air. I had passed two hours with Stella in the park of
Capo di Monte, while Angiolina was filling her basket with the violets
that grew among the grass. Our enjoyment was increased by the freshness of
the season and the enchanting sky of Naples. When the circumstances of a
person’s life are not absolutely at variance with the beauty of nature, he
feels a transport here not experienced in any other place. That day I was
happier and merrier than usual, and yet, as we were about to leave the
park, I all at once felt that vague kind of sadness which always throws
its cloud over excessive joy.

“One moment longer, Stella,” said I, “it is so lovely here. I never saw
the sea and sky so blue before! I cannot bear to go home.”

“Remain as long as you please, Ginevra. I am never tired, you know, of the
beautiful prospect before us! Nature is to me a mother, a friend, and a
support. She has so often enabled me to endure life.”

“Poor Stella!” said I with a slight remorse, for I felt I was too often
unmindful of the difference in our lots.

But she continued with her charming smile:

“You see, Ginevra, they say I have _le sang joyeux!_ which means, I
suppose, that I have a happy disposition. When all other means fail of
gratifying my natural turn, I can do it by looking around me. The very
radiance of the heavens suffices to fill me with torrents of joy.”

At that moment Angiolina ran up with a little bunch of violets she had
tied together, and gave them to her mother. Stella took the child up in
her arms.

“Look, Ginevra. See how blue my Angiolina’s eyes are. Their color is a
thousand times lovelier than that of the sky or sea, is it not? Come, let
us not talk of my troubles,” continued she, as her daughter threw her arms
around her neck, and leaned her cheek against hers. “This treasure is
sufficient; I ask no other.”

“Yes, Stella, you are right. To enjoy such a happiness I would give all I
possess.”

“God will doubtless grant you this happiness some day,” replied she,
smiling.

Our merriment, interrupted for a moment, now resumed its course. It was
time to go home, and we returned without delay to the carriage, which
awaited us at the gate of the park.

It was Tuesday, the day but one before _Jeudi‐Gras_; consequently I
expected Lorenzo the following day. All the preparations for the
masquerade were completed, and in passing by the door of my aunt, Donna
Clelia, who lived on the Toledo, I proposed to Stella we should call to
make sure she had attended to her part; for it was from her balcony the
first great contest with _confetti_ was to take place the next day but
one.

Donna Clelia, as I have remarked, felt a slight degree of ill‐humor at the
time of my marriage. But she speedily concluded to regard the event with a
favorable eye. It would doubtless have been more agreeable to be able to
say: “The duke, my son‐in‐law”; but if she could not have this
satisfaction, it was something to be able to say: “My niece, the duchess,”
and my aunt did not deny herself this pleasure.

Besides, she anticipated another advantage of more importance—of obtaining
an entrance by my means to high life, which hitherto she had only seen at
an immeasurable distance; and she was still more anxious to introduce her
daughters than to enter herself. From the day of my marriage, therefore,
she resolved to establish herself at Naples, and this resolution had
already had the most happy results. Teresina and Mariuccia were large
girls, rather devoid of style, but not of beauty. Thanks to our
relationship, they were invited almost everywhere, and the dream of their
mother was almost realized. As I had indubitably contributed to this, and
they had the good grace to acknowledge it, I was on the best terms with
them as well as with Donna Clelia. The latter, it will be readily
imagined, had enthusiastically acceded to my request to allow the cream of
the _beau monde_ to occupy her balconies on _Jeudi‐Gras_, and we found her
now in the full tide of the preparations she considered necessary for so
great an event.

My aunt had apartments of good size on the first floor of one of the large
palaces on the Strada di Toledo. They were dark and gloomy in the morning,
like all in that locality, but in the evening, when her drawing‐rooms were
lit up, they produced a very good effect. As to Donna Clelia herself, when
her voluminous person was encased in a suit of black velvet, and her
locks, boldly turned back, had the addition of a false _chignon_, a plume
of red feathers, and superb diamonds, she sustained very creditably, as I
can testify, the part of a dignified matron, and it was easy to see she
had been in her day handsomer than either of her daughters. But when she
received us on this occasion, enveloped in an enormous wrapper, which
indicated that, in spite of the advanced hour, she had not even begun her
toilet, and with her hair reduced to its simplest expression, she
presented quite a different aspect. She was, however, by no means
disconcerted when we made our appearance, but met us, on the contrary,
with open arms; for she was very glad of an opportunity of explaining all
the arrangements she was at that instant occupied in superintending, which
likewise accounted for the _négligé_ in which we surprised her. She took
us all through the drawing‐rooms, pointing out in the penumbra the places,
here and there, where she intended to place a profusion of flowers. Here a
large table would stand, loaded with everything that would aid us in
repairing our strength during the contest; and there were genuine tubs for
the _confetti_, where we should find an inexhaustible supply of
ammunition. My aunt was rich. She spared nothing for her own amusement or
to amuse others, and never had she found a better occasion for spending
her money. She had already given two successful _soirées_, at which her
large drawing‐rooms were filled, but this crowd did not include everybody,
and those who were absent were precisely those she was most anxious to
have, and the very ones who, on _Jeudi‐Gras_, were to give her the
pleasure of making use of her rooms. She did not dream of fathoming their
motives; it was enough to have their presence.

At last, after examining and approving everything, as disorder reigned in
the drawing‐room, my aunt took us to her chamber. She gave Stella and
myself two arm‐chairs that were there, placed on the floor a supply of
biscuits, candied chestnuts, and mandarines for Angiolina’s benefit, and
seated herself on the foot of her bedstead, taking for a seat the bare
wood; the mattress, pillows, and coverings being rolled up during the day,
according to the Neapolitan custom, like an enormous bale of goods, at the
other end of the bedstead. Arming herself with an immense fan, which she
vigorously waved to and fro, she set herself to work to entertain us.
First, she replied to my questions:

“You ask where the _ragazze_(55) are.... I didn’t tell you, then, they are
gone on a trip to Sorrento with the _baronessa_?”

“No, Zia Clelia, you did not tell me. When will they return?”

“Oh! in a short time. I expect them before night. It was such fine weather
yesterday! They did not like to refuse to accompany the baroness, but it
would not please them to lose two days of the Carnival, and the baroness
wouldn’t, for anything in the world, miss her part at San Carlo. Teresina
is to go there with her this evening.”

The baroness in question was a friend of my aunt’s whom she particularly
liked to boast of before me. If she was indebted to me for some of the
acquaintances she was so proud of, she lost no opportunity of reminding me
that for this one she was solely indebted to herself.

“Ah! Ginevra mia!...” continued she, “you have a fine house, to be sure—I
can certainly say nothing to the contrary; but if you could only see that
of the baroness!... Such furniture! Such mirrors! Such gilding!... And
then what a view!...”

Here my aunt kissed the ends of her five fingers, and then opened her
whole hand wide, expressing by this pantomime a degree of admiration for
which words did not suffice....

“How?” said Stella with an air of surprise. “I thought her house was near
here, and that there was no view at all. It seems to me she can see
nothing from her windows.”

“No view!” cried Donna Clelia. “No view from the baroness’ house!... See
nothing from her windows!... What a strange mistake, Contessa Stella! You
are in the greatest error. You can see everything from her
windows—_everything_! Not a carriage, not a donkey, not a horse, not a man
or woman on foot or horseback or in a carriage, can pass by without being
seen; and as all the drawing‐rooms are _al primo piano_, you can see them
as plainly as I see you, and distinguish the color of their cravats and
the shape of the ladies’ cloaks.”

“Ah! yes, yes, Zia Clelia, you are right. It is Stella who is wrong. The
baroness has an admirable view, and quite suited to her tastes.”

“And then,” continued Donna Clelia, waving her fan more deliberately to
give greater emphasis to her words, “a situation unparalleled in the whole
city of Naples!... A church on one side, and the new theatre on the other!
And so near at the right and left that—imagine it!—there is a little
gallery, which she has the key of, on one side, leading to the church; and
on the other a passage, of which she also has the key, which leads
straight to her box in the theatre! I ask if you can imagine anything more
convenient?... But, apropos, Ginevra, have you seen Livia lately?”

“Yes, I see her every week.”

“Ah! _par exemple_,” said Donna Clelia, folding her hands, “there is a
saint for you! But I have stopped going to see her since the Carnival
began, because every time I go I feel I ought to become better, and the
very next day off I go to confession.... It has precisely the same effect
on the _ragazze_; so they have begged me not to take them to the convent
again before Ash‐Wednesday.”

Stella, less accustomed than I to my aunt’s style of conversation, burst
into laughter, and I did the same, though I thought she expressed very
well in her way the effects of her visits at the convent. At that minute
the doors opened with a bang, and Teresina and Mariuccia made their
appearance, loaded with flowers. At the sight of us there were
exclamations of joy:

“O Ginevra!... Contessa!... _E la bambina! Che piacere!_... How delightful
to find you here!”

A general embrace all around. Then details of all kinds—a stream of words
almost incomprehensible.

“_Che tempo! Che bellezza! Che paradiso!_ They had been amused _quanto
mai_! And on the way back, moreover, they had met Don Landolfo, and Don
Landolfo had invited Teresina to dance a cotillon with him at the ball to‐
morrow.... And Don Landolfo said Mariuccia’s toilet at the ball last
Saturday was _un amore_!”

It should be observed here that everything Lando said was taken very
seriously in this household. His opinion was law in everything relating to
dress, and he himself did not disdain giving these girls advice which
cultivated notions of good taste, from which they were too often tempted
to deviate.

We were on the point of leaving when Mariuccia exclaimed:

“Oh! apropos, Ginevrina, Teresina thought she saw Duke Lorenzo at Sorrento
at a distance.”

“Lorenzo?... At Sorrento? No, you are mistaken, Teresina. He went to
Bologna a week ago, and will not be back till to‐morrow.”

“You hear?” said Mariuccia to her sister. “I told you you were
mistaken—that it was not he.”

“It is strange,” said Teresina. “At all events, it was some one who
resembled him very much. It is true, I barely saw him a second.”

“And where was it?” I asked with a slight tremor of the heart.

“At the window of a small villa away from the road at the end of a
_masseria_(56) we happened to pass on the way.”

She was mistaken, it was evident; but when Lorenzo returned that evening,
a day sooner than I expected, I felt a slight misgiving at seeing him. He
perceived it, and smilingly asked if I was sorry because he had hastened
his return. I was tempted to tell him what troubled me, but was ashamed of
the new suspicion such an explanation would have revealed, and I
reproached myself for it as an injustice to him. I checked myself,
therefore, and forced myself to forget, or at least to pay no attention
to, the gossip of my cousins.

To Be Continued.




Fac‐Similes Of Irish National Manuscripts. Concluded.


The _Liber Hymnorum_ is the next selected. It is believed to be more than
one thousand years old, and one of the most remarkable of the sacred
tracts among the MSS. in Trinity College, Dublin. It is a collection of
hymns on S. Patrick and other Irish saints, which has been published by
the Irish Archæological and Celtic Society, under the superintendence of
Dr. Todd. The three pages selected contain the hymn written by S. Fiach of
Stetty, between the years 538 and 558, in honor of S. Patrick. The hymn is
furnished with an interlinear gloss.

The tenth of these MSS. is _The Saltair of S. Ricemarch_, Bishop of St.
David’s between the years 1085 and 1096, a small copy of the Psalter
containing also a copy of the Roman Martyrology.

Of the four pages of this volume which have been selected for copying, two
are a portion of the Martyrology and two of the Psalter. The first of
these last contains the first two verses of the 101st Psalm, surrounded by
an elaborate border formed by the intertwinings of four serpentine
monsters. The initial D of Domine is also expressed by a coiled snake,
with its head in an attitude to strike; the object of its attack being a
creature which it is impossible to designate, but which bears some
resemblance to the hippocampus, or sea‐horse. The second page of the
Psalter contains the 115th, 116th, and 117th Psalms, in which the same
serpentine form is woven into shapes to represent the initial letters. The
version of the Psalms given in this volume differs from that used in
England in Bishop Ricemarch’s time. It is written in Latin in Gaelic
characters. The volume belongs to Trinity College, Dublin.

Next in order appears the _Leabhar na h‐Uidhré_, or _Book of the Dark Gray
Cow_, a fragment of one hundred and thirty‐eight folio pages, which is
thought to be a copy made about the year 1100 of a more ancient MS. of the
same name written in S. Ciaran’s time. It derived its name from the
following curious legend, taken from the _Book of Leinster_, and the
ancient tale called _Im thecht na trom daimhé_, or _Adventures of the
Great Company_, told in the _Book of Lismore_. About the year 598, soon
after the election of Senchan Torpeist to the post of chief filé
(professor of philosophy and literature) in Erinn, he paid a visit to
Guairè, the Hospitable, King of Connaught, accompanied by such a
tremendous retinue, including a hundred and fifty professors, a hundred
and fifty students, a hundred and fifty hounds, a hundred and fifty male
attendants, and a hundred and fifty female relatives, that even King
Guairè’s hospitality was grievously taxed; for he not only had to provide
a separate meal and separate bed for each, but to minister to their daily
craving for things that were extraordinary, wonderful, rare, and difficult
of procurement. The mansion which contained the learned association was a
special source of annoyance to King Guairè, and at last the “longing
desires” for unattainable things of Muireann, daughter of Cun Culli and
wife of Dallan, the foster‐mother of the literati, became so unendurable
that Guairè, tired of life, proposed to pay a visit to Fulachtach Mac
Owen, a person whom he thought especially likely to rid him of that
burden, as he had killed his father, his six sons, and his three brothers.
Happily for him, however, he falls in with his brother Marbhan, “the prime
prophet of heaven and earth,” who had adopted the position of royal
swineherd in order that he might the more advantageously indulge his
passion for religion and devotion among the woods and desert places; and
Marbhan eventually revenges the trouble and ingratitude shown to his
brother by imposing upon Senchan and the great Bardic Association the task
of recovering the lost tale of the _Táin Bó Chuailgné_, or _Great Cattle
Spoil of Cuailgne_. After a vain search for it in Scotland, Senchan
returned home and invited the following distinguished saints, S. Colum
Cille, S. Caillin of Fiodhnacha, S. Ciaran, S. Brendan of Birra, and S.
Brendan the son of Finnlogha, to meet him at the grave of the great Ulster
chief, Feargus Mac Roigh—who had led the Connaught men against the Ulster
men during the spoil, of which also he appears to have been the
historian—to try by prayer and fasting to induce his spirit to relate the
tale. After they had fasted three days and three nights, the apparition of
Feargus rose before them, clad in a green cloak with a collared, gold‐
ribbed shirt and bronze sandals, and carrying a golden hilted sword, and
recited the whole from beginning to end. And S. Ciaran then and there
wrote it down on the hide of his pet cow, which he had had made for the
purpose into a book, which has ever since borne this name.

The volume contains matter of a very miscellaneous character: A fragment
of Genesis; a fragment of Nennius’ _History of the Britons_, done into
Gaelic by Gilla Caomhain, who died before 1072; an _amhra_ or elegy on S.
Colum Cille, written by Dallan Forgail, the poet, in 592; fragments of the
historic tale of the _Mesca Uladh_, or _Inebriety of the Ulstermen_;
fragments of the cattle‐spoils _Táin Bo Dartadha_ and _Táin Bo Flidais_;
the navigation of Madduin about the Atlantic for three years and seven
months; imperfect copies of the _Táin Bó Chuailgné_, the destruction of
the _Bruighean da Dearga_, or _Court of Da Dearga_, and murder of King
Conairé Mór; a history of the great pagan cemeteries of Erinn and of the
various old books from which this and other pieces were compiled; poems by
Flann of Monasterboice and others; together with various other pieces of
history and historic romance chiefly referring to the ante‐Christian
period, and especially that of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Three pages,
containing curious prayers and the legend of _The Withering of Cuchulain
and the Birds of Emer_, extracted from the _Leabhar buidh Slaine_, or
_Yellow Book of Slane_, one of the ancient lost books of Ireland from
which the _Leabhar na h‐Uidhré_ was compiled, have been selected.

The _Book of Leinster_, a folio of over four hundred pages, appears as the
next. It was compiled in the first half of the XIIth century by Finn Mac
Gorman, Bishop of Kildare, by order of Aedh Mac Crimhthainn, the tutor of
Dermot, King of Leinster. Among other pieces of internal evidence pointing
to this conclusion are the following entries, the first in the original
hand, the second by one strange but ancient, translated and quoted by
O’Curry:

“Benedictions and health from Finn, the Bishop of Kildare, to Aedh Mac
Crimhtain, the tutor of the chief King of Leth Mogha Nuadut (or of
Leinster and Munster), successor of Colaim Mic Crumtaind of, and chief
historian of, Leinster, in wisdom, intelligence, and the cultivation of
books, knowledge, and learning. And I write the conclusion of this little
tale for thee, O acute Aedh! thou possessor of the sparkling intellect.
May it be long before we are without thee! It is my desire that thou
shouldst always be with us. Let Mac Loran’s book of poems be given to me,
that I may understand the sense of the poems that are in it; and farewell
in Christ.

“O Mary! it is a great deed that has been done in Erinn this day, the
Kalends of August—Diarmait Mac Donnchadda Mic Murchada, King of Leinster
and of the Danes (of Dublin), to have been banished over the sea eastwards
by the men of Erinn! Uch, uch, O Lord! what shall I do?”

The more important of the vast number of subjects treated of in this MS.
are mentioned as being: The usual book of invasions; ancient poems; a plan
and explanation of the banqueting‐hall of Tara; a copy of _The Battle of
Ross na Righ_ in the beginning of the Christian era; a copy of the _Mesca
Uladh_, and one of the origin of the Borromean Tribute, and the battle
that ensued; a fragment of the battle of Ceannabrat, with the defeat of
Mac Con by Oilioll Olium, his flight into, and return from, Scotland with
Scottish and British adventurers, his landing in Galway Bay, and the
defeat of Art, monarch of Erinn, and slaughter of Olium’s seven sons at
the battle of Magh Mucruimhé; a fragment of _Cormac’s Glossary_; another
of the wars between the Danes and Irish; a copy of the _Dinnsenchus_;
genealogies of Milesian families; and an ample list of the early saints of
Erinn, with their pedigrees and affinities, and with copious references to
the situation of their churches. The volume belongs to Trinity College,
Dublin.

Three pages have been selected. The first contains a copy of the poem on
the Teach Miodhchuarta of Tara—a poem so ancient that of its date and
author no record remains—and of the ground‐plan of the banqueting‐hall by
which the poem was illustrated, published by Dr. Petrie in his _History
and Antiquities of Tara Hill_. The ground‐plan, which in this copy is
nearly square, is divided into five compartments lengthwise, the centre
and broadest of which contains the door, a rudely‐drawn figure of a _daul_
or waiter turning a gigantic spit, furnished with a joint of meat, before
a fire, the lamps, and a huge double‐handed vase or amphora for the cup‐
bearer to distribute. This great spit, called _Bir Nechin_, or the spit of
Nechin, the chief smith of Tara, which in the drawing is half the length
of the hall, appears to have been so mechanically contrived as to be able
to be coiled up after use; and the instrument is thus described in another
MS. belonging to Trinity College, Dublin, quoted by Dr. Petrie: “A stick
at each end of it, and its axle was wood, and its wheel was wood, and its
body was iron; and there were twice nine wheels on its axle, that it might
turn the faster; and there were thirty spits out of it, and thirty hooks
and thirty spindles, and it was as rapid as the rapidity of a stream in
turning; and thrice nine spits and thrice nine cavities (or pots) and one
spit for roasting, and one wing used to set it in motion.”

In the two compartments on either side are enumerated in order of
precedence the various officers and retainers of the king’s household,
together with their tables and the particular portions of meat served out
to each, forming a very curious and instructive illustration of the social
condition and habits of the early Irish. The description of the rations
that were considered specially adapted to the several ranks of consumers
is very amusing. For the distinguished men of literature, “the soft,
clean, smooth entrails,” and a steak cut from the choicest part of the
animal, were set aside; the poet had a “good smooth” piece of the leg; the
historian, “a crooked bone,” probably a rib; the artificers, “a pig’s
shoulder”; the Druids and _aire dessa_, a “fair foot.” These last are said
to decline to drink; not so the trumpeters and cooks, who are to be
allowed “cheering mead in abundance, not of a flatulent kind.” The
doorkeeper, “the noisy, humorous fool and the fierce, active kerne” had
the chine; while to the satirists and the _braigitore_, a class of
buffoons whose peculiar function was to amuse the company after a fashion
which will not only not bear description, but almost defies
belief—licensed and paid _Aethons_ of the court—“the fat of the shoulder
was divided to them pleasantly.”

The selection is continued by the _Leabhar Breac_, or _Speckled Book_,
probably named from the color of its cover, or, as it was formerly called,
_Leabhar Mór Duna Doighré_, the _Great Book of Dun Doighré_, a place on
the Galway side of the Shannon not far from Athlone. It is a compilation
from various ancient books belonging chiefly to churches and monasteries
in Conaught, Munster, and Leinster, beautifully written on vellum, as is
supposed about the close of the XIVth century, by one of the Mac Ogans, a
literary family of great repute belonging to Dun Doighré.

Its contents are of an extremely miscellaneous character, and they are
all, with the exception of a copy of _The Life of Alexander the Great_
from the VIIth century, MS. of S. Berchan of Clonsost, of a religious
nature, comprising Biblical narratives, homilies, hymns; pedigrees of
saints, litanies and liturgies, monastic rules, the _Martyrology_ of
Aengus Céulé Dé, or the Culdee, the ancient rules of discipline of the
order of the Culdees, etc., etc. When the Abbé Mac Geoghegan wrote his
_History of Ancient Erinn_ in Paris, in the year 1758, this volume, his
principal MS. of reference, was in Paris. It is now in the Royal Irish
Academy.

Three pages have been selected for fac‐similes, giving a description of
the nature and arrangement of the _Féliré_, or _Festology_ of Aengus the
Culdee, and the date and object of its composition, which was made between
the years 793 and 817, when Aedh Oirdnidhe was monarch of Erinn.

Then comes the _Leabhar Buidhe Lecain_, or _Yellow Book of Lecain_, a
large quarto volume of about five hundred pages, which was written by
Donnoch and Gilla Isa Mac Firbis in the year 1390, with the exception of a
few tracts of a somewhat later date. O’Curry, in his ninth lecture,
supposes it to have been originally a collection of ancient historical
pieces, civil and ecclesiastical, in prose and verse. In its present
imperfect state it contains a number of family and political poems; some
monastic rules; a description of Tara and its banqueting‐hall; a
translation of part of the Book of Genesis; the Feast of Dun‐na‐n Gedh and
the battle of Magh Rath; an account of the reign of Muirchertach Mac Erca,
and his death at the palace of Cleitech in the year 527; copies of cattle‐
spoils, of the Bruighean Da Dearga, and death of the king; the tale of
Maelduin’s three years’ wanderings in the Atlantic; tracts concerning the
banishment of an ancient tribe from East Meath, and their discovery in the
Northern Ocean by some Irish ecclesiastics; accounts of battles in the
years 594, 634, and 718, and many other curious and valuable pieces and
tracts. It is preserved in the Library of Trinity College, Dublin.

Two pages have been selected. The first contains the plan of the Teach
Miodchuarta of ancient Tara, with a portion of the prose preface to the
poem, which the plan is intended to illustrate. This ground‐plan differs
somewhat in the shape of the hall and the arrangement of the tables from
that given in the _Book of Leinster_, an earlier copy of a different
original. It is also very much superior to it, both as regards the drawing
and writing. The _daul_ and his spit are unrepresented here, but there is
the door, the common hall, the swinging lamp and candles, the great
double‐handed vase, called the _dabhach_ or vat, and three places marked
out for the fires. The arrangement of the hall appears to have been this:
Each of the two outside compartments contained twelve seats, and each seat
three sitters; the two _airidins_ or divisions on either side of the
centre of the hall held each eight seats and sixteen sitters. There were
eight distributors, cup‐bearers, and herdsmen at the upper end of the
hall, and two sat in each of the two seats on either side of the door,
being the two door‐keepers and two of the royal fools. The daily allowance
for dinner was two cows, two salted hogs, and two pigs. The quantity of
liquor consumed is not specified, but the poem states that there were one
hundred drinkings in the vat, and that the vat was supplied with fifty
grooved golden horns and fifty pewter vessels. The order of precedence
seems to have ranged from the top of the external division to the left on
entering the hall; then to the top of the external division to the right;
then the two internal divisions beginning with the left; then the
_iarthar_ or back part of the hall, the upper end opposite the door; and
last the seats on either side of the door itself. There is no seat marked
for the king, but it is stated in the poem that a fourth part of the hall
was at his back and three‐fourths before him, and he is supposed to have
sat about a quarter of the way down the centre of the hall with his face
toward the door, which would place him between two of the great fires,
with the artisans on his right and the braziers and fools on his left
hand. It is probable, however, from no mention being made of the king’s
seat, and no provision being made for him in the appropriation of the
daily allowance of food, which is specified in as many rations as there
are persons mentioned in the plan, that this is not the plan of the royal
banqueting‐hall, but of a portion of it only—the common dining‐hall for
the officers and retainers of the palace; the monarch himself and his
princes and nobles, none of whom are even alluded to in the plan, dining
in another and superior apartment.

The second page contains a portion of the sorrowful tale of the loves of
fair Deirdré and Naoisi, the son of Uisneach, one of the class of Irish
legends called _Aithidhé_, or elopements. An outline of this story, in the
commencement of which the reader will recognize that of one of his early
nursery favorites, “Little Snow White,” is given by Keating in his
_General History of Ireland_.

_The Book of Lecain Mac Firbisigh_, a folio of more than six hundred
pages, was compiled in the year 1418 by Gilla Isa Môr Mac Firbis, Adam
O’Cuirnin, and Morogh Riabhac O’Cuindlis. Its contents are nearly the same
as those of _The Book of Ballymote_, to some of which it furnishes
valuable additions, among the most important of which is a tract on the
families and subdivisions of the territory of Tir Fiachrach in the present
county of Sligo. The volume is preserved in the Royal Irish Academy.

Four pages have been selected, being a portion of a copy of the _Leabhar
na g‐Ceart_, or _Book of Rights_, a metrical work attributed in the work
itself to S. Benean or Benignus, S. Patrick’s earliest convert, and his
successor in the Archbishopric of Armagh in the middle of the Vth century.
These four pages, which are written in columnar form, contain the
concluding ten verses of the stipends due to the chieftainries of Connacht
from the supreme King of Cruachain; the metrical accounts, with their
preceding prose abstracts, of the privileges of the King of Aileach; the
payment and stipends of the same king to his chieftainries and tribes for
refection and escort; the privileges of the King of the Oirghialla with
the stipends due to him from the King of Erinn, and by him to his
chieftainries; the rights, wages, stipends, refections, and tributes of
the King of Eamhain and Uladh; and almost all the prose abstract of the
rights of the King of Tara.

_The Book of Ballymote_, a large folio volume of five hundred and two
pages of vellum, was written, as stated on the dorse of folio 62, at
Ballymote, in the house of Tomaltach oig Mac Donogh, Lord of Corann,
during the reign of Torlogh oig, the son of Hugh O’Conor, King of
Connaught. It appears to be the work of different hands, but the principal
scribes employed in writing it were Solomon O’Droma and Manus O’Duigenann,
and it was written at the end of the XIVth century.

It contains an imperfect copy of the _Leabhar Gabhala_, or _Book of
Invasions_, a series of ancient chronological, historical, and
genealogical pieces in prose and verse; the pedigrees of Irish saints, and
the histories and pedigrees of all the great families of the Milesian
race, with their collateral branches, so that, as O’Curry remarks, there
is scarcely any one whose name begins with “O’” or “Mac” who could not
find out all about his origin and family in this book; then follow stories
and adventures, lists of famous Irish names, a Gaelic translation of
Nennius’ _History of the Britons_, an ancient grammar and prosody, and
various other tracts.

Six pages have been selected. The first four contain the dissertation on
the Ogham characters, and the last two the genealogy of the Hy Nialls,
showing their descent from Eremon, one of the sons of Milesius. The volume
belongs to the Irish Academy.

The last in Mr. Sanders’ list of the great volumes of Irish History is the
_Book of M’Carthy Riabhac_, a compilation of the XIVth century—in language
of a much earlier date—now also known as the _Book of Lismore_, to which a
very curious story attaches. It was first discovered in the year 1814,
enclosed in a wooden box together with a fine old crosier, built into the
masonry of a closed‐up doorway which was reopened during some repairs that
were being made in the old Castle of Lismore. Of course the account of its
discovery soon got abroad and became a matter of great interest,
especially to the antiquarian class of scholars. Among these there
happened to be then living in Shandon Street, Cork, one Mr. Dennis
O’Flinn, a professed Irish scholar. O’Curry says that he was a “professed
but a very indifferent” one; but at any rate his reputation was
sufficiently well grounded to induce Colonel Curry, the Duke of
Devonshire’s agent, to send him the MS. According to O’Flinn’s own
account, the book remained in his hands for one year, during which time it
was copied by Michael O’Longan, of Carrignavan, near Cork; after which
O’Flinn bound it in boards, and returned it to Colonel Curry. From that
time it remained locked up and unexamined until 1839, when the duke lent
it to the Royal Irish Academy to be copied by O’Curry, and O’Curry’s
practised eye and acumen soon discovered that much harm had come to the
volume during its sojourn in Shandon Street. The book had been mutilated,
and, what was worse, mutilated in so cunning a way that what remained was
rendered valueless by the abstraction, no doubt with the view of enhancing
the value of the stolen portions as soon as it should become safe to
pretend a discovery of them. Every search was made, especially by O’Curry,
about Cork, to see if any of the missing pages could be found; but it was
not till seven or eight years afterwards that a communication was made
that a large portion of the original MS. was actually in the possession of
some person in Cork, but who the person was, or how he became possessed of
it, the informant could not tell. This clue seems to have failed; but soon
afterwards the late Sir William Betham’s collection of MSS. passed into
the library of the Royal Irish Academy by sale, and among these were
copies of the lost portions, and all made, as the scribe himself states at
the end of one of them, by himself, Michael O’Longan, at the house of
Dennis Ban O’Flinn, in Cork, in 1816, from the _Book of Lismore_. The
missing portions of the MS. were at length traced, and the £50 asked for
them was offered by the Royal Irish Academy; but the negotiation
ultimately broke down, and they were purchased by Mr. Hewitt, of
Summerhill, near Cork. Since that time, however, they have been restored,
and the whole volume excellently repaired and handsomely bound by the Duke
of Devonshire, who has most liberally allowed it to remain in Mr. Sanders’
possession for the purpose of copying. Whether O’Flinn actually mutilated
the volume or not, there can be no doubt that pages and pages of it have
been ruined and will eventually be rendered illegible by the most reckless
use of that pernicious chemical agent, infusion of galls. Besides this,
Mr. O’Flinn has written his name in several places of the book, among
others all over the colored initial letter of one of the tracts, which he
has entirely spoiled by filling in the open spaces with the letters of his
name and the date of the outrage. But perhaps the most characteristic act
performed by him is the interpolation of an eulogistic ode upon himself in
Gaelic, of which the following is a literal translation:

“Upon the dressing of this book by D. O’F., he said (or sang) as follows:

“’O old chart! forget not, wheresoever you are taken,
To relate that you met with the Doctor of Books;
That helped you, out of compassion, from severe bondage,
After finding you in forlorn state without a tatter about you, as it
            should be.
Under the disparagement of the ignorant who liked not to know you,
Till you met by chance with learned good‐nature from the person(57)
Who put healing herbs with zeal to thy old wounds,
And liberally put bloom on you at your old age,
  And baptized you the _Book of Lismore_.
Forget not this friend that esteemed your figure,
Distinguishing you, (though) of unseemly appearance, in humble words.
I doubt not that truly you will declare to them there
That you met with your fond friend ere you went to dust.”

The book contains ancient lives of Irish saints, written in very pure
Gaelic; the conquests of Charlemagne, translated from Archbishop Turpin’s
celebrated romance of the VIIIth century; the conversion of the Pantheon
into a Christian church; the stories of David, son of Jesse, the two
children, Samhain, the three sons of Cleirac; the _Imtheacht na trom
daimhé_; the story of S. Peter’s daughter Petronilla and the discovery of
the Sibylline Oracle; an account of S. Gregory the Great; the Empress
Justina’s heresy; modifications of minor ceremonies of the Mass; accounts
of the successors of Charlemagne, and of the correspondence between
Lanfranc and the clergy of Rome; extracts from Marco Polo’s _Travels_;
accounts of Irish battles and sieges; and a dialogue between S. Patrick,
Caoilté, Mac Ronain, and Oisin (Ossian), the son of Fionn Mac Cumhaill, in
which many hills, rivers, caverns, etc., in Ireland, are described, and
the etymology of their names recorded. This last is preluded by an account
of the departure of Oisin and Caoilté on a hunting expedition, during
which their gillie sees and is much troubled by a very strange spectacle.
As this tale furnishes a good example of the contents of these ancient
books, we subjoin a translation of the commencement of it.(58)

“On a certain time it happened that Oisin and Cailte were in Dun Clithar
(the sheltered or shady Dun) at Slieve Crott. It was the time that Patrick
came to Ireland. It is there dwelt a remnant of the Fenians, namely, Oisin
and Cailte and three times nine persons in their company. They followed
this custom: about nine persons went out hunting daily. On a certain day
it chanced that Cailte Mac Ronain set out with eight persons (big men) and
a boy (gilla), the ninth. The way they went was northward to the twelve
mountains of Eibhlinné and to the head of the ancient Moy Breogan. On
their returning from the chase at the cheerless close of the day they came
from the north to Corroda Cnamhchoill. Then was Fear Gair Cailte’s gilla
loaded with the choice parts of the chase in charge, because he had no
care beyond that of Cailte himself, from whom he took wages. The gilla
comes to the stream, and takes Cailte’s cup from his back and drinks a
drink of the stream. Whilst the gilla was thus drinking the eight great
men went their way southward, mistaking the road, and the gilla following
afterwards. Then was heard the noise of the large host, and the gilla
proceeds to observe the multitude; bushes and a bank between them. He saw
in the fore front of the crowd a strange band; it seemed to him one
hundred and fifty were in this band. They appeared thus: robes of pure
white linen upon them, a head chief with them, and bent standards in their
hands; shields, broad‐streaked with gold and silver, bright shining on
their breasts; their faces pale, pitiably feminine, and having masculine
voices, and every man of them humming a march. The gilla followed his
people, and did not overtake them till he came to the hunting‐booth, and
he came possessed, as he thinks, with the news of the strange troop he had
seen, and casts his burden on the ground, goes round it, places his elbows
under, and groans very loudly. It was then that Cailte Mac Ronain said:
‘Well, gilla, is it the weight of your burden affects you?’ ‘Not so,’
replied the gilla; ‘when is large the burden, so great is the wages you
give to me. This does not affect me; but that wonderful multitude I saw at
the hut of Cnamhchoill. The first band that I saw of that strange crowd
filled me with the pestilent, heavy complaint of the news of this band.’
‘Give its description,’ said Cailte. ‘There seemed to me an advanced guard
of one hundred and fifty‐six men, pure white robes upon them, a head
leader to them, bent standards in their hands, broad shields on their
breasts, having feminine faces and masculine voices, and every single man
of them humming a march.’ Wonder seized the old Fenian on hearing this.
‘These are they,’ said Oisin—‘the Tailginn (holy race), foretold by our
Druids and Fionn to us, and what can be done with them? Unless they be
slain, they shall ascend over us altogether.’ ‘Uch!’ said Oisin, ‘who
amongst us can molest them? For we are the last of the Fenii, and not with
ourselves is the power in Erinn, nor the greatness, nor pleasure but in
the chase, and as ancient exiles asserting the right,’ said he; and they
remained so till came the next morning, and there was nothing on their
minds that night but these (things). Cailte rose early the fore front of
the day, being the oldest of them, and came out on the assembly‐mound. The
sun cleared the fog from the plains, and Cailte said: ...”

The procession thus described as having been seen by the gillie was
probably one of ecclesiastics, with S. Patrick himself at their head, on
the saint’s first arrival in Ireland.

The foregoing sketches of certain of the MSS., extracts from which are
intended to appear in the series of fac‐similes, may serve to convey an
idea of how rich Ireland is in such national records, what an immense mass
of historical and romantic literature her libraries contain, and how great
is their antiquity. Besides the evidence afforded by these books, both as
to the ancient social, political, and ecclesiastical history of Ireland,
and its topography, the books themselves are found to be full of
illustrations of the customs, mode of life, manners, and costume of her
early Celtic inhabitants; often conveyed through the medium of charming
legends and fairy tales.




Annals Of The Moss‐Troopers.


Outlawry was never carried to a greater degree of systematic organization,
or practised on a larger and more dignified scale, than during the
centuries of Border warfare between the English and Scottish chieftains.
The only parallel to this warfare was furnished by the raids of the Free
Companions in mediæval Italy; but the mercenary element in the
organization of those formidable bodies of professional marauders destroys
the interest which we might otherwise have felt in their daring feats of
arms. The warfare of the Border was essentially a national outburst; the
“moss‐troopers,” although trained soldiers, were also householders and
patriarchs. Their stake in the country they alternately plundered and
defended was a substantial one. The field of their prowess was never far
from home. Each retainer, insignificant as he might be, humble as his
position in the troop might be, had yet a personal interest in the raid;
and revenge, as well as plunder, was the avowed object of an expedition.
There was never any changing of allegiance from one side to the other; the
tie of blood and clanship welded the whole troop into one family. The
Border, or debatable land between the rival kingdoms of England and
Scotland, bristled with strongholds, all of historical name and fame:
Newark and Branxholm (which Sir Walter Scott in his _Lay of the Last
Minstrel_ has euphonized into Branksome), held by the all‐powerful Scotts
of Buccleugh; Crichtoun Castle, the successive property of the Crichtouns,
the Bothwells, and the Buccleughs, and, while in the hands of its original
owners, the haughty defier of King James III. of Scotland; Gifford or
Yester (it bears either name indifferently), famous for its Hobgoblin
Hall, or, as the people call it, “Bo‐Hall,” a large cavern formed by
magical art; Tantallon Hold, the retreat of the Douglas, in which the
family held out manfully against James V. until its chief, the Earl of
Angus, was recalled from exile. Of this expedition it is related that the
king marched in person upon the castle, and, to reduce it, borrowed from
the neighboring Castle of Dunbar two great cannons whose names were
“Thrawn‐mouthed Meg and her Marrow”; also two great _bolcards_, and two
_moyan_, two double falcons and two quarter‐falcons, for the safe guiding
and redelivery of which “three lords were laid in pawn at Dunbar.”
Notwithstanding all this mighty preparation, the king was forced to raise
the siege. The ruin of Tantallon was reserved for the Covenanters, and now
there remains nothing of it save a few walls standing on a high rock
overlooking the German Ocean and the neighboring town of Berwick‐upon‐
Tweed. Ford Castle, the patrimony of the Herons, had a better fate, and
stands in altered and modernized guise, the centre of civilizing and
peaceful influences, the residence of a model Lady of the Manor,
overlooking, not the wild ocean, but a pretty village, faultlessly neat,
and a Gothic school filled with frescos of Bible subjects, executed by the
Lady Bountiful, the benefactress of the neighborhood. Yet Ford Castle had
a stormy, stirring past, and stands not far from the historic field of
Flodden, where tradition says that, but for the tardiness of the king’s
movements—an effect due to the siren charms of Lady Ford—James IV. might
have been victorious. In the castle is still shown the room where the king
slept the night before the battle, and only five or six miles away lies
the fatal field, on which, _Marmion_ in hand the curious traveller may
still make out each knoll, the Bridge of Twisel, by which the English
under Surrey crossed the Till, the hillock commanding the rear of the
English right wing, which was defeated, and in conflict with whom Scott’s
imaginary hero, Marmion, is supposed to have fallen.

Very curious are the accounts of the various fights and forays given by
the chroniclers of the middle ages, especially in their utter
unconsciousness of anything unusual or derogatory in this almost
internecine warfare. Their simplicity in itself presents the key to the
situation. In reading their graphic, matter‐of‐fact descriptions, one
needs to transport one’s self into a totally different atmosphere. We must
read these racy accounts in the same spirit in which they were written, if
we would understand aright the age in which our forefathers lived. We are
not called upon to sit in judgment over the irrevocable past, but to study
it as a fact not to be overlooked, and a useful storehouse of warning or
example. The possession of the king’s person was sometimes the origin of
terrible clan‐feuds among the warlike Scottish imitators of the Frankish
“Maires du Palais.” Thus, on one occasion, in 1526, the chronicler
Pitscottie informs us that James V., then a minor, had fallen under the
self‐assumed guardianship of the Earl of Angus, backed by his own clan of
Douglas and his allies, the Lairds of Hume, Cessfoord, and Fernyhirst, the
chiefs of the clan of Kerr.(59) “The Earl of Angus and the rest of the
Douglases ruled all which they liked, and no man durst say the contrary.”
The king, who wished to get out of their hands, sent a secret letter to
Scott of Buccleugh, warden of the West Marches of Scotland, praying him to
gather his kin and friends, meet the Douglas at Melrose, and deliver him
(James) from his vassal’s power. The loyal Scot gathered about six hundred
spears, and came to the tryst. When the Douglases and Kerrs saw whom they
had to deal with, they said to the king, “Sir, yonder is Buccleugh, and
thieves of Annandale with him, to unbeset your grace from the gate
(_i.e._, interrupt your passage). I vow to God they shall either fight or
flee, and ye shall tarry here on this know (knoll), and I shall pass and
put yon thieves off the ground, and rid the gate unto your grace, or else
die for it.” Scant courtesy in speech used those Border heroes towards one
another! So an escort tarried to guard the king, and the rest of the clans
went forward to the field of Darnelinver now Darnick, near Melrose. The
place of conflict is still called Skinner’s Field, a corruption of
Skirmish Field. The chronicler tells us that Buccleugh “joyned and
countered cruelly both the said parties ... with uncertain victory. But at
the last the Lord Hume, hearing word of that matter, how it stood,
returned again to the king in all possible haste, with him the Lairds of
Cessfoord and Fernyhirst, to the number of fourscore spears, and set
freshly on the lap and wing of the Laird of Buccleugh’s field, and shortly
bare them backward to the ground, which caused the Laird of Buccleugh and
the rest of his friends to go back and flee, whom they followed and
chased; and especially the Lairds of Cessfoord and Fernyhirst followed
furiouslie, till at the foot of a path the Laird of Cessfoord was slain by
the stroke of a spear by one Elliott, who was then servant to the Laird of
Buccleugh. But when the Laird of Cessfoord was slain, the chase ceased.”
The Borders were infested for many long years afterwards by marauders of
both sides, who kept up a deadly hereditary feud between the names of
Scott and Kerr, and finally, after having been imprisoned and had his
estates forfeited nine years later for levying war against the Kerrs, the
bold Buccleugh was slain by his foes in the streets of Edinburgh in 1552,
twenty‐six years after the disastrous fight in which he had failed to
rescue his sovereign. It was seventy years before this Border feud was
finally quelled.

On the English side of the Marches the same dare‐devilry existed, the same
speed in gathering large bodies of men was used, the same quickness in
warning and rousing the neighborhood. Equal enthusiasm was displayed
whether the case were one of “lynch law” or of political intrigue, as in
the fight at Darnelinver. Sir Robert Carey, in his _Memoirs_, describes
his duties as deputy warden for his brother‐in‐law, Lord Scroop. The
castle was near Carlisle. “We had a stirring time of it,” he says, “and
few days passed over my head but I was on horseback, either to prevent
mischief or take malefactors, and to bring the Border in better quiet than
it had been in times past.” Hearing that two Scotchmen had killed a
churchman in Scotland, and were dwelling five miles from Carlisle on the
English side of the Border, under the protection of the Graemes, Carey
took about twenty‐five horsemen with him, and invested the Graeme’s house
and tower. As they did so, a boy rode from the house at full speed, and
one of his retainers, better versed in Border warfare than the chief, told
him that in half an hour that boy would be in Scotland to let the people
know of the danger of their countrymen and the small number of those who
had come from Carlisle to arrest them. “Hereupon,” says our author, “we
took advice what was best to be done. We sent notice presently to all
parts to raise the country, and to come to us with all the speed they
could; and withal we sent to Carlisle to raise the townsmen, for without
foot we could do no good against the tower. There we stayed some hours,
expecting more company, and within a short time after the country came in
on all sides, so that we were quickly between three and four hundred
horse; and after some longer stay, the foot of Carlisle came to us, to the
number of three or four hundred men, whom we presently set to work to get
to the top of the tower, and to uncover the roof, and then some twenty of
them to fall down together, and by that means to win the tower. The Scots,
seeing their present danger, offered to parley, and yielded themselves to
my mercy.” But the victorious Carlisleans had reckoned without their host.
From the hills and defiles around came pouring wild‐looking mountaineers
on rough, wiry ponies, farm‐horses, etc., to the number of four hundred.
The prisoners ceased their pleading, and looked eagerly towards their
deliverers. Meanwhile, the men of “merry Carlisle”(60) gave their
perplexed chief more trouble than his enemies, who “stood at gaze” a
quarter of a mile from him; for, says he, “all our Borderers came crying
with full mouths, ‘Sir, give us leave to set upon them; for these are they
that have killed our fathers, our brothers and uncles, and our cousins,
and they are coming, thinking to surprise you with weak grass nags, such
as they could get on a sudden; and God hath put them into your hands, that
we may take revenge of them for much blood that they have spilt of
ours.’ ” The warden was a conscientious man, and had come here to execute
justice against two malefactors, not to encourage indiscriminate private
revenge; but even with his rank and vested authority he did not dare
sternly to forbid a faction fight. He only told them that, had he not been
there, they might have done as best pleased them; but that, since he was
present, he should feel that all the blood spilt that day would be upon
his own head, and for his sake he entreated them to forbear. “They were
ill‐satisfied,” he adds, “but durst not disobey.” So he sent word to the
Scots to disperse, which they did, probably because they were unprepared
to fight such a large and well‐disciplined force, having expected to find
but a handful of men. The necessity for delicate handling of this armed
mob of English Borderers points sufficiently to the curious standard of
personal justice which prevailed in those wild times. And yet, strange to
say, while a Border “ride” (_alias_ foray) was a thing of such ordinary
occurrence that a saying is recorded of a mother to her son which soon
became proverbial: “_Ride, Rowley, hough’s i’ the pot_”—that is, the last
piece of beef is in the pot, and it is high time to go and fetch
more—still it would sometimes happen, as it did to James V. of Scotland,
that when an invasion of England was in contemplation, and the royal
lances gathered at the place where the king’s lieges were to meet him,
only one baron would declare himself willing to go wherever the sovereign
might lead. This faithful knight was another of the loyal race of
Scott—John Scott of Thirlestane, to whom James, in memory of his fidelity,
granted the privilege set forth in the following curious and rare charter:

“... Ffor the quhilk (which) cause, it is our will, and we do straitlie
command and charg our lion herauld, ... to give and to graunt to the said
John Scott ane border of ffleure de lises about his coatte of armes, sic
as is on our royal banner, and alsua ane bundle of lances above his
helmet, with thir words, Readdy ay, Readdy, that he and all his after‐
cummers may bruik (carry?) the samine as a pledge and taiken of our guid
will and kyndnes for his true worthiness.”

The list of the damages done in some of these Border rides sounds strange
in modern ears. Each country was a match for the other, though the strong
castles of Wark, Norham, and Berwick in English hands were thorns in the
side of the Scottish Borderers. Rowland Foster of Wark, on the 16th of
May, 1570, harried the barony of Blythe in Lauderdale, the property of Sir
Richard Maitland, a blind knight of seventy‐four years of age. None of
that country “lippened” (expected) such a thing, as it was in time of
peace; and despite what may have been said—and truly—as to their
lawlessness, the Borderers had a code by which to regulate their actions.
The old man wrote a poetical account of the harrying, calling the poem the
_Blind Baron’s Comfort_, and in the introduction he enumerates his losses:
five thousand sheep, two hundred nolt, thirty horses and mares, and the
whole furniture of his house, worth £8 6s. 8d., and everything else that
was portable. The sum represents some forty dollars.

In these narratives one feels it impossible to be very sorry for either
party, each was so thoroughly unable to take care of itself! Those who to‐
day seem down‐trodden victims of lawlessness will figure again a year
hence as “stark moss‐troopers [moss for marsh] and arrant thieves; both to
England and Scotland outlawed, yet sometimes connived at because they gave
intelligence forth to Scotland, and would raise four hundred horse at any
time upon a raid of the English into Scotland.” This was said of the
Graemes, Earls of Monteith, but was applicable, _mutatis mutandis_, to
most of the Borderers on both sides. An old Northumbrian ballad, that
survived in the North of England till within a hundred years, and was
commonly sung at merry‐makings till the roof rang again, gives forcible
and rather coarse details as to the personal results of these forays. It
celebrates the ride of the Thirlwalls and Ridleys in the reign of Henry
VIII. against the Featherstons of Featherston Castle, a few miles south of
the Tyne. Here is one of the rude stanzas:


    “I canno’ tell a’, I canno’ tell a’,
    Some gat a skelp (blow), and some gat a claw;
    But they gard the Featherstons haud their jaw,
    Nicol and ‘Alick and a’.
    Some gat a hurt, and some gat nane;
    Some had harness, and some gat sta’en (stolen or plundered).”


In later days Sir Walter Scott wove the annals of the Border into more
tuneful rhyme, and sang of the exploits of his bold countrymen with an
enthusiasm worthy of his moss‐trooping ancestors. These old ballads, and
the recollections of ancient dames in whose youthful days the exploits
celebrated in these ballads were not yet quite obsolete, furnished him
with much of his romantic materials. _The Minstrelsy of the Scottish
Border_, a collection of many such traditions, is a storehouse of
information upon these subjects. We find descriptions of the caves and
morasses which were the usual refuge of the marauders; the banks of the
Teviot, the Ale, the Jed, the Esk, were full of these caverns, but even
these hiding‐places were not always safe. Patten’s _Account of Somerset’s
Expedition into Scotland_ tells how “George Ferres, a gentleman of my Lord
Protector, happened on a cave” the entrance to which showed signs of the
interior being tenanted. “He wente doune to trie, and was readilie
receyved with a hakebut or two,” and when he found the foe determined to
hold out, “he wente to my lorde’s grace, and, upon utterance of the
thinge, _gat license to deale with them as he coulde_”—which significantly
simple statement meant that he was perfectly at liberty to do as he
eventually did, i.e., smother them by stopping up the three _ventes_ of
the cave with burning faggots of damp wood.

The next case is one of national jealousy and instant reprisals. The
English Earl of Northumberland gives a graphic account of the double raid
in a letter to King Henry VIII. He says that some Scottish barons had
threatened to come and give him “light to put on his clothes at midnight,”
and moreover that Marke Carr (one of the same clan whose prowess was
exercised against Buccleugh) said that, “seying they had a governor on the
Marches of Scotland as well as they had in England, he shulde kepe your
highness’ instructions, gyffyn unto your garyson, for making of any _day‐
forey_; for he and his friends _wolde burne enough on the nyght_....” Then
follows a detailed account of the inroad of thirty horsemen on the hamlet
of Whitell, which they did not burn, because “there was no fyre to get
there, and they forgat to brynge any withe theyme!” But they killed a
woman, under circumstances of peculiar atrocity, and departed. The
reprisals, however, were far worse. The Earl of Murray, who had winked at
all this, was chosen by the English as a scape‐goat, and a hundred of the
best horsemen of Glendaill “dyd mar the Earl of Murreis provisions at
Coldingham, for they did not only burn the said town of Coldingham, with
all the corne thereunto belonging, but also burned twa townes nye
adjoining thereunto, called Branerdergest and the Black Hill and took
xxiii. persons, lx. horse, with cc. head of cataill, which nowe, as I am
informed, hathe not only been a staye of the said Erle of Murreis not
coming to the Bordure as yet, but alsoo that none inlande will adventure
theyrself uppon the Marches.... And also I have devysed that within this
iii. nyghts, _Godde willing_, Kelsey, in like case, shall be brent with
all the corn in the said town, and then they shall have noo place to lye
any garyson nygh unto the Borders.”

The physical strength and rude cunning required for this daring life of
perpetual warfare are well described in the stanza of _The Lay of the Last
Minstrel_ referring to one of the Border heroes of the clan of Buccleugh:


    “A stark, moss‐trooping Scott was he
    As e’er couch’d Border lance by knee;
    Through Solway sands, through Tarras moss,
    Blindfold he knew the paths to cross;
    By wily turns, by desperate bounds,
    Had baffled Percy’s best bloodhounds;
    In Eske or Liddel fords were none,
    But he would ride them one by one;
    Alike to him was time or tide,
    December’s snow or July’s pride;
    Alike to him was tide or time,
    Moonless midnight or matin prime;
    Steady of heart and stout of hand
    As ever drove prey from Cumberland;
    Five times outlaw’d had he been
    By England’s king and Scotland’s queen.”


We have already alluded to the origin of the name of the Border riders.
Fuller, in his _Worthies of England_, says they are called moss‐troopers
“because dwelling in the mosses (marshes or morasses), and riding in
troops together; they dwell in the bounds or meeting of the two kingdoms,
but obey the laws of neither. They come to church as seldom as the 29th of
February comes in the calendar.” Their customs and laws are even more
interesting than the details of their forays. Loyalty to each other was
their first principle, and on occasions when money could purchase the
freedom of one of their number they invariably cast in their lots, and
made up a large common purse. They were scrupulous in keeping their word
of honor when passed to a traveller, and Fuller likens their dogged
fidelity in these cases to that of a “Turkish janizary”; but otherwise,
woe to him that fell into their hands! Their own _self_‐imposed laws they
observed for the most part faithfully, and a breach of them was punished
far more summarily than modern crimes in modern courts of law. Several
species of offences peculiar to the Border constituted what was called
March‐treason. Among others was the crime of riding or causing to ride
against the opposite country (or clan) during the time of truce. Such was
the offence committed by Rowland Foster in his raid on the “Blind Baron,”
though in his case the criminal was probably too powerful to be punished.
In one of the many truces signed in the olden time is one of 1334 between
the Percys and the Douglases, in which it is accorded: “Gif ony stellis
(steals) anthir on the ta part or on the tothyr, that he shall be hanget
or beofdit (beheaded); and gif ony company stellis any gudes within the
trieux (truce) beforesayd, are of that company shall be hanget or beofdit,
and the remanant sail restore the gudys stolen in the dubble.”(61) In
doubtful cases the innocence of Border criminals was often referred to
their own oath. The same work that quotes the above agreement also gives
us the form of excusing bills by Border oaths: “You shall swear by the
heaven above you, hell beneath you, by your part of paradise, by all that
God made in six days and seven nights, and by God himself, you are whart
out sackless of art, part, way, witting, ridd kenning, having, or
recetting of any of the goods and cattels named in the bill. So help you
God.” It seems almost as if the Borderers had consulted the catechism as
to the nine ways of being accessory to another’s sin, so minute is the
nomenclature of treasonable possibilities.

Trial by single combat was also a favorite mode of clearing one’s self
from a criminal charge. This was common in feudal times and throughout the
XVIth century; but time stood still in the Borders, as far as civilizing
changes were concerned, and even in the XVIIth century a ceremonious
indenture was signed between two champions of name and position, binding
them to fight to prove the truth or falsity of a charge of high treason
made by one against the other.

The most ancient known collection of regulations for the Border sets forth
that in 1468, on the 18th day of December, Earl William Douglas assembled
the whole lords, freeholders, and eldest Borderers, that best knowledge
had, at the College of Linclouden, “where he had them bodily sworn, the
Holy Gospel touched, that they justlie and trulie after their cunning
should decrete ... the statutes, ordinances, and uses of the marche.” The
earl further on is said to have thought these “right speedful and
profitable to the Borders.”

During the truces it was not unusual to have merry‐makings and fairs, to
which, however, both Scotch and English came fully armed. Foot‐ball was
from time immemorial a favorite Border game, but the national rivalry was
such that the play often ended in bloodshed. Still, there was no personal
ill‐feeling, and a rough sort of good‐fellowship was kept up, which was
strengthened by intermarriages, and was not supposed to debar either party
from the right of prosecuting private vengeance, even to death. When,
however, this revenge had been taken, it would have been against Border
etiquette to retain any further ill‐will. Patten, in his _Account of
Somerset’s Expedition into Scotland_, remarks on the disorderly conduct of
the English Borderers who followed the Lord Protector. He describes the
camp as full of “troublous and dangerous noyses all the nyghte longe, ...
more like the outrage of a dissolute huntynge than the quiet of a well‐
ordered armye.” The Borderers, like masterless hounds, howling, whooping,
whistling, crying out “A Berwick, a Berwick! a Fenwick, a Fenwick! a
Bulmer, a Bulmer!” paraded the camp, creating confusion wherever they
went, and disturbing the more sober southern troops; they used their own
slogan or battle‐cry out of pure mischief and recklessness, and totally
disregarded all camp discipline. Yet in this land of defiles, caverns, and
marshes their aid was too precious to be dispensed with, and remonstrance
was practically useless.

The pursuit of Border marauders was often followed by the injured party
and his friends with bloodhounds and bugle‐horn, and was called the _hot‐
trod_. If his dog could trace the scent, he was entitled to follow the
invaders into the opposite kingdom, which practice often led to further
bloodshed. A sure way of stopping the dog was to spill blood on the track;
and a legend of Wallace’s adventurous life relates a terrible instance of
this. An Irishman in Wallace’s train was slain by the Scottish fugitive,
and when the English came up with their hounds their pursuit was baffled.
But poetical justice required some counterbalancing doom, and accordingly
the legend tells us that, when Wallace took refuge in the lonely tower of
Gask, and fancied himself safe, he was speedily disturbed by the blast of
a horn. It was midnight. He sent out attendants, cautiously to
reconnoitre, but they could see nothing. When he was left alone again, the
summons was repeated, and, sword in hand, he went down to face the
unknown. At the gate of the tower stood the headless spectre of Fawdoim,
the murdered man. Wallace, in unearthly terror, fled up into the tower,
tore open a window, and leaped down fifteen feet to the ground to continue
his flight as best he could. Looking back to Gask, he saw the tower on
fire, and the form of his victim, dilated to an immense size, standing on
the battlements, holding in his hand a blazing rafter.

The system of signals by beacon‐fires was common on the Borders. Smugglers
and their friends have now become the only remaining heirs to this
practice, which was once that in use by the noblest warriors of Gaelic
race in either island. The origin of this custom was perfectly lawful;
indeed, the Scottish Parliament, in 1445, directed that one bale or
beacon‐fagot should be warning of the approach of the English in any
manner; two bales, that they are coming indeed; four bales blazing beside
each other, that the enemy are in great force. A Scotch historian tells us
that in later times these beacons consisted of a long and strong tree set
up, with a long iron pole across the head of it, and an iron brander fixed
on a stalk in the middle of it for holding a tar‐barrel.

It was a custom on the Border, and indeed in the Highlands also, for those
passing through a great chieftain’s domains to repair to the castle in
acknowledgment of the chief’s authority, explain the purpose of their
journey, and receive the hospitality due to their rank. To neglect this
was held discourtesy in the great and insolence in the inferior traveller;
indeed, so strictly was this etiquette insisted upon by some feudal lords
that Lord Oliphaunt is said to have planted guns at his Castle of Newtyle
in Angus, so as to command the high‐road, and compel all passengers to
perform this act of homage. Sir Walter Scott, in his _Provincial
Antiquities_, has hunted up a curious instance of the non fulfilment of
this custom. The Lord of Crichtoun Castle, on the Tyne, heard that Scott
of Buccleugh was to pass his dwelling on his return from court. A splendid
banquet was prepared for the expected guest, who nevertheless rode past
the castle, neglecting to pay his duty‐visit. Crichtoun was terribly
incensed, and pursued the discourteous traveller with a body of horse,
made him prisoner, and confined him for the night in the castle dungeon.
He and his retainers, meanwhile, feasted on the good cheer that had been
provided, and doubtless made many valiant boasts against the imprisoned
lord. But with morning cometh prudence. A desperate feud with a powerful
clan was not desirable, and such would infallibly have been the result of
so rough a proceeding. Indeed, it would have justified the Buccleugh in
biting his glove or his thumb—a gesture indicative on the Border of a
resolution of mortal revenge for a serious insult. So, to put matters
right, Crichtoun not only delivered his prisoner and set him in the place
of honor at his board the following day, but himself retired into his own
dungeon, where he remained as many hours as his guest had done. This
satisfaction was accepted and the feud averted.

The Borderers had a rough, practical kind of symbolism in vogue among
them; and, though they were not afraid of calling a spade a spade, yet
loved a significant allegory. It is told of one of the marauding chiefs,
whose castle was a very robber’s den, that his mode of intimating to his
retainers that the larder was bare, and that they must ride for a supply
of provisions, was the appearance on the table of a pair of clean spurs in
a covered dish. Like many brigand chiefs, this Scott of Harden had a wife
of surpassing beauty, famed in song as the “Flower of Yarrow.” Some very
beautiful pastoral songs are attributed to a young captive, said to have
been carried as an infant to this eagle’s nest, built on the brink of a
dark and precipitous dell. He himself tells the story of how “beauteous
Mary, Yarrow’s fairest flower, rescued him from the rough troopers who
brought him into the courtyard of the castle.”


    “Her ear, all anxious, caught the wailing sound:
    With trembling haste, the youthful matron flew,
    And from the hurried heaps an infant drew.

    Of milder mood the gentle captive grew,
    Nor loved the scenes that scared his infant view,

    He lived o’er Yarrow’s Flower to shed the tear,
    To strew the holly‐leaves o’er Harden’s bier.

    He, nameless as the race from which he sprung,
    Saved other names, and left his own unsung.”


Work and pleasure were sometimes mingled in those royal expeditions called
a chase, which had so little to distinguish them from regular Border
forays. Law and no law were so curiously tangled together that each bore
nearly the same outward features as the other—features especially
romantic, which both have now equally lost. Ettrick Forest, now a
mountainous range of sheep‐walks, was anciently a royal pleasure‐ground.
The hunting was an affair of national importance, and in 1528 James V. of
Scotland “made proclamation to all lords, barons, gentlemen, landward‐men,
and freeholders to pass with the king where he pleased, to danton _the
thieves_ of Teviotdale, Annandale, and Liddesdale (we have heard this
expression before in another mouth), and other parts of that country, and
also warned all gentlemen that had good dogs to bring them, that he might
hunt in the said country as he pleased.”

A very interesting account is given by one Taylor, a poet, of the mode in
which these huntings were conducted in the Highlands. This, however, is a
sketch of a later day than that in which the moss‐troopers were at their
best, but many of the characteristics of the scene suggest the earlier and
hardly yet forgotten time of the true Borderers. He begins by enumerating
the many “truly noble and right honorable lords” who were present, and
gives a detailed description of the dress which they wore in common with
the peasantry, “as if Lycurgus had been there and made laws of equality.”
The dress is the Highland costume of to‐day—a dress that has never changed
since at least the beginning of this century. The English poet evidently
finds it very primitive, and takes no notice of the difference of color or
of mixing of color that distinguishes the various tartans. He says: “As
for their attire, any man of what degree so‐ever who comes amongst them
must not disdain to wear it; for if they do, then they will disdain to
hunt or willingly to bring in their dogs; but if men be kind to them and
be in their habit, then they are conquered with kindness, and the sport
will be plentiful.” The gathering is of some fourteen or fifteen hundred
or more men—a little city or camp. Small cottages built on purpose to
lodge in, and called _lonquhards_, are here for the chiefs, the kitchens
whereof are always on the side of a bank. A formidable list of provisions
follows; there are “many kettles and pots boiling, and many spits turning
and winding, with great variety of cheer, as venison baked, sodden, rost,
and stewed beef, mutton, goats, kids, hares, fresh salmon, pigeons, hens,
capons, chickens, partridges, muir‐coots (water‐fowl), heath‐cocks,
capercailzies and ptarmigans, good ale, sacke, white and claret (red)
tent, or allegant, with the most potent _aqua‐vitæ_. All these, and more
than these, we had continually in superfluous abundance, caught by
falconers, fowlers, fishers, and brought by my lord’s tenants and
purveyors to victual our camp, which consisteth of fourteen or fifteen
hundred men and horses. The manner of the hunting is this: Five or six
hundred men do rise early in the morning, and they do disperse themselves
divers ways, and seven, eight, or ten miles compass; they do bring or
chase in the deer, in many herds (two, three, or four hundred in a herd),
to such or such a place as the noblemen shall appoint them; then, when day
is come, the lords and gentlemen of their companies do ride or go to the
said places, sometimes wading up to the middles through burns (streams)
and rivers, and then they, being come to the place, do lie down upon the
ground till those foresaid scouts, which are called the _tinkhell_, do
bring down the deer. But as the proverb says of a bad cook, so these
_tinkhell_ men do lick their own fingers; for, besides their bows and
arrows, which they carry with them, we can hear now and then a harquebuss
or a musket go off, which they do seldom discharge in vain. Then after we
had stayed there three hours or thereabouts, we might perceive the deer
appear on the hills round about us (their heads making a show like a
wood), which, being followed close by the _tinkhell_, are chased down into
the valley where we lay; then all the valley, on each side, being waylaid
with a hundred couple of strong Irish greyhounds, they are all let loose,
as occasion serves, upon the herd of deer, that with dogs, guns, arrows,
durks, and daggers, in the space of two hours, fourscore fat deer were
slain, which after are disposed of, some one way and some another, twenty
and thirty miles, and more than enough left for us, to make merry withal
at our rendezvous.”

Doubtless the scene must have been very picturesque before the _battue_
began; but as sport what could be more unsatisfactory? For once modern
customs seem to excel ancient ones, and the Scotch deer‐stalker of to‐day,
in his arduous, solitary walk over the moors and through the forests, is a
much more enviable personage than the high and mighty huntsman of King
James’ train. The best sport recorded in this curious narrative was the
result of the unauthorized shots heard in the distance, when the
_tinkhell_ men could not resist the temptation of “licking their own
fingers.”

It was the result of all these centuries of wild life and romantic
lawlessness that made Scotland so safe a retreat for the unfortunate
Prince Charlie after the last stand had been so loyally and unsuccessfully
made at Culloden in 1745. Personal fidelity to a beloved chieftain, and an
habitual disregard of all laws of the “Southron” that clashed with their
own immemorial customs, made of the Scottish people the most perfect
partisans in the world. Even at this day, when they are famed for their
thriftiness, their amenableness to law, their eminently peaceful
qualities, a strong undercurrent of romance lies at the bottom of their
surface tranquillity. The organization of clanship has disappeared, but
the feeling that put life into that system is itself living yet. The
humblest Scotsman is a born genealogist, and privately considers the blood
of the laird under whose protection or in whose service he lives as
immeasurably _bluer_ than that of the German royal family that sits in the
high places of England; and a characteristic instance of the clinging
affection with which the national nomenclature of rank is still looked
upon by the Scottish peasantry was afforded not many years ago, when the
tenants of Lord Breadalbane were required to conform to modern usage, and
address their master as “my lord.” “What!” they exclaimed, “call the
Breadalbane _my lord_, like any paltry Southron chiel (fellow)?” They
thought—and rightly, as it seems to us—that the old appellation, “_the_
Breadalbane,” as if he were sovereign on his own lands, and the only one
of the name who needed no title to distinguish him from others of his kin,
was the only fitting one for their chief. The English title of marquis was
nothing to that.

The superstitions of the Border, those of early times and those whose
traces remain even to this day, are another interesting phase in the
annals of the moss‐troopers, but they would occupy more space than we have
now at command. We will close this sketch by quoting an old saying that
shows that some at least of the Border chieftains, doubtless through the
influence of their wives, had not relinquished all reverent belief in the
things of the world to come. They may not always have acted up to what
they believed; and indeed so wise a maxim as the following, if carried out
in practice to its furthest limit, would have caused the pious Borderer to
retire altogether from his adventurous “profession,” unless, indeed, the
obscure sentence in the second line of the couplet, “Keep well the rod,”
could have been twisted into an injunction to him to become an embodiment
of poetical justice in the eyes of less discriminating moss‐troopers. The
inscription is found over an arched door at Branxholm or Branksome Castle,
and is in old black‐letter type:


    In varld. is. nocht. nature. hes. vrought. yat. sal. lest. ay.

    Tharefore. serve. God. keip. veil. ye. rod. thy. fame. sal. nocht.
    dekay. (62)




Assunta Howard. IV. Convalescence.


“I have almost made up my mind to go back to bed again, and play possum.
Truly, I find but little encouragement in my tremendous efforts to get
well, in the marked neglect which I am suffering from the feminine portion
of my family. Clara is making herself ridiculous by returning to the days
of her first folly, against which I protest to unheeding ears, and of
which I wash my hands. Come here, Assunta; leave that everlasting writing
of yours, and enliven the ‘winter of my discontent’ by the ‘glorious
summer’ of your presence, of mind as well as of body.”

Mr. Carlisle certainly looked very unlike the neglected personage he
described himself to be. He was sitting in a luxurious chair near the open
window; and he had but to raise his eyes to feast them upon the ever‐
changing, never‐tiring beauties of the Alban hills, while the soft spring
air was laden with the fragrance of many gardens. Beside him were books,
flowers, and cigars—everything, in short, which could charm away the
tediousness of a prolonged convalescence. And it must be said, to his
credit, that he bore the monotony very well _for a man_—which, it is to be
feared, is after all damning his patience with very faint praise.

Assunta raised her eyes from her letter, and, smiling, said:

“Ingratitude, thy name is Severn Carlisle! I wish Clara were here to give
you the benefit of one of her very womanly disquisitions on man. You would
be so effectually silenced that I should have a hope of finishing my
letter in time for the steamer.”

“Never mind the letter,” said Mr. Carlisle. “Come here, child; I am pining
to have you near me.”

Assunta laughed, as she replied:

“Would it not do just as well if I should give you the opera‐glass, and
let you amuse yourself by making believe bring me to you?”

“Pshaw! Assunta, I want you. Put away your writing. You know very well
that it is two days before the steamer leaves, and you will have plenty of
time.” And Mr. Carlisle drew a chair beside his own.

Assunta did know all about it; but, now that the invalid was so much
better, she was trying to withdraw a little from any special attentions.
She felt that, under the circumstances, it would not be right to make
herself necessary to his comfort; she did not realize how necessary he
thought her to his very life. However, though she would skirmish with and
contradict him, she had never yet been able sufficiently to forget how
near he had been to death to actually oppose him. Besides, she had not
thought him looking quite as strong this morning; so she put the
unfinished letter back in the desk, and, taking her work‐basket, sat down
beside her guardian, and tried to divert him from herself by pointing out
the wonderful loveliness of the view. His face did have a weary
expression, which his quondam nurse did not fail to perceive. She at once
poured out a glass of wine, and, handing it to him, said:

“Tell me the truth, my friend; you do not feel very well to‐day?”

“I do not feel quite as strong as Samson,” he replied; “but you forget,
Dalila, how you and the barber have shorn off the few locks the fever left
me. Of course my strength went too.”

“Well, fortunately,” said Assunta, “there are no gates of Gaza which
require immediate removal, and no Philistines to be overcome.”

“I am not so sure of that,” said Mr. Carlisle, putting down the wine‐
glass. “There are some things harder to overcome than Philistines, and
some citadels so strong as to bid defiance to Samson, even in the full
glory of his wavy curls. What chance is there, then, for him now, cruel
Dalila?”

Assunta wilfully misunderstood him, and, taking her work from her pretty
basket, she answered, laughing:

“Well, one thing is very certain: your illness has not left you in the
least subdued. Clara and I must begin a course of discipline, or by the
time your brown curls have attained their usual length you will have
become a regular tyrant.”

“Give me your work, _petite_,” said Mr. Carlisle, gently disengaging it
from her hand. “I want this morning all to myself. And please do not
mention Clara again. I cannot hear her name without thinking of that
miserable Sinclair business. It is well for him that I am as I am, until I
have had time to cool. I am not very patient, and I have an irresistible
longing to give him a horse‐whipping. It is a singular psychological fact
that Clara has been gifted with every womanly attraction but common sense.
But I believe that even you Catholics allow to benighted heretics the plea
of invincible ignorance as an escape from condemnation; so we must not be
too severe in our judgment of my foolish sister.”

“Hardly a parallel case,” said Assunta, smiling.

“I grant it,” replied her guardian; “for in my illustration the acceptance
of the plea, so you hold, renders happiness possible to the heretic, to
whom a ‘little knowledge’ would have been so ‘dangerous a thing’ as to
lose him even a chance among the elect; whereas Clara’s invincible
ignorance of the world, of human nature, and in particular of the nature
of George Sinclair, serves only to explain her folly, but does not prevent
the inevitable evil consequences of such a marriage. But enough of the
subject. Will you not read to me a little while? Get Mrs. Browning, and
let us have ‘Lady Geraldine,’ if you will so far compassionate a man as to
make him forget that he is at sword’s points with himself and all the
world, the exception being his fair consoler. Thank you, _petite_,” he
continued, as Assunta brought the book. “There is plenty of trash and an
incomprehensible expression or two in the poem; but, as a whole, I like
it, and the end, the vision, would redeem it, were it ten times as bad.
Well, I too have had a vision! Do you know, Assunta, that the only thing I
can recall of those weeks of illness is your dear form flitting in and out
of the darkness? But—may I dare say it?—the vision had in it a certain
tenderness I do not find in the reality. I could almost believe in your
doctrine of guardian angels, having myself experienced what their ministry
might be.”

“I am afraid,” interrupted Assunta, “that your doctrine would hardly
stand, if it has no other basis than such very human evidence. Shall I
begin?”

“No, wait a minute longer,” said Mr. Carlisle. “ ‘Lady Geraldine’ will
keep. I wish to put a question to your sense of justice. When I was sick,
and almost unconscious, and entirely unappreciative, there was a person—so
the doctor tells me—who lavished attentions upon me, counted nothing too
great a sacrifice to be wasted upon me. But now that I am myself again,
and longing to prove myself the most grateful of men, on the principle
that ‘gratitude is a lively sense of favors _to come_,’ that person
suddenly retires into the solitude of her own original indifference (to
misquote somewhat grandiloquently), and leaves me wondering on what hidden
rock my bark struck when I thought the sea all smooth and shining,
shivering my reanimated hopes to atoms. But,” he added, turning abruptly
towards her, and taking in his the hand which rested on the table beside
him, “you saved my life. Bless you, child, and remember that the life you
have saved is yours, now and always.”

The color had rushed painfully into Assunta’s face, but her guardian
instantly released her hand, and she answered quietly:

“It really troubles me, Mr. Carlisle, that you should attach so much
importance to a mere service of duty and common humanity. I did no more
than any friend so situated would have had a right to claim at my hands.
Your thanks have far outweighed your indebtedness.”

“Duty again!” exclaimed Mr. Carlisle bitterly. “I wish you had let me die.
I want no _duty_ service from you; and you shall be gratified, for I do
_not_ thank you for my life on those conditions. You spare no opportunity
to let me understand that I am no more to you than all the rest of the
world. Be it so.” And he impatiently snatched the _Galignani_ from the
table, and settled himself as if to read.

Assunta’s temper was always roused by the unjust remarks her guardian
sometimes made, and she would probably have answered with a spirit which
would have belied the angel had she not happened to glance at the paper,
and seen that it was upside down; and then at Mr. Carlisle’s pale and
troubled features, to which even the crimson facings of his rich dressing‐
gown hardly lent the faintest glow. The same sentiment of common humanity
which had prompted those days of care and nights of watching now checked
the reproach she would have uttered. She turned over the leaves of Mrs.
Browning, until her eye lighted upon that exquisite valediction, “God be
with thee, my beloved.” This she read through to herself; and then, laying
the book upon the table, she said with the tone and manner of a subdued
child:

“May I finish my letter, please?”

Mr. Carlisle scarcely raised his eyes, as he replied:

“Certainly, Assunta. I have no wish to detain you.”

It was with a very womanly dignity that Assunta left her seat; but,
instead of returning to her writing‐desk, she went to the piano. For
nearly an hour she played, now passages from different sonatas, and then
selections from the grander music of the church. Without seeming to
notice, she saw that the paper at last fell from her guardian’s hand; and
understanding, as she did, every change in his expressive face, she knew
from the smoothing of the brow and the restful look of the eyes that peace
was restored by the charm she wrought. When she was sure that the evil
spirit had been quite exorcised by the power of music, she rose from the
piano, and rang the bell. When Giovanni appeared, she said:

“I think that Mrs. Grey will not return until quite late, as she has gone
to Tivoli; so you may serve dinner here for me as well as for Mr.
Carlisle. If any one calls, I do not receive this afternoon.”

“Very well, signorina,” replied Giovanni. “I will bring in the small table
from the library.” And he left the room.

“It will be much pleasanter than for each of us to dine separately in
solitary state,” said Assunta, going towards her guardian, and speaking as
if there had been no cloud between them; “though I know that dining in the
drawing‐room must, of necessity, be exceptional.”

“It was a very bright thought of yours,” answered Mr. Carlisle, “and a
very appetizing one to me, I can assure you. Will you read ‘Lady
Geraldine’ now? There will be just time before dinner.”

Without a word Assunta took the book, and began to read. She had nothing
of the dramatic in her style, but her voice was sweet, her enunciation
very clear and distinct, and she showed a thorough apprehension of the
author’s meaning; so her reading always gave pleasure, and Mr. Carlisle
had come to depend upon it daily. The vision to which he had referred was
robbed, perhaps fortunately, of some of its sentiment, by Giovanni’s table
preparations; and his presence prevented all but very general comment.

When they were once more by themselves—Giovanni having left them to linger
over the fruit and wine—Mr. Carlisle said:

“By the way, Assunta, you have not told me yet what your friend Miss
Percival had to say for herself in her last letter. You know I am always
interested in her; though I fear it is an interest which partakes largely
of the nature of jealousy.”

“Well,” replied Assunta, “she tells me that she is going to be married.”

“Sensible girl! What more?”

“She regrets very much that her brother, whom she dearly loves, will not
return from his year’s exile in time for the ceremony.”

“So much the better,” exclaimed Mr. Carlisle with unusual energy. “I hope
he may lose himself in the deserts of Arabia, or wander off to further
India, and there remain.”

Assunta laughed. “Truly, my guardian is most charitable! I should not be
surprised if he did, one of these days, follow in the footsteps of S.
Francis Xavier. But what has he done to merit sentence of banishment from
you?”

“You know I am a student of human nature,” rejoined her guardian, “and I
have always observed that where a young girl has a brother and a friend,
she cannot conceive of any other destiny for the two objects of her
affection than to make of them one united object in the holy bonds of
matrimony; and, in order to bring about the desired consummation, she
devotes herself to intrigue in a manner and with a zeal truly feminine.
Mary Percival has a brother and a friend; ergo, may her brother be—induced
to become an Oriental; that is all.”

“In this case,” replied the young girl with a merry laugh, “your
observations are quite at fault. I am truly grieved to be compelled to
spoil such a pretty romance. But, seriously, Mary has a far higher choice
for her brother than her most unworthy friend. She has but one desire and
prayer for him, and that is that he may enter the holy priesthood. I
believe she will not be disappointed. Did you ever see Mr. Percival?”

“No, I have never had the pleasure,” replied Mr. Carlisle.

“I wish you might know him,” said Assunta enthusiastically. “I am sure you
would like him. He is not what would generally be considered handsome, but
I think his face beautiful, it is so very spiritual. It is the beauty of a
remarkable soul, which literally shines in his eyes. He has taken the
highest honors at college, and, if his health is only re‐established, I
think his sister’s very laudable ambition will be more than gratified.”

“He certainly has a most ardent admirer. I did not know you could be so
enthusiastic about any member of the _genus homo_,” said Mr. Carlisle.
Assunta was not to be daunted by the perceptible sneer, and she at once
added:

“I can hardly be said to admire him, but rather the power of grace in him.
I have so great a reverence for Augustine Percival that I could not
imagine it possible for any human affection to turn him from what I firmly
believe to be his great vocation. So my guardian may see him return to the
West with equanimity, and may perhaps even be induced to look with favor
upon another part of the letter.”

“And what is that?” asked Mr. Carlisle.

“Mary invites me very urgently to pass next winter with her in Baltimore.
Her husband‐elect is a naval officer, and his leave of absence expires in
October. She wishes me as a substitute, you understand.”

“Is it your wish to go, my child?” said her guardian, looking at her
earnestly.

“I never like to make any definite plan so long beforehand; but it seemed
to me a very suitable arrangement. You remember,” added Assunta, “that
Clara will probably be married before then.”

“I do not wish Clara to be mentioned; she has nothing to do with it,” said
Mr. Carlisle imperiously; and then he added more gently, “May I ask,
_petite_, what answer you have given her?”

“None, as yet; you remember you interrupted my letter. But I think I will
tell her that my guardian is such an ogre that I dare not reply to her
invitation until after August. Will that do?”

“Tell her what you will,” said Mr. Carlisle; “only, for heaven’s sake, say
no more to me upon the subject. I am not Augustine Percival, and
consequently not elevated above the power of human feeling.”

Poor Assunta! she too was not above human feeling, and sometimes it was
very hard for her to keep her heart from being rebellious; but she had
learned to put God before every earthly consideration, and to find her
strength in his presence. But it required constant watchfulness and
untiring patience to conquer herself. Therefore she could not but feel
great compassion for her friend, who must bear his disappointment with no
help outside of his own strong nature. She rose from the table, and moved
it a little to one side, in order that she might arrange the cushions for
her guardian, who looked unusually weary to‐night.

“Are you angry with me, Mr. Carlisle?” said she softly, as he sank back in
his chair.

“Angry, _petite_?” he repeated, looking steadily in her face. “Yes, I am
angry, but not with you, or with anything you have said to‐night, but
rather with that accursed barrier. Go, child, ring for Giovanni, or I
shall say what you will not like to hear.” As she turned away, he caught
her hand, saying:

“One moment. I have been very rude, and yet I would die for you! There, I
will not say another word. Please ring for Giovanni, since I am compelled
to be so ungallant as to request the favor of you; and then let us talk a
little about the Sienna plans. I must try and put myself into a good‐humor
before Clara comes; for she will have something to say about her handsome
Sinclair, and then I would not give much for my temper.”

The table having been removed, and the wood which had been laid ready in
the fire‐place kindled into a blaze—for the evenings were still cool
enough to admit of its cheery influence—the two, whose lives seemed so
united, and yet were, in reality, so far apart, drew towards the fire. The
heavy curtains, which had been put aside to admit the warm, genial air and
sunshine of mid‐day, were now closely drawn, in order to shut out the
chilling dampness of evening. A hanging lamp cast a soft, mellow light
through its porcelain shade upon an exquisite basket of roses and
carnations adorning the centre of the table, which was covered elsewhere
with books, arranged with studied negligence, and numberless little
suggestions of refinement and feminine occupation. Everything seemed
favorable to a most harmonious conversation, except that inevitable
something which, like a malicious sprite, awakens us from our dreams just
when they are brightest; breaks the spell of our illusions at the moment
when we are clinging to them most persistently; ruthlessly crosses, with
its fatal track, our promised pleasures; and unfeelingly interrupts us in
some hour of complete rest and satisfaction. Ah! we may fret in our
impatience, and wonder at the fatality which seems to pursue us. It is no
mischief‐loving Puck, no evil‐minded genie, but a good angel, who thus
thwarts us. This is no time to dream and cherish illusions which can but
deceive. It is no time for repose. To detach ourselves from all these
things which would make this world a satisfaction to us is the labor we
must all perform, more or less generously and heroically, if we would one
day enjoy the reality of the one dream that never fades—the vision of the
Apocalypse; the one repose that never palls—the rest that remaineth for
the people of God. Welcome, then, those misnamed “juggling fiends” that
“keep the word of promise to our ear, and break it to our hope.” Welcome
the many disappointments, trifling in themselves, the daily crossings of
our will and pleasure, which seem so petty; they perform a great mission
if they succeed in loosening ever so little the cords which bind down to
earth the souls that were meant for heaven. Thrice welcome whatever helps
to turn the sweetness of this world to bitterness!

Poor Mrs. Grey! it had never occurred to her that she had a mission, still
less such an one as we have now assigned to her. For it was her voice
which caused Mr. Carlisle to sigh so profoundly that Assunta could not but
smile, in spite of the regretful feeling in her own heart. It was
better—and she knew it—that the softening influence of the hour should be
thus rudely interrupted; but nature will not be crushed without an
occasional protest. The expression of annoyance still lingered on Mr.
Carlisle’s face when Clara entered the room, exclaiming:

“Come, _caro mio_, they have had the livelong day to themselves, and must
have talked out by this time, even if they had the whole encyclopædia in
their brains.” And as Mr. Sinclair followed with an apologetic bow, she
continued:

“This ridiculous man has conscientious objections to interrupting your
_tête‐à‐tête_. I am sure, Severn, if Assunta is not tired to death of you
by this time, she ought to be, particularly if you have been as solemn all
day as you look now. I would much rather spend the whole day in church—and
that is the most gloomy thing I can think of—than be condemned to the
company of a man in a mood. Make a note of that, George.

“I think, Clara,” said her brother, somewhat coldly, “that Mr. Sinclair
was judging others by himself, and in doing so he judged kindly in my
regard and gallantly in yours; but this is not always the true criterion.
Mr. Sinclair, I beg you will be seated, and excuse me if I do not rise. I
am still obliged to claim the invalid’s cloak of charity. No doubt a cup
of tea will be acceptable after your long drive; and it will soon be
served.”

The eyes of the two men met. They had measured each other before now, and
understood each other well; and each knew that he was most cordially
disliked by the other. Their ceremonious politeness was all the more
marked on that account. Assunta’s tact came to the rescue, and made a
diversion. As she assisted Mrs. Grey in removing her shawl and hat, she
said:

“And how have you enjoyed the day, Clara? You must be very tired!”

“Oh! I am nearly dead with fatigue,” replied the lady, looking very bright
and very much alive for a moribund; “but we have had a delicious time. You
should have seen George trying to support his dignity on a donkey which he
could easily have assisted in walking, as his feet touched the ground on
both sides; and which started with a spasmodic jerk every two or three
minutes when the donkey boy brought down a small club on its back. I
laughed so much at Mr. Sinclair’s gravity and the ludicrous figure he cut
that I narrowly escaped falling off my own donkey down a precipice.”

“ ‘Now, what a thing it is to be an ass,’ ” quoted Mr. Carlisle. “My
lovely sister visits a spot whose present beauty is hardly surpassed by
the richness of its classic associations; where romance lurks, scarcely
hidden, in the memory of Zenobia; where the olives that cover the
hillsides have a primeval look; and, like a very Titania under the love‐
spell, she wakes from her dream of the past, and, behold! her vision is—a
donkey!—no, I beg pardon—_two_ donkeys; one that nearly lost its burden;
and the other that its burden nearly lost!”

“How foolish you are, Severn!” said Clara, pouting very becomingly, while
the others laughed heartily. “Besides, you need not expect me to get up
any sentiment about Zenobia. The mistake of her life was that she did not
die at the proper time, instead of retiring to a country town—of all
places in the world—living a comfortable life, and dying a commonplace
death in her bed, for all I know. It was just stupid in her!”

Her brother smiled. “I think you are right, Clara. Zenobia should never
have survived her chains and the Roman triumph, if she had wished to leave
a perfect picture of herself to posterity. However, I doubt if we have the
right to exact the sacrifice of her merely to gratify our ideas of
romantic propriety. By living she only proved herself less heroine, more
woman. But, Clara, what _did_ you see?—besides the donkeys, I mean.”

Mr. Carlisle felt so keenly the antagonism of Mr. Sinclair’s presence,
that he must either leave the room or find some vent; and therefore his
sister was compelled to be safety‐valve, and submit to his teasing mood.
Perhaps she was not altogether an innocent victim, since she it was who
had somewhat wilfully introduced the discordant element into the family.

“We saw ruins and waterfalls, of course,” she replied to the last
question—a little petulance in her tone, which soon, however, disappeared.
“But the most enjoyable thing of the whole day was the dinner. I usually
cannot see any pleasure in eating out of doors, but today we were obliged
to do so, for the hotel was not at all inviting; and then it is the proper
thing to do to have the table spread in the portico of the Temple of
Vesta. Gagiati had put up a delicious dinner at Mr. Sinclair’s order, so
we were not dependent upon country fries and macaroni. Just as we were
sitting down Lady Gertrude came up with her mother and lover, and we
joined forces. I assure you we were not silent. I never enjoyed a meal
more in my life.”

“O Tivoli! ancient Tibur, how art thou fallen! Donkeys and dinner!”
exclaimed Mr. Carlisle. “Well, fair Titania, did you supply your gentle
animal with the honey‐bag of the ‘red‐hipped humble‐bee,’ or was his
appetite more plebeian, so that ‘a peck of provender’ was more
acceptable?”

“Assunta, do you allow your patient to talk so much?” said Mrs. Grey, her
amiability still proof against attack. “If he excites his imagination in
this way, he can hardly hope to sleep without a powerful anodyne.”

“My patient, as you call him,” replied Assunta, smiling, “is not quite so
submissive, I find, as when obedience was a necessity, and not a virtue.
Still, if he would allow me a very humble suggestion, I would remind him
that he has not been quite as well to‐day, and that it is some time past
his usual hour for retiring.”

There was no irritation in Mr. Carlisle’s face as he looked at Assunta
with one of his rare smiles. The very tones of her voice seemed to give
him a feeling of rest. “A very broad hint on the part of my tyrant,” he
replied, “which I will be wise enough to take, in its present form, lest
it should become more emphatic. Good‐night, Mr. Sinclair. I feel that
there is the less need of an apology for excusing myself, as I leave you
in good hands Clara, when Giovanni has served the tea, please send him to
me.”

In leaving the room Mr. Carlisle dropped his cigar‐case, which Assunta
perceived, and hastened with it to the library, where she knew she should
find him awaiting Giovanni.

“_Petite_,” he exclaimed, as she entered, “kill that man for me, and make
me everlastingly your debtor.”

“I am sure,” she answered, laughing, “you have had it all your own way to‐
night. I began to think he must have taken a vow of silence.”

“Still waters!” said her guardian. “He can afford to be silent; he is
biding his time.”

“Are you not the least bit unjust and uncharitable?” asked Assunta. “But
never mind, you shall not have a lecture to‐night, for you look very
weary. Promise me that you will take the medicine I send you.”

“I will take it, if you bring it yourself.”

“But I cannot do that. I have your enemy to entertain, you know.”

“And much joy do I wish you,” said Mr. Carlisle. “I intend to study up
affinities and repulsions psychologically; and then I shall perhaps be
able to understand why one person, without any assignable cause, should
act as a perpetual blister—genuine Spanish flies—and another, a certain
dear little friend of mine for instance, should be ever a soothing balm.”

“Cold cream!” suggested Assunta, “since you will use such pharmaceutical
comparisons. And now, if I have shocked your sense of refinement
sufficiently, I must say good‐night.”

“Good‐night, dear child,” returned her guardian cordially, but his next
thought was a bitter one, and an almost prophetic feeling of loneliness
came over him, as he watched the smoke curling up from his cigar.

As soon as the incubus of Mr. Carlisle’s presence was removed, Mr.
Sinclair threw off the silence which was so unnatural to him, and became
at once the attentive, gallant man of the world. Even Assunta, had she met
him then for the first time, would not have received that impression of
insincerity which had repelled her formerly. She could hardly wonder to‐
night that Clara Grey, who never looked below the surface, or cared, so
long as peace reigned on the outside, what elements of disturbance might
be working in the depths, should have suffered her heart to confide itself
to the keeping of one apparently so devoted. She had never before imagined
that they were so well suited to each other; and as Mr. Sinclair, after an
hour, arose to take his leave, she was surprised into most unusual
cordiality, as she bade him good‐night. But, unfortunately for the
impression he had been at such pains to produce, the glamour of
fascination disappeared with his retreating footsteps; so that even while
Mr. Sinclair was congratulating himself upon his success, Assunta found
herself wondering at the almost painful revulsion of feeling which
followed his departure.

Mrs. Grey’s bright face indicated no such change. She was perfectly
satisfied with her lover, and no less so with herself. She checked a
movement of Assunta’s to retire by saying:

“Do you mind waiting a little longer, dear? I want so much to have a quiet
chat. Come, let us draw our chairs up to the fire, the blaze is so
cheering.”

“You do not look as if you needed any help from outside influences,” said
Assunta, and there was a shade of sadness in her tone. “But I am all ready
for a talk.”

A cloud—a light summer one—overspread Mrs. Grey’s clear sky and shadowed
her face, as she said, after a pause: “Assunta, why does Severn dislike
George so much?”

Assunta was too truthful to deny the fact, so she simply said:

“We cannot always control our feelings, Clara; but, as a general thing, I
do not find Mr. Carlisle unreasonable.”

“He certainly is very unreasonable in this case,” returned Mrs. Grey
quickly, “and I am sorry it is so, for I love Severn very much. Still, I
shall not allow an unfounded prejudice to stand in the way of my
happiness. Assunta, I have promised Mr. Sinclair that I will marry him in
September, when we shall be in Paris, on our way to America.”

“I supposed,” said Assunta, “that it would come soon, and I hope, dear
Clara, that you will be very, _very_ happy.” Doubt was in her mind, but
she had not the heart to let it appear in her manner.

“And,” Mrs. Grey continued, “I want you to understand, dear, that with us
you will always have a home at your disposal, where you will be welcomed
as a sister. George wished me to tell you that this is his desire as well
as mine.”

“You are both too kind,” replied Assunta, touched by this thoughtfulness
of her at a time when selfishness is regarded as a special privilege. “My
arrangements can easily be made afterwards; but I do very much appreciate
your kindness.”

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Grey, “you belong to us; and the difficulty will
probably be that we shall not be able to keep such an attractive bit of
property.”

“You are setting me the example,” said Assunta, laughing.

“Ah! yes,” returned Mrs. Grey; “but then, there is only one George
Sinclair, you know, as a temptation.”

Assunta fancied she could hear Mr. Carlisle exclaim, “God be praised!” to
that natural expression of womanly pride, and she herself wondered if it
would be possible for her to fall under such a delusion.

But Mrs. Grey had not yet reached the point of the conversation; what had
been said was only preliminary. The truth was, she dreaded her brother’s
reception of the news, and she wished to avoid being present at the first
outbreak.

“You have so much influence with Severn,” she said at last, “I wish you
would tell him about it, and try to make him feel differently towards
George. I am sure you can. We are going to the Villa Doria to‐morrow, and
this will give you an opportunity. I hope the storm will be over before we
return,” she added, laughing; “at any rate, the lightning will not strike
you.”

It was like Mrs. Grey to make this request—so like her that Assunta did
not think it either strange or selfish. She promised to break the news,
which she knew would be unwelcome. But she could not conscientiously
promise to use an influence in overcoming a prejudice she entirely shared.
An affectionate good‐night was exchanged, and then Assunta retired to her
room. It was not often that she indulged herself in a revery—in those
waking dreams which are so unprofitable, and from which one is usually
aroused with the spiritual tone lowered, and the heart discontented and
dissatisfied. But this had been a trying day; and now, as she reviewed it,
and came at last to its close, she found herself envying her friend the
joy which seemed so complete, and wondering why her lot should be so
different. Happiness had come to Mrs. Grey as to a natural resting‐place;
while she, to whom a bright vision of it had been presented, must thrust
it from her as if it were a curse and not a blessing. And here she paused,
and better thoughts came to replace the unworthy ones. This lot which she
was envying—was it not all of the earth, earthy? Would she change, if she
could? Had she not in her blessed faith a treasure which she would not
give for all the human happiness this world has power to bestow? And here
was the key to the difference at which she had for the moment wondered.
Much, very much, had been given to her; was it strange that much should be
required? Had she, then, made her sacrifice only to play the Indian giver
towards her God, and wish back the offering he had accepted at her hands?
No, she would not be so ungenerous. In the light of faith the brightness
which had illuminated the life of her friend grew dim and faded, while the
shadow of what had seemed so heavy a cross resting upon her own no longer
darkened her soul. And soon, kneeling before her crucifix, she could
fervently thank the dear Lord that he had granted her the privilege of
suffering something for his love; and she prayed for strength to take up
her cross _daily_, and bear it with courage and generosity.

To Be Continued.




Inscription For The Bell “Gabriel,” At S. Mary’s Of The Lake, Lake George.


Gabrielem olim Dominam ad Mariam
Evæ mutatum cecinisse nomen,
Gabriel tandem cecini sacratas
        Primus ad oras.




Switzerland In 1873. Lucerne. Concluded.


At this point we reached the first of the existing covered bridges. What a
transition! Like going back suddenly from the levelling monotony of steam
and the feverish present‐day life to the individuality and repose of the
middle ages! “It dates,” said Herr H——, “from the year 1300—just seven
years before William Tell and the Rüti, eight before the battle of
Morgarten, and eighty‐six before our great Sempach victory!”

“William Tell! What nonsense! Who believes now in William Tell?” muttered
the young school‐boy C—— to his sister; but the old man fortunately did
not hear him, and, his eyes beaming with affection for the old relic, he
went on: “Some modern improvers”—laying contemptuous emphasis on these
words—“talk of ‘clearing it away.’ But you see what a pleasant, cool walk
it still is for foot‐passengers, with the green Reuss swirling beneath,
and the lovely view from its open sides. I tell them that it would not
only be an act of vandalism, but, as there are so few antiquities to show
in Lucerne, it would be like ‘killing the goose with the golden eggs.’ ”
And so it would! It is in no one’s way, and is, with the other bridge, the
only remnant of antiquity worth looking at. On opening our _Wordsworth_ we
found that this is the one first mentioned by him after leaving Sarnen:


    “From this appropriate court renowned Lucerne
        Calls me to pace her honored bridge, that cheers
    The patriot’s heart with pictures rude and stern—
        An uncouth chronicle of glorious years.”


And we found it still as he describes it. The triangle of the rafters of
each arch is painted, and though as works of art they are of little value,
still they are clever and quaint representations of the scenes, certain to
make an impression on young minds in particular, and easily discernible to
an observant passer‐by. Going from the right bank of the river, reminders
of events in Swiss and local history meet the eye, and, returning from the
other side, the deeds of the two patron saints of the town, S. Leodegarius
and S. Maurice. Both lives were most striking, and equally belonged to the
earliest ages of the Christian era. S. Maurice especially is a favorite
Swiss patron. He was the commander of the Theban Christian Legion in the
time of the Emperor Diocletian, which is said to have consisted of sixty‐
six hundred men. This legion had been raised in the Thebaïs or Upper Egypt
amongst the Christians there, and, officered by Christians, was marching
with the rest of the Roman army against Gaul, under the command of
Maximian, when the latter ordered the army to offer sacrifices for the
success of the expedition. All encamped at the place called Octodurus,
represented nowadays by the modest Martigny in the Valais; but the Theban
legion, refusing to join in the pagan worship, retired to the spot where
now stands S. Maurice, and day by day they were killed by orders of
Maximian, until none remained. The Monastery of S. Maurice, built on the
spot of their martyrdom, is one of the oldest in the world, said to have
been first erected in A.D. 250, although the present edifice only dates
from 1489. Switzerland and Savoy formerly disputed the honor of keeping
the relics, but at last settled the matter by a small portion being handed
over to Piedmont, the abbey retaining the principal treasures. It is
therefore to this day one of the favorite places of pilgrimage in
Switzerland. A special connection seems to have occurred with Lucerne, for
two hundred bodies of S. Maurice’s companions are said to have been found
at the village of Schoz, about two leagues distant, where there was an old
chapel renowned for its privileges and indulgences. And this seems in no
way unlikely, for we read in Butler’s _Lives of the Saints_ and elsewhere
that several smaller corps of soldiers belonging to the legion were
scattered here and there in Switzerland, and were put to death for the
same reason. Most interesting it is, in any case, to trace on this bridge
the union of two such heroic, manly saints in the affections and
sympathies of the Lucerne citizens from olden times.

The bridge is five hundred feet long, and makes two sharp bends to suit
the current of the river, flowing swiftly and vigorously from the lake
close by through the old‐fashioned posts on towards old Father Rhine,
which it joins between Schaffhausen and Basel. This irregularity adds to
the picturesque effect, and at one of these corners stands a tower,
mentioned in some old documents of the year 1367. Possibly it may have
existed as part of the fortifications even before the bridge itself. It is
called the Water Tower, and has four stories of one room each, which
formerly served as treasury, prison, and record‐office; but at present it
is used only for the latter purpose, and contains the archives of the
city. What tales it might tell had we moderns the time to spare for
listening!

But we moved on along the left bank of the river, and turned into the
church, still called the “Jesuits’ Church.” It is large and unmistakably
in their well‐known style. Here Herr H—— explained how the order had been
introduced into Lucerne in 1574 by S. Charles Borromeo, who was such an
ally of these cantons. In less than four years they had founded a college
and increased rapidly. Within one hundred more they erected this church,
and the large buildings adjoining for their college, now used as
government offices—the post and telegraph departments. Everything went on
satisfactorily for a second hundred years, until the suppression of the
order by Clement XIV., in 1773, when it was also abolished in Lucerne. But
the towns‐people held their memory in grateful remembrance, and one of the
first acts of the _Sonderbund_ in 1845 was to call back seven Jesuit
fathers. When the Protestant cantons, however, finally succeeded in
crushing this League, they at once passed a law forbidding any Jesuit to
remain on Swiss territory; so again the order had to leave Lucerne, and
also Schwytz, where they also had a large house.

“And now,” continued Herr H——, “the liberals are clamoring for another
revision of our constitution—a constitution which needs no revising,
except in their sense of doing away with all faith, and meddling in our
religious affairs. But the people now will not bear that,” he added
grimly. “They will resist calmly at first, but I know many who will rather
fight than submit tamely to have their religion or their pastors
interfered with.”

It was sad to hear these forebodings in such an apparently peaceful
atmosphere, and gladly we turned to watch the water‐hens, which abound in
this corner of the river. Herr H—— knew them all, for they are public
property, like the bears at Berne, and protected by statutes as far back
as 1678. Nothing could be more graceful, gliding up and down the stream in
numbers, nor prettier than the friendly terms they are on with all the
inhabitants. The origin of the custom and cause of the protection,
however, seems lost in obscurity; at least he could tell us nothing but
the mere fact itself. A narrow footway runs along this side between the
houses and the river, up and down steps, and following the windings of the
rapid stream, while the massive, unadorned senate‐house is seen opposite,
and all the dwellings on that bank rise straight above the water. A true
mediæval picture it is—high and low gables intermixed; quaint old
balconies filled with flowers above; comely housewives busy washing the
household linen in the fresh waters below; merry young faces peeping
through upper windows or leaning out over the red‐cushioned sills to
gossip with a laughing neighbor—a locality made for a Walter Scott, and
another world of thought and association from the butterfly existence that
now borders the lake at only a few yards’ distance.

And by this ancient pathway we soon came to the second bridge, at the
furthest end of the town—the “Spreuner” or Mill Bridge, or, more truly,
the “Dance of Death” Bridge, celebrated by Longfellow in his _Golden
Legend_.

We took out the poem, and read that passage on the spot, and most
perfectly it answers his beautiful description. Prince Henry’s words were
uttered by us where he begins:


    “God’s blessings on the architects who build
    The bridges o’er swift rivers and abysses
    Before impassable to human feet,
    No less than on the builders of cathedrals,
    Whose massive walls are bridges thrown across
    The dark and terrible abyss of death.
    Well has the name of pontifex been given
    Unto the church’s head, as the chief builder
    And architect of the invisible bridge
    That leads from earth to heaven.”


This one is shorter than the Hafellbrücke, being only three hundred feet
in length, and making a sharp bend in the centre, and was built a century
later—in 1408—but somehow it is not venerable‐looking, and its grim
paintings give it a more sombre character. Elsie was quite right in
exclaiming: “How dark it grows!” It required many minutes to get
accustomed to the darkness after the brilliant light we had left, and she
must have been thankful when Prince Henry proceeded with his explanation,
saying that it was


              “ ‘The Dance of Death;’
    All that go to and fro must look upon it,
    Mindful of what they shall be, while beneath
    Among the wooden piles, the turbulent river
    Rushes, impetuous as the river of life,
    With dimpling eddies, ever green and bright,
    Save where the shadow of this bridge falls on it.”


By his aid we too followed the renowned pictures copied from those at
Basel. There we saw:


                “The grim musician, who
    Leads all men through the mazes of that dance,
    To different sounds in different measures moving.”


The


            “Young man singing to a nun,
    Who kneels at her devotions, but in kneeling
    Turns round to look at him; and Death, meanwhile
    Is putting out the candles on the altar.”


Here he


    “Has stolen the jester’s cap and bells.
    And dances with the queen.”


There,


    “The heart of the new‐wedded wife,
    Coming from church with her beloved lord,
    He startles with the rattle of his drum.”


And under it is written,


    “Nothing but death shall separate thee and me!”


In another division is seen


    “Death playing on a dulcimer. Behind him
    A poor old woman with a rosary
    Follows the sound, and seems to wish her feet
    Were swifter to o’ertake him.”


Underneath the inscription reads,


    “Better is death than life.”


And in this strain the paintings continue, until, what between the objects
and the general gloom, the effect becomes most melancholy, and we heartily
sympathized in Prince Henry’s cry—his _cri du cœur_:


    “Let us go forward, and no longer stay
    In this great picture‐gallery of Death!”


It led us straight into the heart of the old town, and with the poet we
exclaimed:


            “I breathe again more
    Freely! Ah! how pleasant
    To come once more into the light of day
    Out of that shadow of death!”


The streets were narrow, clean, and well paved, however, and everything
looked so bright and cheerful—perhaps doubly so after that gloomy
bridge—that our spirits at once revived. The shops were small, and all on
a homely, simple scale. But there were no signs of poverty or neglect in
any direction, and a general air of contentment was perceptible on all
sides.

The schools were just breaking up for their mid‐day hour’s rest as we
passed on, and the crowds of boys and girls flocking homewards made a
bright contrast to the gloomy bridge. Troops of neatly‐dressed little
maidens were especially pleasant to look at, with their books slung in
diminutive knapsacks across their shoulders. A happy‐faced, merry‐looking
juvenile population they all were.

Some fine religious prints in a small shop‐window next attracted our
attention, and, going in, we found it to be the principal bookseller’s of
Lucerne. Numberless pamphlets on all the leading topics of the day lay on
the counter, of which one caught my eye from its peculiarly local title:
_Festreden an der Schlachtfeier_, or _Speeches at the Festival_, held on
the anniversary of the battle of Sempach, on the 8th of July, 1873.

“What is this?” I asked.

“The celebration of our glorious victory over the Austrians!—the Marathon
of Swiss history, as its hero, Arnold von Winkelried, may be called our
Leonidas,” replied Herr H——. “It took place in 1386. You passed near the
site yesterday, for the railway runs beside the Lake of Sempach, if you
remember.”

“Oh! this, then, is a celebration, I suppose, in the style of the twelve
hundredth commemoration of Ely Cathedral which they are going to hold in
England next month. We might as well celebrate Agincourt or Crécy. But
this cannot be called a ‘centenary’ or any name of that kind, as it will
not be five hundred years since the battle until 1886!”

“No, it is nothing of the kind,” he replied, “but is an anniversary
religiously kept every year. The town council of Lucerne, and the mayor at
their head, with all the authorities and a vast multitude of people, go to
the battle‐field every 8th of July. We go there for two purposes: first,
to pray for the dead who lie buried there, and then in order to keep the
memory of the heroism of that day and of those who gained us our freedom
fresh in our own minds, and to transmit it to our children, as it has been
transmitted to us by our fathers. Allow me to present you with this
pamphlet. It contains the sermon preached on the last occasion by Herr
Pfarrer Haas of Hitzkirch, and the speech made at the Winkelried monument
by Herr Regierungrath Gehrig, and they have been printed by order of our
government here. You will find them interesting, and also these,” giving
me another bundle, “and they will show you that, next to love of our holy
faith, ‘love of fatherland’ and of ‘liberty’ are deep‐seated in the heart
of every man belonging to these Catholic cantons.”

“Do tell us about the festival!” we cried. “Is it a pretty sight?”

“You have no idea how pretty,” he answered—“pretty even if only as a
sight; for so many priests come that they have to erect altars in the open
air, and Masses are going on and congregations praying round them in all
directions over the ground the whole morning. This sermon,” he continued,
opening the pamphlet, and reading from it as he spoke, “opens poetically
by allusions to ’the green fields, the singing of the birds, and the
peaceful landscape, which alone form the decorations to the quiet prayer
of the priests—the ‘Stilles Priestergebet—which had been going on
uninterruptedly from the first rosy dawn of morning up to that hour’;
while the speech equally begins by a reference to the ‘lovely lake of the
forest cantons, whence came the men who achieved the victory, and whose
descendants are as patriotic now as in those far‐off days.’ You will
seldom hear a sermon, by the way, in these parts, without allusion to the
magnificence of our nation, and to the great deeds of our forefathers. Old
and young, clergy and laity, we are always exhorting each other to imitate
them. And is it not right? We feel the deep truth of the principle I have
lately seen so beautifully expressed by a Catholic writer that I learned
it by heart at the time. ‘Nations,’ he says, ‘live by traditions, more
even than individuals. By them the past extends its influence over the
present, illumines it with the reflection of its glory, and animates it
with its spirit. Traditions bind together the successive periods in a
nation’s existence, and preserve amongst its children the unity produced
by a long community of dangers and struggles, of triumphs and reverses.’
Revolutionists alone wish to break with the past, which, in this country
at least, is in direct opposition to their godless theories, and at
variance with all their passions. And long may it continue so! The last
passage of Herr Gehrig’s speech, by which he winds up, is very fine on
that point,” he said, again reading: “ ‘The Swiss, says an old proverb of
the XVIth century, have a noble land, good laws, and a wise Confederacy—a
Confederacy that is firm and strong, because it is not dictated by
passion. Comrades! let us keep this legacy of our fathers sacred. The
fatherland before all! God protect the fatherland!’ ”

As he spoke these words we came to the senate‐house square, in sight of
the glaring frescos of this same battle of Sempach, and the list of all
other Swiss victories, with which its tower has been recently covered.

“It is not by badly‐painted representations such as these,” he continued,
smiling, “that we try to keep up the old spirit, but by that true
eloquence which touches the heart and convinces the reason. These two
addresses were most soul‐stirring—the sermon and speech equally fine—and
made the greatest impression. The speech is a short summary of our history
and of Arnold von Winkelried, opening, as I said, by allusion to that
‘pearl of creation,’ that lake of the forest cantons, which is bordered by
the _Urschweiz_.”

“What does that mean?” asked Caroline C——. “I so often have noticed the
word without understanding it.”

“It simply means, ‘The original Switzerland.’ The particle _ur_ means in
German something very ancient, or the origin or root of anything. It is
the proudest title of these forest cantons, and therefore you will
constantly find it used, varied now and then as the _Urcantone_. They are
truly the cradle, not only of Switzerland, but of our freedom, and so far
preserve the same spirit of independence and of courage up to this hour.”

“And the sermon—what was that like?” asked young C——, whose interest,
notwithstanding his scepticism about William Tell, was now thoroughly
roused.

“The sermon was most suitable to the times,” replied Herr H——. “The
subject was concord or harmony; and its aim, to show how we ought to copy
those virtues of our ancestors which caused true harmony. It was divided,
as you may see here, into four points; First, _Fidelity_, when the
preacher drew a beautiful picture of Swiss fidelity from the earliest
ages—a fertile theme. Next, _Justice_—Christian justice, for he averred
that real justice never existed in the pagan world, and he again goes back
to the XIVth century to show how the men of that age acted, so that the
historian Zschokke calls it ‘the golden age’ of Switzerland! And he
fortifies his assertions by quotations from old annals. Here is one from
the celebrated oath of the Rüti, in 1307: ‘Every man must protect the
innocent and oppressed people in his valley, and preserve to them their
old rights and freedom. On the other hand, we do not wish to deprive the
Counts of Habsburg of the smallest portion of their property, of their
rights, or of their vassals. Their governors, followers, servants, and
hirelings shall not lose a drop of blood.’ Then, again, how the same men
in 1332 gave an order to the judges ‘not to favor any one in a partisan
spirit, but to deal justice according to their oaths.’ Again, in 1334,
they answer a proposition made to them by the emperor by proudly telling
him that ‘there are laws which even princes should not transgress.’ Of
their own government they require ‘that the citizens shall receive
security for honor, life, and property; that the magistrates shall listen
to the complaints of the poor, and not answer them sharply; that they
shall not pronounce judgment imperiously, nor, above all, condemn
capriciously.’ This was in 1335. He continues then to prove how
scrupulously they forbid feuds and lawless plundering; and the high
respect our ancestors showed for churches and ecclesiastical institutions
is supported by a quotation from a league that was sworn to at Zurich
immediately after this very battle of Sempach, called, in consequence, the
Sempacher Brief, where this remarkable passage occurs: ‘As the Almighty
has chosen the churches for his dwelling, so it is our wish that none of
us shall dare to break into, plunder, or destroy any convent or chapel
whatsoever.’ This took place in 1393, and Herr Pfarrer Haas ends this part
by an appeal to the present generation: ‘Do you wish to imitate your
ancestors? Then give weight in the council‐chamber, in the tribunals, in
the framing of laws, in their execution and administration, to that
Christian justice which gives and leaves to each man that which by right
belongs to him. By that means you will preserve harmony in the land—the
foundation‐stone of national prosperity, and the strength of the
Confederacy. States grow old and pass away, but Christianity has eternal
youth and freshness. When a nation reposes on the rock of Christian
justice, she never suffers from the changes of childhood, youth, manhood,
or old age, but flourishes for ever in perpetual freshness and vigor.’ ”

“That is very fine!” all exclaimed. “But it is the more striking when one
finds it was only spoken the other day. It sounds so like an old middle‐
age sermon addressed to men of the ‘ages of faith.’ ”

“You are right,” returned Herr H——; “but I assure you the tone is the
ordinary one of sermons in these districts, and elicited no astonishment,
though a great deal of sympathy. It will tire you, however, to hear more,
so we had better go on!” We had been lingering on the promenade while
listening to him, under the shady chestnuts facing the lake; but now all
unanimously begged he would continue, merely moving to a bench nearer our
hotel.

“Well, as you wish it, I shall obey!” he said, making us a bow, with a
smile of pleasure at our increasing interest in his country. “The next
division of the sermon, on virtue and morality, was ably argued, as you
will perceive whenever you read this pamphlet; especially in reference to
the modern doctrines on these subjects now propounded in other parts of
Switzerland.” (We thought here of our recent experience at the book‐stall
at Berne!) “And the preacher complimented the inhabitants of the rural
cantons on the Christian faith and simple, virtuous manners they still
retain, ending by quotations from our Lord’s words in the New Testament,
and saying that ‘enlightenment is not unbelief, but the true and proper
use of belief.’’ The fourth and last essential to harmony he shows to be
that interior peace which can be produced by the Christian faith alone. No
one can be a good citizen who does not conquer the passions of his own
nature, and obtain that inner tranquillity of mind which is the growth of
true religion. Amongst other proofs of his argument he quotes from Blessed
Nicholas von der Flüe. I presume you know who he was?”

Each of us in turn was obliged to answer “No,” although the name was not
unfamiliar to some. But the more we heard, the greater did our humiliation
gradually become at finding how slightly we were acquainted with this
Swiss life; and every one rejoiced when Herr H—— replied:

“Blessed Nicholas was a hermit, but as great a patriot as he was a saint.”
However, you will hear enough about him when you visit Stanz and Sarnen.
His words carried immense weight in his day, and he is still very much
revered, and is perpetually quoted. He lived in the XVth century, and our
Herr Pfarrer Haas here gives a long extract from one of his letters to the
Mayor of Berne in those years. After this he goes on to say: “Such was the
faith of your forefathers! The prayers which the combatants said on this
very spot amidst the scoffs of their enemies; the Sacred Host which the
priest carried at Lauffen; the anniversaries they founded; the Holy
Sacrifice they ordered should be offered on those days of commemoration;
the crosses they erected over the graves of all who fell in the combat,
prove where their souls sought and obtained rest and peace.” “Fidelity,
justice, virtue, and faith form the groundwork of the union and harmony of
a people. Let each one of us, in his circle, and amongst those whom he can
influence, strengthen these pillars of the edifice, and in this manner we
can best help to secure the happiness and solidity of our dearly‐loved
Swiss fatherland.” Then he winds up by a beautiful peroration, thus: “We
stand here on graves. Simple stone crosses rise above these tombs, where
for the last four hundred and eighty‐seven years the heroes of Sempach,
friends and enemies, repose after their hard day’s work. Sleep in peace,
ye dead! I envy ye your rest! There may be fighting and storm o’erhead,
but what matters that to the sleepers? Your eyes are closed! Ye do not
watch the troubles and sorrows of mankind, the cares and burdens of life,
the battle of the spirits, the play of passions. Once, too, your hearts
beat high in the decisive hour. Each Swiss and Austrian believed that he
defended the right. On both sides stood great men and great heroes. Death,
brave hearts, has united you in peace; and over your graves, for nearly
five hundred years, has stood the cross in token of conciliation—the
symbol of peace, the badge of the confederates; indicating that
Switzerland will still stand firm in harmony when the hotly‐contested
opinions surging in her midst at this day shall long since have sunk into
dust and ashes.


    “ ‘Our faith is firm in fatherland;
      Although brave sons may die,
    Swiss soil will still yield faithful band
      To wield the cross on high:
    The white, unsullied cross for aye
    O’er Switzerland shall fly.’ ”


“Magnificent!” all again exclaimed, “in language and sentiment! How we
should like to have heard it!”

“There was a great crowd this year,” continued Herr H——, “though numbers
never fail on any occasion. But a musical festival had taken place in
Lucerne the day before, so for that reason there were more than usual. The
majority now go by rail, but in my youth the procession of carriages was
much more imposing. And Lucerne then was a Vorort, or capital of the
Confederacy alternately with Zurich and Berne—a system long since done
away with; so that when the year came for its turn, all the deputies and
the diplomatic representatives were invited, and came too—all except an
old Austrian, whom nothing could move. I well remember hearing that his
colleagues used to laugh at him for keeping up the feeling after so many
hundred years; but it was so strong that he never could hear William
Tell’s name mentioned without calling him an ‘assassin’; and you may
imagine how the others amused themselves by always bringing up the
subject. The feeling against the Austrians is very strong, too, amongst
the Swiss.”

“I never understand it,” remarked Caroline C——. “I have always been taught
to look on Rudolph von Habsburg as a perfect character; and yet the moment
one comes to this country, one hears nothing but abuse of the Habsburgs.
Do explain it.”

“I should have to give you a lecture on Swiss history, dear young lady, I
fear, before you could understand it; and there is no time for that now.”

“Oh! do tell us something. There is still half an hour before the _table‐
d’hôte_, and it is so pleasant sitting here. We should all like to have a
clearer view of the reason of this dislike. I am always much puzzled, too,
in Schiller’s _William Tell_, at the conspirators always wanting to be
under the empire alone, and not through the Habsburgs; and it is so
troublesome to wade through a history when travelling,” she replied.

“But I should go back to the very beginning for that purpose,” he
answered. “However, if you insist, I shall give you a few leading facts
that you can find amplified whenever you feel inclined to read a Swiss
history right through. May I presume, then, that you know,” he continued,
laughing, “that the first inhabitants of Switzerland are supposed to have
been offshoots of Northern tribes—men driven from their homes by famine?
There were a few settlers before these, said to be refugees from Italy,
but only in a wild corner of the mountains, hence called Rhœtia; and they
were so few and so isolated that they are not worth mentioning. The stream
of inhabitants poured down by the Lake of Constance. Some say that the
same names are found to this day in Sweden as in the valleys of these
cantons. In any case, the tradition is that two brothers, Switer and Swin,
arrived with their families and followers, and settled at the upper end of
this lake, and from them the territory they occupied was called Schwytz.
It is quite certain that this was the first part occupied; therefore the
title it claims of ‘Urschweiz,’ or ‘original Switzerland,’ is most
appropriate. They spread all round this lake and through these forest
cantons, on from one valley to another, to the foot of the great snowy Alp
region, but not further. Other races came later, and settled at Geneva and
elsewhere, and, coming into collision with Rome, then mistress of the
world, were finally made part of the Roman Empire. Then came the inroad of
other barbarians on the downfall of Rome, and everything was in utter
confusion until the light of Christianity shone over the land. It was
introduced here, as in Germany, by missionaries who came from all parts,
and a bishopric even was founded at Chur in the earliest Frankish times.
Convents, too, rose on all sides. You will find remains of them in the
most remote valleys and out‐of‐the‐way corners of the country. S.
Sigebert, for instance, came from France, and built Disentis in the wilds
of Rhœtia, now the Grisons. S. Columba and S. Maughold preached along the
Reuss and the Aar, and the great S. Gall evangelized the wild district
round the Lake of Constance, girt by forests filled with all manner of
wild beasts. The celebrated convent of his name was built on the site of
his hermitage, and gave rise to the town of St. Gall. Einsiedeln, too, the
famous monastery which you are going to visit, dates also from that
period, over the cell of the hermit Meinrad, and so on in every direction.
Even Zurich and our own Lucerne owe their origin to convents. As in so
many other countries, so here likewise the monks spread civilization,
opened schools, and taught the people agriculture. Then came another
period of confusion after Charlemagne’s reign, which ended by the greater
portion of Switzerland falling to the share of his successors in the
German Empire. There were numberless dukes and counts all over the land
who already held large possessions, but had been vassals of the Dukes of
Swabia. Now, however, they set him at defiance, and would obey no one but
the emperor. Many of the monasteries, too, had acquired considerable
property by this time, and their abbots were often powerful lords. They
followed the example of the counts and dukes, and also assumed
independence. But, on the other hand, the towns equally rose in
importance, and often set the nobles and abbots at naught. These then, in
order not to lose their influence, strove to increase the number of their
vassals by making clearances in their forests, promoting the establishment
of villages, and granting privileges to their inhabitants, in all which
you will find the origin of the extraordinary number of rural communes for
which Switzerland has always been so noted. The nobles, who had no
occupation but war, were engaged in constant feuds amongst themselves or
with the towns of which they were most jealous, and, leading lawless
lives, wasted their inheritance little by little. The Crusades also
contributed to diminish them, for all the knights in the country flocked
thither. In the course of time their numbers dwindled considerably by
these means, or by the sale of their property and feudal rights to the
towns and even to the villages. At the period we are talking of, however,
they were amongst the heroes of the land, and often fought bravely and
made themselves respected.

“In one district, however, there were neither nobles, nor castles, nor
towns, nor monasteries, nor any inhabitants, except the descendants of the
first settlers. That was in the wild region of Rhœtia, and in what now
constitutes these forest cantons, or Vierwaldstätter, as they are called
in German. The latter all sprang from one common stock, and for a long
time had only one head and one church. This was in the Muotta Valley, and
thither came the entire population of Schwytz, Unterwalden, and Uri. At
last, when they increased and multiplied, they divided into these three
districts, built their own churches, and elected their own _Landamman_, or
chief magistrate, and their own council. No one claimed sovereignty over
this mountain district but the emperor. To him the people never objected;
on the contrary, they were rather glad to enjoy his powerful protection,
and willingly accepted, nay, often chose, the imperial judges to act as
arbitrators in cases of their own internal disputes. Now, these judges
were called governors, or Vogts, and, in order to distinguish them from
inferior governors, were entitled _Reichsvögte_, or governors of the
empire. It is well to bear this in mind, for on this point turned the
whole dispute with the Habsburgs, and it was the cause of the conspiracy
of the Rüti and of our subsequent freedom. It must also be remembered that
the object of every community in the country at that period was to free
itself from the yoke of the local laws, whether nobles or abbots, and to
place themselves directly under the empire. And in this almost every town
succeeded by slow degrees. The advantages were very great. First of all,
they were not liable to the constant petty exactions of near neighbors,
and the imperial government was so far away that they were allowed to
administer their own property and to choose their own authorities, being
only asked in exchange to pay some light taxes to the imperial treasury,
and to accept a _Reichsvögt_, or governor. His office was merely to uphold
the emperor’s rights, and to act as judge in matters of life and death—a
condition never refused; for it was held that, being a stranger, he would
be more impartial than one of their community.

“Amongst the nobles who had gradually grown powerful at this time were the
Counts of Habsburg, who lived in the Aargau, and, instead of diminishing,
had been daily extending, their possessions and influence. Suddenly and
unexpectedly Count Rudolph was chosen Emperor of Germany. There were great
disputes between the German princes on the death of the late emperor, and
the story runs that they elected him simply on the assurance of the
Elector of Cologne, who declared that Rudolph von Habsburg was upright and
wise, beloved by God and man.

“This, as you know, proved true, and you were perfectly right in believing
him to have been a ‘perfect character.’ Moreover, he never forgot his old
fellow‐countrymen, and showered favors on them as long as he lived. Many
places were made direct fiefs of the empire by him, amongst others our
town of Lucerne, but more especially these forest cantons; and he raised
the Bishop of Lausanne and the Abbot of Einsiedeln to the rank of princes
of the empire. As a natural result, the whole country grew devoted to him,
and came forward with gifts of money and assistance of every kind whenever
he required it.

“But with his successor, his son Albrecht, comes the reverse of the medal.
It was soon seen that he thought of nothing but increasing his own family
possessions, and had no respect for the privileges of the towns or rural
populations. Foreseeing evil times, therefore, Uri, Schwytz, and
Unterwalden met together, and made a defensive league, binding themselves
by oath to stand by each other and to defend themselves against all
enemies. Hence the origin of their name, ‘Eidgenossen,’ which in German
means ‘oath‐participators.’ The Bishop of Constance and Duke of Savoy made
a separate agreement, and so did various others. At last the princes of
Germany also became so discontented with Albrecht that they elected a
Prince Adolf of Nassau in his stead. The whole country was soon divided
into two parties, one for and the other against Albrecht of Austria, as he
had then become. Down he marched with a large army, devastated the
territory of the Bishop of Constance, and Adolf of Nassau lost life and
crown in a desperate battle. The confederates had taken no part against
Albrecht openly as yet, and sent ambassadors to beg he would respect their
ancient rights, as his father of glorious memory had always done. But he
only answered ‘that he would soon change their condition.’ Meantime, the
majority of the nobles joined his side; but the towns resisted him, and
Berne gained such a great victory that he got alarmed and made peace with
Zurich, confirming all its privileges. He then sent word to the
Waldstätter cantons that he wished to treat them as the beloved children
of his own family, and that they had better at once place themselves under
Austrian protection. But the sturdy, free‐hearted mountaineers replied
that they preferred the old rights they had inherited from their fathers,
and desired to continue direct vassals of the empire. Albrecht was not
prepared to enforce their submission, so he resorted to the expedient of
sending them _Reichsvögte_ who were wicked and cruel men, that were
ordered, besides, to oppress and torment them in such a manner that they
should at last desire in preference to place themselves under Austro‐
Habsburg protection. Chief of these was the now far‐famed Gessler, and
also Landerberg, whose castle at Sarnen was the first destroyed later. Not
only were they cruel, but they insisted on living in the country, although
all previous _Reichsvögte_, or governors, had only come there
occasionally, and had allowed the people to govern themselves. Unable to
bear it, the celebrated ‘three,’ Stauffacher, Fürst, and Melchthal, whom
you now know through Schiller, if from no other source, met together.
Stauffacher came from Schwytz, Walther Fürst from Uri, and Arnold von
Melchthal represented Unterwalden, and they chose for their meeting the
central spot of the meadow, called the Rüti, which you will pass when
sailing up the lake. Each brought ten others with them, and in their name
and that of all their fellow‐countrymen they took that oath which was
quoted in the sermon as I read it just now. This union of the three
cantons was the foundation of the Swiss Confederation. Lucerne joined it
in 1332, and then it became the League of the Four Forest Cantons, all
surrounding this lake. Some say that Tell was one of the ten from his
canton, but others deny this. It does not much matter, for one fact is
certain: that the whole country was discontented, and Gessler grew alarmed
without knowing of the conspiracy, which alarm was the cause of his
conduct towards Tell.”

“Oh! William Tell is all a myth,” exclaimed young C——, who never could
conceal his sentiments on this point. “No one believes in him nowadays.”

“My dear young gentleman,” answered Herr H—— quietly, “it is easy for
modern critics to say this. They may laugh and sneer as they like. Nothing
is more easy than to argue against anything. I remember often hearing that
Archbishop Whately—your own archbishop—was so convinced of this that he
once undertook to write a pamphlet in this style, disproving the existence
of the First Napoleon, and succeeded triumphantly. But _I_ hold with
Buckle—your own Buckle too!” he said, laughing—“who declares that he
relies more on the strength of local traditions and on native bards than
on anything else. The great argument against William Tell, I know
perfectly well, is that the same story is to be found in Saxo‐Grammaticus,
and also in Sanscrit; but that does not disturb me, for there is no reason
why the same sort of thing may not have happened in many a place. These
mountaineers certainly had no means of studying either the one or the
other in what _you_, no doubt, will call the ’dark ages’! Just have
patience until you see the Tell chapels and hear a little more on the
subject, and I hope you will change your mind. One thing is certain,
namely, that Tell was not the _cause_ of the conspiracy, and that his
treatment did not make the confederates depart from their original plan,
which was to rise on the New Year’s night of 1308. In _my_ humble opinion,
Schiller has done poor William Tell no good, for between him and the opera
the story has been so much popularized that this alone has raised all the
doubts about it. People fancy it was Schiller’s creation more or less,
altogether forgetting that the chapels and the veneration for Tell have
existed on the spot these hundreds of years. It is fortunate Arnold von
Winkelried has not been treated in the same way, or we should doubt his
existence too.”

“You have not told us anything about Sempach yet,” broke in Caroline C——,
anxious to stop the discussion, which seemed likely to vex the old
gentleman, especially as she well knew her brother’s school‐boy
disposition for argument.

“Morgarten and much more occurred before that, mademoiselle,” answered
Herr H——, “all tending to increase the national hatred of Austria. As a
natural consequence of the Rüti and its uprising, Albrecht became enraged
against the forest cantons, and marched at once to Switzerland with a
large force. But a most unexpected, startling event happened. He had a
nephew, Duke John of Swabia, who was his ward, but from whom he continued
to withhold his patrimony on one pretext or another. The young man at
length grew furious, and, as they were crossing this very same river Reuss
at Windisch, Duke John stabbed his uncle, whilst a noble, a conspirator of
John’s, struck him on the head. There were a few others present, but in a
panic they all fled, and left the Emperor of Germany to die in the arms of
a poor woman who happened to be passing.

“The deed was so fearful that even Albrecht’s worst enemies were
horrified, and it is said that the murderers wandered over the world, and
ultimately died as outcasts. Zurich shut its gates against them, and the
forest cantons refused them all shelter. But Albrecht’s family not only
pursued them, but behaved inhumanly. His widow and two children, Duke
Leopold and Agnes, Queen of Hungary, came at once to Switzerland, and
seized innocent and guilty right and left, destroying without scruple the
castle of any noble whom they suspected in the slightest degree, and
executing all without mercy. Agnes in particular was cruel beyond measure.
One story related of her by Swiss historians is that, after having
witnessed the execution of sixty‐three innocent knights, and whilst their
blood was flowing at her feet, she exclaimed: ‘Now I am bathing in May‐
dew!’ Whether literally true or not, it shows what she must have been to
have given cause for such a tale. In fact, the stories of her merciless
character are too numerous and terrible to repeat now. At last she and her
mother, the widow, built a magnificent convent on the site of the murder,
which you may have heard of as _Königsfelder_, or the King’s Field. There
she subsequently retired to ‘end her days in piety’; but the people
detested her, and Zschokke says that once when she was passing through the
convent, and bowed to one of the monks, he turned round and boldly
addressed her thus: ‘Woman! it is a bad way to serve God, first to shed
innocent blood, and then to found convents from the spoils of the
victims.’ She died there, and we have a piece of silk in the arsenal in
Lucerne which formed part of her funeral apparel.”

“Oh! how horrible,” exclaimed Caroline C——. “But I would give anything to
see it! How could we manage it?”

“Very easily,” replied Herr H——. “If you only have time, we might go there
after dinner. It is close to the Spreuner Brücke, and I can get you in.
There are many trophies also from Sempach, and other victories besides.”

“Do tell us about Sempach,” I interposed. “It is getting late, and I fear
the dinner‐bell will soon ring.”

“First came the battle of Morgarten, of which you will see the site from
the top of the Rigi. Albrecht’s son Leopold followed up his father’s
grudge against the forest cantons, and gave them battle there in 1308,
when he was signally defeated. It was a glorious victory by a handful of
peasants. But you will read about it on your journey. Sempach is our
Lucerne property. It did not take place for sixty‐nine years after
Morgarten, but in the interval there had been constant fighting with the
house of Austria, which still kept its possessions in Switzerland, and
also with the nobles, who hated the towns‐people, and clung to the
Habsburgs more or less. It was about this time that a castle belonging to
the latter, on this lake, just round the projecting corner to our left,
was destroyed by the people. It was called here Habsburg, and has lately
been restored by a foreigner. On all sides the worst feelings were kept
alive, and it only required a spark to set all in a blaze. This eventually
happened by some angry Lucerners levelling to the ground the castle of a
knight who had imposed undue taxes upon them. He, on his side, appealed to
the Habsburg of the day, who, by a curious coincidence, was also a Duke
Leopold, son of the Leopold who was defeated at Morgarten. Full of anger,
he gathered all his forces, and marched in hot haste against Lucerne. But
on the heights near the Lake of Sempach he encountered the confederates.
They had come from Lucerne, with contingents, though in small force, from
all the forest cantons. It was hilly ground, most unfitted for cavalry;
but Leopold would not wait for his infantry, and, making his heavily‐armed
knights dismount, he ordered them to rush with their pointed lances in
close ranks on the enemy. It was like a wall of iron, and at first the
confederates could make no impression upon it. They fell in numbers, and
were just beginning to despair when a voice cried out, ‘I will open a path
to freedom! Faithful, dearly‐loved confederates, take care of my wife and
child!’ and a man, rushing forward, seized as many lances as he could
clasp, buried them in his own body, and fell dead. This was Arnold von
Winkelried, an inhabitant of Stanz, about whom little else is known. Over
his corpse his comrades pressed forward through the opening he had thus
made, and they never again yielded the dear‐bought advantage. The struggle
became fearful on both sides; prodigies of valor were performed, and it is
said that three standard‐bearers were killed before the flag of Austria
could be captured. Eventually the knights turned in order to retreat; but
their heavy armor impeded them, and their men, sure of victory, had led
their horses far away. So they were cut down by hundreds. Duke Leopold was
killed by a man from Schwytz; but they all fought bravely, and defended
their banners with such tenacity that one was found torn into small
shreds, in order that the enemy might not get it, while its pole was
firmly clenched between the teeth of the dead man who had been carrying
it. That was the glorious battle of Sempach, which finally crushed the
power of the Habsburgs in Switzerland, and after which our liberty was
firmly established. Is it any wonder, then, that we celebrate it so
religiously, or that the antipathy to Austria was so deeply rooted in the
nation? The whole aim of the Habsburgs after Rudolph’s reign, and of the
nobles who were their vassals, was to crush our privileges and freedom. In
consequence, they were so hated that no one could even venture to wear a
peacock’s feather, merely because it was the favorite ornament of the
Austrian dukes. In fact, peacocks were forbidden in Switzerland; and a
story is told, to show how far the feeling went, of a man having broken
his wine‐glass at a public tavern, merely because he fancied that he saw
the colors of a peacock’s tail in the play of the sun’s rays on the
glass.”

As Herr H—— pronounced these words the first dinner‐bell rang, and we all
rose, thanking him cordially for his most interesting lecture. Caroline
C—— in particular was most grateful, declaring that she never could
understand anything of Swiss history before, but now had the clearest view
of its general bearings.

After dinner all except myself and Mrs. C—— started off at once for the
arsenal to see the “relics,” as they now called them; but we two adjourned
to the Hofkirche at four o’clock to listen to the organ, played there
daily for strangers, as at Berne and Freyburg. The Lucerne instrument is
not so well known as those two, but it is equally fine, if not finer. It
was admirably played, too, and we sat entranced by its tones, especially
by its heavenly Vox Angelica, fully sympathizing with Wordsworth when
standing on the old Hofbridge that came up to the church hill in his day,
and writing:


    “Volumes of sound, from the cathedral rolled,
    This long‐roofed vista penetrate.”


We had arranged to sleep that night at Vitznau, at the foot of the Rigi,
in order to ascend by the first train next morning, and for this purpose
were to leave in a six o’clock steamer. It seemed difficult to tear
ourselves so quickly away from Lucerne, and the hurry was considerable.
The remainder of our party, however, returned just in time, full of all
they had seen—“Agnes’ shroud,” a dreadful title for a piece of heavy silk
used at her funeral, striped yellow and black, the Habsburg colors; Duke
Leopold’s coat‐of‐mail, in which he was killed at Sempach, and a dozen
others; a heap of lances taken there; numbers of trophies from Grandson
and Morat, the battles with Charles the Bold; but, what interested them
most, the great standard of Habsburg, of yellow silk with a red lion on
it, taken at Sempach, and another, a white flag, covered, they said, with
blood, also captured there. Young C—— was most struck besides with a very
old vase decorated with the meeting at the Rüti.

It was a lovely evening, but, though the sail promised to be delightful,
we left Lucerne and its worthy citizen with regret, thanking him
cordially, over and over again, for the interest he had given us in his
country, and at last persuaded him to come and meet us in a day or two,
and act as our cicerone in part of the forest cantons, which by his means
already assumed a place in our affections.




A Legend Of Alsace. Concluded.


From The French Of M. Le Vicomte De Bussierre.



VIII.


Odile, who had returned to Hohenbourg without her father’s consent, was
now forced to remain against her own will. Her reputation so spread
throughout the province that people of the highest rank went to see her,
and several aspired to her hand. Among these suitors was a young German
duke whose station, wealth, and personal qualities gave him an advantage
over his rivals. Adalric and Berswinde joyfully gave their consent, and
the marriage settlements were agreed upon. The arrangement was then made
known to Odile, who declared firmly but respectfully that she had chosen
Christ for her spouse, and could not renounce her choice. But this
projected marriage flattered the pride and ambition of her father, and,
after vainly endeavoring to persuade her to consent to it, he sought to
obtain by force what mildness had not been able to effect. Odile, seeing
that her liberty of action was to be infringed upon, felt that flight was
her only resource. Commending herself to God and Our Blessed Lady, she
clothed herself early one morning in the rags of a beggar, and left the
castle unobserved, descending the mountain by an obscure and almost
impassable ravine. It was in the year 679. Her first intention was to take
refuge in the Abbey of Baume, but, considering that would be the first
place to seek for her, she resolved to conceal herself from all mankind,
and lead henceforth a difficult and solitary life for the love of her
Redeemer. She therefore directed her steps toward the Rhine, and, meeting
a fisherman, she gave him a small piece of money to take her across the
river.

Odile had been accustomed to seclude herself several hours a day for
prayer and meditation, so her non‐appearance excited no surprise. She was
supposed to be at her devotions, and was already several miles from home,
when the report of her disappearance spread consternation throughout the
manor. The duke, distressed by her flight, assembled all his followers,
ordered his four sons to pursue her in four different directions, and
directed his servants to scour the surrounding country. Berswinde alone
did not share the general grief. She would indeed have been pleased by the
marriage of her daughter and the German duke, but Odile’s motives for
declining the alliance, the remembrance of the miracle wrought at her
baptism, and the manifest protection of heaven she was so evidently under,
made her mother sure that the support of the Most High would not in this
case be wanting.

Adalric himself set off with several esquires, and unwittingly took the
same route as his daughter. He soon came to the Rhine, where he heard that
a young beggar‐girl, whose rags could not conceal her noble air and
extreme beauty, had crossed the river and gone towards Fribourg. The duke,
sure it was his daughter, likewise crossed over, and came so close upon
her steps that it seemed impossible for her to escape. But the princess,
says the old chronicle of Fribourg containing these details, coming in
sight of the city near a place called Muszbach, was so overcome with
fatigue that she was obliged to sit down and take breath. She had hardly
thanked God for his protection thus far when she perceived, at some
distance, a company of horsemen swiftly approaching. Then recognizing her
father and his followers, she raised her eyes to heaven, whence alone she
could expect succor, and prayed fervently: “O my Saviour!” cried she,
“spotless protector of virgins! I am lost unless thou shieldest me from
their eyes, and coverest me with the shadow of thy wings!” And our Lord,
says the legend, heard this earnest prayer: the rock on which she was
seated opened to shelter her from her eager pursuers, and had hardly
closed upon her when Adalric came up. As soon as he had passed by Odile
came out, and, that posterity might not lose the remembrance of this
miracle, a limpid stream of healing waters flowed henceforth from the
rock. This fountain became eventually the resort of pilgrims, and the
saint herself had a chapel built over it in commemoration of her
deliverance.

The duke, unsuccessful in his search, returned to Hohenbourg. Unable to
resign himself to the loss of his daughter, he fell into a state of
sadness and discouragement. Weeks, nay, months, passed, but no news of the
fugitive. Adalric finally proclaimed throughout his duchy, at the sound of
the trumpet that he would henceforth leave his daughter free to pursue her
own course of life, if she would only return to her family.

Having no longer any excuse for remaining away from her family, where she
might be called to labor for God, Odile left her retreat at Brisgau, and
returned home.(63)



IX.


Adalric’s promises were sincere. He was eager to aid Odile as much as he
could in the realization of her most cherished hopes. “For it was in the
decrees of divine Providence,” says an old Latin chronicle, “that this
light should be placed in a candlestick, that it might give light to all
who were in the house; and God had inspired Odile with the resolution to
found a community of noble virgins who would live in retirement and
observe the evangelical counsels.”

The saint opened her heart to her father, representing to him that Alsace
had already convents for men, but no retreat for women who wished to
renounce the world, and that such a refuge would be useful and at the same
time pleasing to God. Adalric listened favorably to his daughter, and,
whether the proposition pleased him or he did not wish to oppose her
inclinations, he gave her in due form, in the year 680, the Castle of
Hohenbourg with its vast dependencies and immense revenues, that she might
convert what had till then been the principal bulwark of Alsace into an
inviolable asylum for noble ladies of piety who wished to consecrate
themselves to God.

Odile then assembled a number of workmen, and had all the buildings
removed that would be of no use to a religious community. This done, they
proceeded to construct the convent. It took them ten years. Adalric
generously defrayed all the expenses, and even directed the architects,
enjoining on them to neglect nothing that could contribute to the solidity
and beauty of the edifice.

As soon as it was known that Odile intended forming a community of women,
a crowd of young ladies of rank came to Hohenbourg, renouncing their
families and earthly possessions for the love of Christ. They besought her
to receive them as her companions, and to direct them in the way of
salvation. There were one hundred and thirty of them before the convent
was finished. Among them were Attale,(64) Eugénie, and Gundeline, the
daughters of Odile’s brother Adalbert,(65) and her own sister
Roswinde.(66) All these renounced the joys of the world without regret,
hoping to obtain eternal life. They united themselves to God by silence,
recollection, and prayer. Manual labor and the chanting of the Psalms
varied their occupations. Like the first Christians, they seemed to have
only one heart and one soul. Their only study seemed to be to equal their
superior in humility, sweetness, piety, and self‐renunciation. They lived
on barley bread and vegetables cooked in water. They took wine only on
festivals, and passed their nights in vigils and prayer, permitting
themselves only some hours of sleep when exhausted nature absolutely
required it. Then they slept only on a bear’s skin with a stone for a
pillow. In a word, they only allowed the body what was necessary for the
preservation of life.

Adalric had a profound respect for Odile, as one under the special
protection of the Divinity. The system of her community, the devotion and
the rigid and holy lives of those who composed it, and above all their
inexhaustible charity, led him to lavish his wealth on their monastery.
Not satisfied with giving them his palace and its domains, and
establishing a foundation in perpetuity for one hundred and thirty young
ladies of noble birth, he likewise gave fourteen benefices for the priests
who served the convent chapels.

Odile, in her ardent charity, wished there should be free access to her
abbey, not only for all the members of her family and persons of high rank
who came often to discourse with her on the things of God, but also for
the poor, the unhappy, and the sick. The steepness of the mountain in some
places made its ascent impossible for the aged. Our saint had an easy
pathway constructed, paved with broad flag‐stones. Thenceforth the
unfortunate of all grades of society flocked to the abbey—the poor to
obtain assistance, the infirm for remedies, and sinners for salutary
advice. All who were unhappy or unfortunate, whoever they might be, were
the objects of Odile’s tender affection. “The Gospel,” she constantly
repeated to her companions, “is a law of love,” and she exhorted them, in
imitation of Him who gave his life for us, to be charitable to their
fellow‐creatures. Odile’s charity was boundless. Not satisfied with
distributing alms, she cheered all with sweet words, carried them
nourishment and remedies with her own hands, and dressed the most
frightful wounds. “There came one day,” says a writer of that time, “a man
covered with a horrid leprosy to the gates of Hohenbourg for alms,
uttering most lamentable cries. He was so revolting, and he diffused so
infectious an odor, that none of the servants would approach him. One of
them, however, informed the saint of his condition. She at once prepared
some suitable food, and hastened to serve the leper. In spite of her
tenderness towards the unfortunate and her habitual control over her
senses, her first movement was one of horror at the sight of so disgusting
a being. Ashamed of her weakness, and resolved to conquer it, she folded
the leper affectionately in her arms, and burst into tears. Then she broke
the food she brought into small pieces, and fed him. At the same time she
raised her eyes to heaven, and, with a voice trembling with emotion,
exclaimed: ‘O Lord! deign to restore him to health or give him the courage
necessary to support such an affliction!’ Her humble prayer was
immediately heard. The leprosy disappeared, and the repulsive odor gave
place to one of sweetness, so that those who avoided him a short time
before were now eager to approach, to touch him, and to wonder.”

Odile gave bread, wine, and meat to all the poor who came to the abbey;
she was unwilling any should go away hungry. On feast days a great crowd
of beggars would besiege the gates, and on one occasion, all the food of
the community, and even the wine, being given them, the Sister who had
charge of the wine‐cellar sought Odile in church to tell her there was
none left for dinner. The abbess replied with a gentle smile: “He who fed
five thousand persons with five loaves and two fishes will provide for us,
if it be his will. Forget not, my daughter, that he has promised to those
that seek first the kingdom of heaven all other things shall be given. Go
where duty calls you.” The Sister went away, and at the hour of repast,
going to the wine‐cellar, found a supply of excellent wine.



X.


The two chapels already built by the duke were too small for celebrating
the divine service with suitable pomp. There was hardly room enough in
them for the sisterhood. The crowds from the neighboring villages were
often obliged to kneel outside. A larger church was indispensable. Adalric
provided the materials, and it was completed by the year 690. Two square
towers of pyramidal form rose beside the grand entrance. The abbess had it
consecrated to the Blessed Virgin, her chosen patroness and her model. One
of the side chapels she styled the Oratory of the Mother of God. There she
loved to take refuge in her mental troubles, in tribulation, and in
seasons of spiritual dryness. A second chapel she called Holy Rood Chapel.
In commemoration of her baptism she wished also to erect a small church in
honor of S. John the Baptist. Undecided about the location, she went out
of the monastery one night about midnight, and, kneeling on a great rock,
she remained a long time buried in profound meditation. Suddenly, says the
old legend, she was surrounded by a dazzling light, and before her stood
the radiant form of the precursor of our Lord in a garment of camel’s
hair, such as he wore in the desert. He seemed to indicate the spot where
the chapel should be erected. The next day it was commenced, and was
finished in the autumn of 696. The night before it was to be consecrated
S. Odile spent in prayer therein. The prince of the apostles himself, with
a choir of angels, descended and performed the ceremony.


    “The air of paradise did fan the house,
    And angels officed all.”


This miraculous chapel was sometimes called the _Sacrarium_, because the
abbess deposited in it the _cassette_ of relics Bishop Erhard gave her on
her baptismal day. It was afterwards more commonly called the Chapel of S.
Odile, because she was buried there herself. Besides these, she built the
Chapel of Tears and the Hanging Chapel, so called because it stood on a
steep precipice looking down into a deep chasm. All these chapels were so
many stations where the abbess and her companions betook themselves to
meditate in silence and solitude.

Adalric and Berswinde, weary of power and grandeur, retired to the Convent
of Hohenbourg with their daughter. Advanced in age, they now thought only
of preparing themselves for death by prayer and good works. The duke,
naturally violent and hard, had sometimes in his moments of passion
forgotten his duty. There were many faults for him to expiate before God,
and many scandals to repair before men. While he was practising all the
virtues of a holy penitent, he was attacked with a serious malady. Odile
felt that his last hour was at hand, and hardly left his bedside, wishing,
not only to give him the care his illness required, but to console,
encourage, and prepare him for a holy death. Contemporary testimony
expressly declares: “_Consolante eum et roborante beata Odilia_.” She
received his last breath and closed his eyes on the 20th of February. The
year is variously stated. It was between 690 and 700.

A witness of her father’s sorrow for his sins, and of his resignation in
his last moments, Odile hoped the mercy of God would be extended to him.
She imposed on herself the severest mortifications, and shed floods of
tears for the solace of his soul in the chapel, called from this
circumstance the Chapel of Tears. On the fifth day she had an inward
assurance of his salvation.

There are numberless traditions in Alsace respecting S. Odile. They have
been handed down from one generation to another in the villages grouped
around the foot of Mount Hohenbourg. One of these legends changes the
tears of the saint into a limpid stream, where the blind, or those who
have any disease of the eyes, go for a remedy. Another says her tears
perforated a rock. A third makes her and all her community behold her
father convoyed heavenward by a choir of angels led by S. Peter in
sacerdotal robes. The more we examine S. Odile’s life, the more numerous
become these brilliant legends, and the more fully do we find her life
marked by acts of beneficence and by miracles.

Berswinde survived her husband only nine days. She died suddenly while
praying in the Chapel of S. John.

The descendants of the duke and duchess assembled at Hohenbourg to deplore
their double loss. A magnificent funeral service was performed. All the
people of Alsace flocked to the convent to weep over their death. One
would have thought they had lost dear parents, say the chronicles. The
duke’s sons gave abundant alms on this occasion. The remains of the
deceased were placed in the Chapel of the Virgin, according to their
request, and thither came pilgrims to pray by their tomb till they were
removed.

Adalric, notwithstanding his generosity to the church, left immense
domains to his children. His oldest son, Etton, or Etichon, became Duke of
Brisgau and Count of Argovie. He was the progenitor of the houses of
Egisheim and Lorraine. The second son, Adelbert, had the duchies of
Alsace, Swabia, and Sundgau. From him sprang the houses of Habsburg and
Zähringen. Hugo, the third son, died before his father, but left three
sons. The oldest, Remigius, was Abbot of S. Gregory in the Val de Münster,
and finally Bishop of Strasbourg. He was a great friend of Charlemagne’s,
and built the celebrated nunnery of Eschau,(67) where two of his nieces
were successively abbesses.

After the death of her parents, Odile kept up most intimate relations with
the rest of her family. She saw them frequently, and labored for their
sanctification. Following her counsels, they founded a great number of
convents and churches, which, in that barbarous age, became the refuge of
science, literature, and the arts, and for centuries contributed
powerfully to the prosperity of Alsace.



XI.


Hitherto the inmates of Hohenbourg had been subjected to no written rule.
Our dear saint was their living guide. But notwithstanding the ardor of
their piety, she thought it proper to adopt some definite rule to obviate
the inconstancy of the human heart, and to restrain an excess of fervor.
Assembling all her spiritual children, she gave them, after invoking the
Holy Spirit, a fixed rule, probably drawn from that of S. Augustine.

The steepness of Hohenbourg made it so difficult of ascent for the aged
and infirm, the very ones whom Odile desired the most to aid, that she
resolved to build at its foot, on the south side, a spacious hospice with
a chapel, under the invocation of S. Nicholas.

Berswinde, who was still living, gave up a part of her revenues for the
benefit of the poor who were received there. S. Odile daily descended this
mountain, too steep and rough for others, to visit the hospice. She used
to visit each inmate, and give him alms and advice with all the tenderness
Christianity alone can inspire. Her children shared in her labors. They
loved the freshness and solitude of the spot where the hospice stood, and
there was an abundance of water there, which was lacking on the summit.
The number of the infirm that resorted hither became so large as to
require, night and day, the constant attendance of the Sisters, and they
begged the abbess to build another monastery near S. Nicholas, and
dependent on that of Hohenbourg. Odile consented.

One day, while she was occupied in overseeing the workmen, an aged man
brought three branches of a linden‐tree, begging her to plant them. He
predicted that the faithful would come to sit beneath their shade. Odile
did as he requested, planting the first in the name of the Father, the
second in the name of the Son, and the third in the name of the Holy
Ghost. In fact, successive generations have sought repose beneath them,
according to the old man’s prediction. Odile gave this new monastery the
name of Niedermünster (Lower Minster). She established there one‐half of
the community of Hohenbourg, retaining herself the direction of both
houses. She placed in the new house those who were most zealous in nursing
the sick, and had the greatest aptitude for it.

Many foreign ladies, drawn to Alsace by Odile’s reputation for sanctity,
were among their number. They lived at Niedermünster in obedience to the
rule of Hohenbourg, and led lives of austerity. These two cloisters, says
Father Hugo Peltre, might be compared to two trees, apparently separated,
but really drawing nourishment from the same root.

Odile, though advancing in years and broken down by her excessive
austerities, daily descended the mountain. Neither frost nor rain nor
fierce winds prevented her from visiting the hospice, which was her place
of delight, for there she found a vast field for her charity. She was in
the habit of saying: “Jesus Christ has given us the poor to supply his
place. In caring for them we serve the Saviour in their person.” The whole
of Alsace blessed her name, seeing her constantly occupied in solacing
suffering humanity, in guiding her spiritual children in the paths of
holiness, and in instructing the people in the sublime truths of the
Gospel.

There is a legend that Odile, bent down by the weight of years, was one
day ascending the mountain alone when she saw lying in the path an old man
dying of thirst and apparently breathing his last. Our saint tried to
raise him, but, too feeble to do so, she had recourse to the divine
assistance. After a fervent prayer, remembering what Moses did, she smote
a rock close by with her staff. A stream burst forth immediately, which
restored the old pilgrim to life. This fount is still venerated and
frequented. The water is considered miraculous.



XII.


Odile was ripe for heaven. Whether the state of her health announced it,
or God gave her a secret presentiment of her approaching end, on the 13th
of December (S. Lucius’ Day) she called together her companions in the
Chapel of S. John the Baptist, which had become her oratory, and, after
begging them not to be afflicted at what she had to say, she sweetly
announced to them that she was near the end of her earthly pilgrimage, and
her soul, ready to quit its prison of clay, would soon enjoy the liberty
God has promised his children. Then the holy abbess exhorted them to
remain faithful to the Lord, not to allow their fervor to relax, to resist
with all their strength the temptations of the adversary, and to submit
their wills to that of the Almighty.

While she was speaking to them her three nieces, Attale, Eugénie, and
Gundeline, shed floods of tears. Our dear saint, seeing their profound
grief, turned towards them and said: “Weep not, beloved children. Your
tears cannot prolong my existence here below. Go rather, all of you, to
the Chapel of Our Blessed Lady, pray together, recite the Psalms, and beg
for me the grace of a happy death.” As soon as all the community had gone
out to obey her wishes, the saint fell into an ecstasy, in which she had a
foretaste of heavenly joys. Her companions, returning from the chapel and
finding her insensible, began to express their sorrow that she had
departed without receiving Holy Communion. The saint, aroused by their
sobs and groans, opened her eyes and said: “Why have you returned so soon,
my dear children, to disturb my repose? I was in the presence of the
Blessed S. Lucius, and inexpressibly happy; for, as the apostle says, the
eye hath not seen, nor the ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart
of man to conceive it.” She then expressed an ardent desire to receive the
most Sacred Body and Precious Blood of our Lord. All at once, says the old
legend, a flood of dazzling light pervaded the chapel. The saint fell on
her knees, all the Sisters imitating her example. A celestial ministrant,
radiant with glory, appeared at the altar. He approached the dying abbess,
placed in her hands a wonderful chalice, and then reascended to
heaven.(68) She communicated therefrom, murmured a last farewell to her
children, joined her hands, and then the eyes, once opened by a miracle,
closed for ever to the light.

According to her wishes, her body, extenuated with fasts and other
austerities, was laid on a bear’s skin, and exposed for eight days in the
Chapel of S. John the Baptist, on the Gospel side, and with the feet
turned towards the altar. During this time a sweet odor spread throughout
the abbey. Her children felt that, instead of weeping for her who had
fought the good fight, and never been wanting in her fidelity to God, they
should rather rejoice that she was called to receive the crown of
righteousness, and they to imitate her example and seek through her
intercession for as happy an end.

Thus died, on the 13th of December, 7—,(69) Odile, eldest daughter of
Adalric, Duke of Alsace, abbess of the convents of Hohenbourg and
Niedermünster. Her mortal remains were covered with mastic, which, at
first soft, became hard; then placed in a tomb of stone, which is still to
be seen.

The inmates of the two monasteries celebrated her obsequies with all the
solemnity due to their abbess and foundress, and with the recollection due
to her sanctity. All the people of Alsace flocked to Hohenbourg to look
once more on the face of her to whom the unfortunate and the afflicted
never appealed in vain. Her inexhaustible charity, her zeal for Christian
perfection, her austere and penitential life, and her good works without
number, had during her life rendered her the object of public veneration.
As soon as she was dead a particular honor was paid her, first at
Hohenbourg, then throughout the whole province, which to this day invokes
her as its patroness. This honor has been sanctioned by the church. Her
venerated sepulchre is in our day the most frequented place of pilgrimage
in Alsace.



XIII.


Odile had acquired a taste for letters at the Abbey of Baume. She had a
thorough knowledge of the Latin language, the Holy Scriptures, and
ecclesiastical history. Her last will and testament, which has been
preserved, proves that she was as enlightened as holy.(70) The monasteries
she founded did not degenerate in this respect. They were the asylums of
learning. In the XIIth century, says Grandidier, while a large part of
Europe was plunged in ignorance and barbarism, the love of literature and
the sciences was to be found among some women of Alsace. Hohenbourg was
inhabited by canonesses equally learned and regular. Three abbesses were
especially distinguished for their taste for poetry and literature in
general. The first, Ricklende or Kilinde, reformed the monastery in 1141.
Some of her Latin verses, and the fragments of other works in that
language, have been preserved. Herrade de Landsberg, who succeeded her in
1167, became still more celebrated. Grandidier, speaking of her, says:
“The polite arts, painting, music, and poetry, charmed the leisure of this
illustrious abbess.” A collection of poetry in Latin, composed for the
instruction of her community, under the title of _Hortus Deliciarum_,(71)
is still preserved. Gerlinde, her sister or cousin, succeeded her, and
equalled her in taste and knowledge.

The first abbesses after S. Odile were her two nieces, S. Eugénie and S.
Gundeline. They divided the authority. The first was Abbess of Hohenbourg,
the second of Niedermünster. The revenues, which had hitherto been in
common, were divided by Odile before her death. Only Oberehnheim remained
undivided, that there might be a common tie between them.

Regularity of monastic life and observances was maintained till the XIth
century. The church was accidentally destroyed in 1045, but was rebuilt
and consecrated to the Blessed Virgin by Bruno, Count of Dagsbourg, Bishop
of Toul, and Landgrave of Alsace, a descendant of Odile’s brother Etton. A
few years after it was again destroyed by the Hungarian invaders, and
again Bruno, who had become the Sovereign Pontiff in 1049 under the name
of Leo IX., had it rebuilt. This pope, called to Germany by the interests
of the church, went himself to Hohenbourg to consecrate the edifice and
reassemble the dispersed sisterhood. He did not leave this place, so dear
to his heart, till he had re‐established the monastic discipline.

About a hundred years after this the community of Hohenbourg greatly
relaxed its fervor, the number of its subjects diminished, their revenues
decreased, and the buildings were decaying. The monastery would perhaps
have been abandoned had not Frederick Barbarossa, in his quality of Duke
of Alsace, interfered to save so celebrated a house from falling. He sent
to reform it Ricklende or Kilinde, whom he took from the Convent of Bergen
in the Diocese of Eichstadt, and to whom he gave the title and rights of
Princess of the Holy Empire, and also bestowed on her large sums of money
for the reparation of the monastery. Ricklende, whom we have already
mentioned, joined great zeal and piety to an enlarged mind and much
information. Sustained by the authority of the emperor, she re‐established
discipline in less than two years, as her successor, Herrade de Landsberg,
formally testifies. The religious habit worn in this house was white,
_albens quasi lilium_, says the _Hortus Deliciarum_. The bull of Pope
Lucius III. says they followed the rule of S. Augustine. Ricklende had
under her thirty‐three choir Sisters. In Herrade’s time there were forty‐
seven and thirteen lay Sisters. It was in the time of Herrade that the
Emperor Henry VI., disregarding his oath, had Sibylla, the widow of
Tancred, and Constance, her daughter, arrested and conducted to Hohenbourg
to take the veil.

In 1354 the Emperor Charles IV. visited S. Odile’s tomb, Agnes de
Slauffenberg being the abbess. He had the saint’s body exhumed, and Jean
de Lichtenberg, Bishop of Strasbourg, detached a part of the arm to be
deposited in the Cathedral of Prague. But, at the request of the
sisterhood, Charles IV. drew up an act which forbade any one, under the
severest penalties, from ever opening the tomb again. The bishop
pronounced the sentence of excommunication on whomsoever should violate
this decree of the sovereign.(72)

The Abbey of Hohenbourg, or of S. Odile, as it was also called, was
destined to terrible disasters. It was sacked in the XIVth and XVth
centuries by the _grandes Compagnies_ by the Armagnacs and the
Burgundians. It was still more unfortunate in the XVIth century.
Niedermünster was burned in 1542, and Hohenbourg on the 24th of March,
1546. The canonesses and prebends then dispersed, and Jean de
Manderscheidt, Bishop of Strasbourg, fearing the Lutherans would seize the
property belonging to the two abbeys, obtained permission from the Holy
See to annex it to the episcopal domains by paying the canonesses an
annual pension. The monastery, rebuilt in 1607 by Cardinal Charles de
Lorraine and the Archduke Leopold, Bishops of Strasbourg, was burned anew
in 1622 by the Lutheran army of the Count de Mansfeldt. The church was
repaired in 1630, but again devastated by the Brandenburg soldiers in
1633. They removed the lead from the windows and organs for ball.
Subsequent wars were also disastrous for Hohenbourg, and on the 7th of
May, 1681, the whole convent was again burned. Only the Chapel of Tears
and that of the Angels remained standing.

The Premonstratensians of the ancient observance established themselves at
Hohenbourg in 1663, converting it into a priory. They began to rebuild it
in 1684. Two of the monks, Father Hugues Peltre and Father Denys Albrecht,
carefully collected all the ancient accounts of S. Odile, and wrote
biographies of the saint, which we have freely made use of in this
account.

Niedermünster, which was given to the Grand Chapter of Strasbourg in 1558,
is now only a heap of ruins. Rosine de Stein, who died in 1534, was the
last abbess.

The French Revolution had also its effect on Hohenbourg. A few days after
the decree of the National Assembly on the 13th of February, 1790,
suppressing the monastic vows, the Convent of S. Odile was vacated.
Nevertheless, pilgrimages to the shrine of the holy Patroness of Alsace
continued to be frequent.

Nearly all that could nourish or excite the piety of the pilgrim had
disappeared from the antique cloister of Altitona, but Odile’s tomb still
remained and sufficed to attract a great number from all the surrounding
countries.



XIV.


On the 7th of July, 1841, at nine o’clock in the morning, the remains of
S. Odile were taken out of the tomb where they had reposed so many
centuries, and exposed to public veneration on the altar of the chapel
which bears her name. On the eve of this festival Mount Hohenbourg
presented an animated spectacle. People from Alsace, Lorraine, and around
Metz arrived in crowds. In ascending the mountain they dispersed to gather
foliage and wild flowers to deck the old Church of S. Odile with. Large
vases were placed on the altars and the _boiserie_ around the church to
receive these floral offerings of successive groups. A fir‐tree from a
neighboring forest stood beside each column of the nave. Garlands of box
and of oak‐leaves hung from tree to tree and covered the trunks. S.
Odile’s tomb and altar were richly decorated and her statue crowned with
flowers. The _châsse_ of the saint was placed on an elevation elegantly
draped. Thousands of pilgrims roamed around the precincts in the evening,
visiting successively the various sanctuaries.

The Chapel of Calvary particularly attracted them. It contained Adalric’s
remains, and among others a large painting in which were displayed the
genealogies of the houses of Alsace, Lorraine, France, and Austria, all of
which drew their origin from Adalric and Berswinde, and, finally, an
antique bedstead which tradition declared once belonged to King Dagobert.

At three o’clock in the morning of July 7th the bells announced to the
impatient pilgrims that the doors of the church were open and the first
Mass about to commence. The edifice was immediately crammed; even the
sanctuary was invaded. The neighboring chapels, the large court of the
monastery, and the green in front, were soon filled; but order reigned
everywhere in the multitude of all ages, sexes, and ranks. Every face
expressed faith and the most fervent devotion. Eighty priests from Alsace,
Lorraine, the Grand Duchy of Baden, and even from Holland, enhanced by
their presence the brilliancy of this festival, at once religious and
national. Masses succeeded each other till afternoon. The venerable Curate
of Oberehnheim (the place of S. Odile’s birth), who was the bishop’s
delegate, gave the signal for the ceremony at nine o’clock A.M. The
remains of S. Odile were borne in procession by six priests. Censers waved
and the sound of the bells mingled joyfully with the music and the ancient
hymns of the church. The crowd opened for the procession to pass. Every
face lights up, hands are clasped, and tears flow from all eyes. The
president of the festival, more than eighty years of age, pronounced the
panegyric of the saint. Then followed a grand Mass, during which, and for
two hours after, a constant file of pilgrims approached to venerate a
relic of the saint. The ceremonies closed with Benediction.

The _châsse_ was exposed during the whole Octave. From that time the
concourse of pilgrims has continued. There were fifteen hundred the
following Sunday. Hundreds of Communions are daily made at Hohenbourg, and
perhaps the number of pilgrims has never been greater than of late.

Glorious Patroness of Alsace, whose great heart, while on earth, was so
full of pity for the unfortunate, pray for thy unhappy country, now
devastated and full of woe!




Wind And Tide.


I stood by the broad, deep river,
  The tide flowed firm to its mouth;
I saw the sweet wind quiver,
  As it rose in the golden south.
On the river’s bosom it fluttered,
  And kissed and caressed all day,
And joys of the south it muttered:
  But the tide kept its northern way.
Tender and chaste was its suing,
  Till the face of the river‐bride
Rippled and gleamed in the wooing:
  But northward flowed the tide.

And so, thought I, God’s graces
  Woo our souls the livelong day,
Which brighten and smile in their faces:
  Sin bears us another way.




Matter. IV.


To complete our investigation about the essential properties of matter,
one great question remains to be answered, viz.: _Is the matter of which
bodies are made up intrinsically extended so as to fill a portion of
space, or does it ultimately consist of unextended points?_ We call this a
great question, not indeed because of any great difficulty to be
encountered in its solution, but because it has a great importance in
metaphysics, and because it has been at all times much ventilated by great
philosophers.

That bodies do not fill with their matter the dimensions of their volume
is conceded by all, as porosity is a general property of bodies. That the
molecules, or chemical atoms, of which the mass of a body is composed, do
not touch one another with their matter, but are separated by appreciable
intervals of space, is also admitted by our best scientists, though many
of them are of opinion that those intervals are filled with a subtle
medium, by which calorific and luminous vibrations are supposed to be
propagated. But with regard to the molecules themselves, the question,
whether their constitution is continuous or discrete, has not yet been
settled. Some teach, with the old physicists, that bodies are ultimately
made up of particles materially continuous, filling with their mass the
whole space occupied by their volume. These last particles they call
_atoms_, because their mass is not susceptible of physical division,
although their volume is infinitely divisible in a mathematical sense.
Others, on the contrary, deny the material continuity of matter, and hold
with Boscovich that, as all bodies are composed of discrete molecules, so
are all molecules composed of discrete elements wholly destitute of
material extension, occupying distinct mathematical points in space, and
bound by mutual action in mechanical systems differently constituted,
according to the different nature of the substances to which they belong.

Which of these two opinions is right? Although scientists more generally
incline to the second, metaphysicians are still in favor of the first. Yet
we do not hesitate to say, though it may appear presumptuous on our part,
that it is not difficult to decide the question. Let the reader follow our
reasoning upon the subject, and we confidently predict that he will soon
be satisfied of the truth of our assertion.

_Groundless assumption of continuous matter._—As the true metaphysics of
matter must be grounded on real facts, we may first inquire what facts, if
any, can be adduced in favor of the intrinsic extension and material
continuity of molecules. Is there any sensible fact which directly or
indirectly proves such a continuity?

We must answer in the negative. For sensible facts are perceived by us in
consequence of the impressions which objects make on our senses; if,
therefore, such impressions are not calculated to reveal anything
concerning the question of material continuity, no sensible fact can be
adduced as a proof of the continuity of matter. Now, the impressions made
on our senses cannot reveal anything about our question. For we know that
bodies contain not only millions of pores, which are invisible to the
naked eye, but also millions of movable and separate particles, which are
so minute that no microscope can make them visible, and which, though so
extremely minute, are composed of millions of other particles still more
minute, which have independent movements, and therefore possess an
independent existence. There are many species of animalcules (_infusoria_)
so small that millions together would not equal the bulk of a grain of
sand, and thousands might swim at once through the eye of a needle. These
almost infinitesimal animals are as well adapted to life as the largest
beasts, and their movements display all the phenomena of life, sense, and
instinct. They have nerves and muscles, organs of digestion and of
propagation, liquids and solids of different kinds, etc. It is impossible
to form a conception of the minute dimensions of these organic structures;
and yet each separate organ of every animalcule is a compound of several
organic substances, each in its turn comprising numberless atoms of
carbon, oxygen, and hydrogen. It is plain from this and other examples
that the actual magnitude of the ultimate molecules of any body is
something completely beyond the reach of our senses to perceive or of our
intellect to comprehend.(73) We must therefore concede that no impression
received by our senses is calculated to make us perceive anything like a
molecule or to give us a clue to its constitution. To say that molecules
are so many pieces of continuous matter is therefore to assert what no
sensible fact can ever reveal.

Moreover, we know of no sensible phenomenon which has any necessary
connection with the continuity of matter. Physicists and chemists, in
their scientific explanation of phenomena, have no need of assuming the
existence of continuous matter, and acknowledge that there are no facts
from which the theory of simple and unextended elements can be refuted.
And the reason of this is clear; for the phenomena can be made the ground
of experimental proofs only so far as they are perceived by our senses;
and since our perception of them is confined within the narrow limits
above described, it is impossible to draw from sensible phenomena any
distinct conclusion regarding the constitution of molecules. Hence it is
plain that no sensible fact exists which directly or indirectly proves the
continuity of matter.

Secondly, we may ask, Can the intrinsic extension and continuity of matter
be proved from the essence of material substance?

The answer must again be negative. For nothing can in any manner be
involved in, or result from, the essence of material substance, unless it
be required either by the matter, or by the substantial form, or by the
relation and proportion which must exist between the form and the matter.
But neither the matter, nor the substantial form, nor their mutual
relation requires material continuity or material extension. Therefore the
essence of material substance cannot supply us with any valid argument in
favor of the extension and continuity of matter.

In this syllogism the major proposition needs no proof, as it is evident
that material substance, like all other created things, essentially
consists of act and potency; and it is known that its act is called the
substantial form, while its potency is called _the_ matter.(74) It is
therefore manifest that, if anything has a necessary connection with the
essence of material substance, it must be of such a nature as to be needed
either by the matter or by the substantial form, or by both together.

The minor proposition can be demonstrated as follows: In the first place,
continuous quantity is not needed by the matter, whether actuated or
actuable. For, as actuable, the matter is a “mere potency” (_pura
potentia_) which has yet to receive its “first actuality” (_primum esse_),
as philosophers agree; and accordingly it has no actual quantity or
continuous extension, nor is it potential with respect to it, as its
potency regards only existence (_primum esse_), and evidently existence is
not dimensive quantity. Hence the schoolmen unanimously maintain with
Aristotle that the first matter has “no quiddity, no quality, and no
quantity” (_nec quid, nec quale, nec quantum_)—a truth which we hope fully
to explain in some future article. As actuated, the matter is nothing else
than a substantial term susceptible of local motion; for we know from
physics that material substance receives no other determination than to
local movement, and for this reason, as we remarked in another place, it
has been defined _Ens mobile_, or a movable thing. Now, a term, to be
susceptible of local motion, needs no dimensions, as is evident. And
therefore the matter, whether actuated or not, has nothing in its nature
which requires continuous extension.

In the second place, material continuity is not required by the nature of
the substantial form. This form may, in fact, be considered either as a
principle of being or as a principle of operation. As a principle of
being, it gives the first existence to its matter; and it is plain that to
give the first existence is not to give bulk. Our adversaries teach that
what gives bulk to the bodies is quantity; and yet, surely, they will not
pretend that quantity is the substantial form. On the other hand, it is
evident that _to be_ and _to have bulk_ are not the same thing; and since
the substantial form merely causes the matter _to be_, it would be absurd
to infer that it must also cause it _to be extended_. As a principle of
operation, the form needs matter only as a centre from which its exertions
are directed. Now, the direction of the exertion, as well as that of the
movement, must be taken from a point to a point, not from a bulk to a
bulk; and therefore the form, as a principle of operation, needs only one
point of matter. Thus it is clear that no material extension is required
to suit the wants of the substantial form.

In the third place, material extension is not required to make the matter
proportionate to its substantial form. We shall see later that no form
which requires a determinate quantity of mass can be a substantial form in
the strict sense of the expression; at present it will suffice to keep in
mind that the substantial form must give the first being to its matter,
and that the matter is therefore perfectly proportioned to its substantial
form by merely being in potency to receive its first being. Now, such a
potency implies no extension; for if it did, the accident would precede
the substance. Besides, the matter before its first actuation is _a
nonentity_, and, as such, is incapable of any positive disposition, as we
shall more fully explain in the sequel. But a determinate bulk would be a
positive disposition. Hence the matter which receives its first actuation
is proportionate to its form independently of material extension. We can
therefore safely conclude that the essence of material substance supplies
no proof whatever of the continuity of matter.

Thirdly, we ask, Can the continuity of matter be proved from mechanics?

Here also our answer must be negative. For the theorems of mechanics are
each and all demonstrated quite independently of the question of material
continuity. The old writers of mechanical works (or rather the old
metaphysicians, from whom these writers borrowed their notion of matter)
admitted the continuity of matter on two grounds: first, because they
thought that _nature abhorred a vacuum_; and, secondly, because they
rejected the _actio in distans_ as impossible. But we have already shown
that no action of matter upon matter is possible, except on the condition
that the matter of the agent be distant from the matter of the patient;
which implies that all the material particles, to act on their immediate
neighbors, must be separately ubicated, with intervening vacuum. And thus
the only reasons by which the ancients could plausibly support the
continuity of matter have lost all weight in the light of modern
mechanics.

Fourthly: Can the continuity of matter be inferred from geometrical
considerations?

We reply that it cannot. For geometric quantity is not a quantity of
_matter_, but a quantity of _volume_—that is, the quantity of space
mensurable within certain limits. Hence it is evident that the continuity
of the geometric quantity has nothing to do with the continuity of matter,
and is not dependent on it, but wholly depends on the possibility of a
continuous movement within the limits of the geometric space. In fact, we
have in geometry three dimensions—length, breadth, and depth, which are
simple lines. Now, a line is not conceived as made up of material points
touching and continuing one another, but as the track of a point moving
between certain limits; so that the continuity of the geometric dimensions
is not grounded on any extension or continuation of material particles,
but on the possibility of continuous movement, on which the continuity of
time also depends. We must therefore remain satisfied that no geometrical
consideration can lend the least support to the hypothesis of material
continuity.

We have thus exhausted all the sources from which any _à priori_ or _à
posteriori_ argument in favor of material continuity might have been
drawn, if any had been possible; and the result of our investigation
authorizes the conclusion that the hypothesis of continuous matter is both
scientifically and philosophically gratuitous.

_False reasonings in behalf of continuous matter._—But some philosophers,
who are afraid that the denial of material continuity may subvert all the
scholastic doctrines (to which they most laudably, but perhaps too
exclusively, adhere in questions of natural science), contend that the
existence of continuous matter can be established by good philosophical
reasons. It is therefore our duty, before we proceed further, to acquaint
our reader with such reasons, and with our answers to them.

The first reason is the following: Geometry is a real, not a chimerical,
science; and therefore it has to deal with real bodies—not indeed inasmuch
as they are substances, but inasmuch as they have a quantity which can be
considered in the abstract. Hence we must admit that the geometric
quantity is a quantity of matter considered in the abstract; and
accordingly, if the geometric quantity is continuous and infinitely
divisible, as no one doubts, the quantity of matter in the bodies must
also be continuous and infinitely divisible.

We reply that bodies have two very different kinds of quantity—the
quantity of the mass and the quantity of the volume—and that geometry
deals indeed with the latter, but has nothing to do with the former. Hence
the geometric quantity is a quantity of volume or bulk, not a quantity of
matter; and therefore to argue that, because the geometric quantity is
continuous and infinitely divisible, the same must be true of the quantity
of matter, is to make an inexcusable confusion of matter with space. The
argument might have some value, if the quantity of the volume could be
measured by the quantity of the mass; but no one who has studied the first
elements of physics can be ignorant that such is not the case. Equal
masses are found under unequal volumes, and unequal masses under equal
volumes. Volumes preserve the same geometric nature and the same geometric
quantity, be they filled with matter or not. A cubic inch of platinum and
a cubic inch of water contain different amounts of matter, since the
former weighs twenty‐one times as much as the latter; and yet they are
geometrically equal. Geometry is not concerned with the density of bodies;
and therefore geometrical quantities are altogether independent of the
quantity of matter, and cannot be altered except by altering the relative
position of the extreme terms between which their three dimensions are
measured. These dimensions are not made up of matter, but are mere
relations in space, with or without interjacent matter, representing, as
we have already observed, the quantity of continuous movement which is
possible between the correlated terms; and their continuity depends on the
continuity of space, not of matter.

The author from whom we have taken this objection pretends also that the
geometric quantity possesses no other attributes than those which belong
to all quantity, and are essential to it; whence he concludes that
whatever is predicated of geometric quantity must also be predicated of
the quantity of matter. But the assumption is evidently false; for it is
not of the essence of all quantity to be continuous as the geometric
quantity, it being manifest that discrete quantity is a true quantity,
although it has no continuity. The general notion of quantity extends to
everything which admits of _more_ or _less_; hence there is intensive
quantity, extensive quantity, and numeric quantity. The first is measured
by arbitrary degrees of intensity; the second is measured by arbitrary
intervals of space and time; the third is measured by natural units—that
is, by individual realities as they exist in nature. It is therefore
absurd to pretend that whatever can be predicated of geometric quantity
must be predicated of all kinds of quantity.

The second reason adduced in behalf of material continuity is as follows:
To deny the continuity of matter is to destroy all real extension. For how
can real extension arise from simple unextended points arranged in a
certain manner, and acting upon one another? The notions of simplicity,
order, and activity transcend the attributions of matter, and are
applicable to all spiritual beings. If, then, extension could arise from
simple unextended elements by their arrangement and actions, why could not
angels, by meeting in a sufficient number and acting on one another, give
rise to extension, and form, say, a watermelon?

This argument has no weight whatever; but, as it appeared not many years
ago in a Catholic periodical of great reputation, we have thought it best
to give it a place among other arguments of the same sort. Our answer is
that to deny the continuity of matter is not to deny real extension, but
only to maintain that _no real extension is made up of continuous matter_.
And we are by no means embarrassed to explain “how _real_ extension can
arise from simple unextended points.” The thing is very plain. Two points,
_A_ and _B_, being given in space, the interval of space between them is a
_real_ interval, _really_ determined by the _real_ points _A_ and _B_, and
_really_ determining the extension of the _real_ movement possible between
the same points. Such an interval is therefore a _real_ extension. This is
the way in which real extension arises from unextended points.

Nor can it be objected that nothing extended can be made up of unextended
points. This is true, of course, but has nothing to do with the question.
For we do not pretend that extension is _made up_ by composition of
points—which would be a very gross error—but we say that extension
_results_ from the simple position of real points in space, and that it
results not _in_ them, but _between_ them. It is the mass of the body that
is _made up_ of its components; and thus the sum _A_ + _B_ represents a
mass, not an extension. The geometric dimensions, on the contrary, consist
entirely of relations between distinct points intercepting mensurable
space. The distinct points are _the terms_ of the relation, while the
extent of the space mensurable between them by continuous movement is _the
formal reason_ of their relativity. And since this continuous movement may
extend more or less, according as the terms are variously situated, hence
the resulting relation has the nature of continuous quantity. This
suffices to show that to deny the continuity of matter is _not_ to destroy
all real extension.

And now, what shall we say of those angels freely uniting to form a
watermelon? It is hardly necessary to say that this bright idea is only a
dream. There is no volume without dimensions, no dimension without
distance, and no distance without terms distinctly ubicated in space and
marking out the point where the distance begins, and the point where it
ends. Now, nothing marks out a point in space but matter. Angels, as
destitute of matter, mark no points in space, and accordingly cannot
terminate distances nor give rise to dimensions. Had they matter, they
would, like the simple elements, possess a formal ubication in space, and
determine dimensions; but, owing to their spiritual nature, they transcend
all local determinations, and have no formal ubication except in the
intellectual sphere of their spiritual operation. It is therefore owing to
their spirituality, and not to their simplicity, that they cannot form
themselves into a volume. Lastly, we must not forget that the “angelic”
watermelon should have not only volume, but mass also. Such a mass would,
of course, be made up without matter. How a mass can be conceived without
matter is a profound secret, which the author of the argument very
prudently avoided to reveal. But let us come to another objection.

A third reason adduced in favor of continuous matter is that we cannot,
without employing a vicious circle, account for the extension of bodies by
the notion either of space, distance, or movement. For these notions
already presuppose extension, and cannot be formed without a previous
knowledge of what extension is. To think of space is, in fact, to think of
extension. So also distance cannot be conceived except by imagining
something extended, which lies, or can lie, between the distant terms.
Hence, to avoid the vicious circle, it is necessary to trace the origin of
our notion of extension to the matter we see in the bodies. And therefore
our very notion of extension is a sufficient proof of the existence of
continuous matter.

We reply that this reason is even less plausible than the preceding one.
To form the abstract notion of extension, we must first directly perceive
some extension in the concrete, in the same manner as we must perceive
concrete humanity in individual men before we conceive humanity in the
abstract. But in all sensible movements we directly perceive extension
through space and time. Therefore from sensible movements, _without a
previous knowledge of extension_, we can form the notion of extension in
general. Is there any one who can find in this a vicious circle?

This answer might suffice. But we will further remark that the argument
may be retorted against its author. For if we cannot conceive movement as
extending in space without a _previous_ knowledge of extension, how can we
conceive matter as extending in space without a _previous_ knowledge of
extension? And how can we conceive matter as continuous without a
_previous_ knowledge of continuity, or time as enduring without a
_previous_ knowledge of duration? To these questions the author of the
argument can give no satisfactory answer without solving his own
objection. Space, distance, and movement, says he, involve extension; and
_therefore_ they cannot be known “without a previous knowledge of what
extension is.” It is evident that this conclusion is illogical; for if
space, distance, and movement imply extension, we cannot perceive space,
distance, and movement without directly perceiving extension; and, since
the direct perception of a thing does not require a _previous_ knowledge
of it, the logical conclusion should have been that, to perceive space,
distance, and movement, no previous knowledge of extension is needed.

On the other hand, while our senses perceive the extension of continuous
movement in space, they are not competent to perceive material continuity
in natural bodies. Hence it is from movement, and not from matter, that
our notion of continuous extension is derived. In fact, to form a
conception of the dimensions of a body, we survey it by a continuous
movement of our eyes from one end of it to the other. In this movement the
eye glides over innumerable pores, by which the material particles of the
body are separated. If our conception of the geometric extension of the
body depended on the continuity of its matter, these pores, as not
consisting of continuous matter, should all be thrown away in the
measurement of the body. Why, then, do we consider them as contributing
with their own dimensions to form the total dimensions of the body? Merely
because the geometric dimensions are estimated by movement, and not by
matter.

Nor is it in the least strange that we should know extension from
movement, and not from matter. For no one can perceive extension between
two terms, unless he measures by continuous movement the space intercepted
between them. The local relation between two terms cannot, in fact, be
perceived otherwise than by referring the one term to the other through
space; hence no one ever perceives a distance between two given terms
otherwise than by drawing, at least mentally, a line from the one to the
other—that is, otherwise than by measuring by some movement the extent of
the movement which can take place between the two given terms. And this is
what the very word _extension_ conveys. For this word is composed of the
preposition _ex_, which connotes the term from which the movement begins,
and of the verb _tendere_, which is a verb of motion. And thus everything
shows that it is from motion, and not from continuous matter, that our
first notion of extension proceeds.

A sharp opponent, however, might still object that before we can perceive
any movement we need to perceive something movable—that is, visible
matter. But no matter is visible unless it be extended. Therefore
extension must be perceived in matter itself before we can perceive it in
local movement.

But we answer, first, that although nothing can be perceived by our senses
unless it be extended, nevertheless we can see extended things without
perceiving their extension. Thus we see many stars as mere points in
space, and yet we can perceive their movement from the east to the west.
Hence, although matter is not visible unless it be extended, it does not
follow that extension must be first perceived in matter itself.

Secondly, we answer that when we perceive the movable matter as extended,
we do not judge of its extension by its movement, but by the movement
which we ourselves have to make in going from one of its extremities to
the other. This is the only way of perceiving extension in space. For how
could we conceive anything as extended, if we could not see that it has
parts outside of parts? And how could we pronounce that anything has parts
outside of parts, if we did not see that between one part and another
there is a possibility of local movement? On the other hand, as soon as we
perceive the possibility of local movement between distinct parts, we have
sufficient evidence of geometric extension. And thus we have no need of
continuous matter in order to perceive the volume of bodies.

Before we dismiss this subject, we must add that the advocates of
continuous matter, while fighting against us, shield themselves with two
other arguments. If matter is not continuous, they say, bodies will
consist of mere mathematical points acting at a distance; but _actio in
distans_ is the extreme of absurdity, and therefore bodies cannot consist
of mathematical points. They also allege that _nature abhors a vacuum_,
and therefore all space must be filled up with matter; which would be
impossible, were not matter continuous. That nature abhors a vacuum was
once considered a physical axiom; but, since science has destroyed the
physical grounds on which the pretended axiom rested, metaphysics has in
its turn been appealed to, that the time‐honored dictum may not be
consigned to complete oblivion. It has therefore been pretended that space
without matter is a mere delusion, and consequently that to make extension
dependent on empty intervals of space imagined to intervene between
material points is to give a chimerical solution of the question of
material extension.

The first of these two arguments we have fully answered in our last
article, and we shall not again detain our readers with it. Let us notice,
however, that when the elements of matter are called “mathematical”
points, the sense is not that they are not physical, but only that those
physical points are mathematically, or rigorously, unextended.

The second argument assumes that space void of matter is nothing. As we
cannot enter here into a detailed examination of the nature of absolute
space, we shall content ourselves with the following answer: 1st. All real
relations require a real foundation. Real distances are real relations.
Therefore real distances have a real foundation. But their foundation is
nothing else than absolute space; and therefore absolute space is a
reality. 2d. If empty space is nothing, then bodies were created in
nothing, occupy nothing, and all spaces actually occupied are nothing. To
say, as so many have said, that empty space is nothing, and that space
occupied by matter is a reality, is to say that _the absolute is nothing
until it becomes relative_—a proposition which is the main support of
German pantheism, and which every man of sense must reject. 3d. Of two
different recipients, the greater has a greater capacity independently of
the matter which it may contain; for, whether it be filled with the rarest
gas or with the densest metal, its capacity does not vary. It is therefore
manifest that its capacity is not determined by the matter it contains,
but only by the space intercepted between its limits. In the same manner
the smaller recipient has less capacity, irrespective of the matter it may
contain, and only in consequence of the space intercepted. If, therefore,
space, prescinding from the matter occupying it, is nothing, the greater
capacity will be a greater nothing, and the less capacity a less nothing.
But greater and less imply quantity, and quantity is something. Therefore
nothing will be something.

We hope we shall hereafter have a better opportunity of developing these
and other considerations on space; but the little we have said is
sufficient, we believe, to show that the assumption of the unreality of
space unoccupied by matter is a philosophical absurdity.

We conclude that the existence of continuous matter cannot be proved, and
that those philosophers who still admit it cannot account for it by
anything like a good argument. They can only shelter themselves behind the
prejudices of their infancy, which they have been unable to discard, or
behind the venerable authority of the ancients, who, though deserving our
admiration in other respects, were led astray by the same popular
prejudices, owing to their limited knowledge of natural science. We may be
allowed to add that if the ancient philosophers are not to be blamed for
admitting continuous matter, the same cannot be said of those among our
contemporaries who, in the present state of science, are still satisfied
with their authority on the subject.

_Mysterious attributes of continuous matter._—Now, let us suppose that
bodies, or their molecules, are made up of continuous matter, just as our
opponents maintain; and let us see what must necessarily follow from such
a gratuitous assumption. In the first place, it follows that _a piece of
continuous matter cannot be actuated by a single substantial act_. This is
easily proved.

For a single act gives a single actual being; which is inconsistent with
the nature of continuous matter. Matter, to be continuous, must actually
contain distinct parts, united indeed, but having distinct ubications in
space. Now, with a single substantial act there cannot be distinct actual
parts; for all actual distinction, according to the axiom of the schools,
implies distinct acts: _Actus est qui distinguit._ Therefore continuous
matter cannot be actuated by a single substantial act.

Again, a piece of continuous matter has dimensions, of which the beginning
and the end must be quite distinct, the existence of the one not being the
existence of the other. But it is impossible for two things which have a
distinct existence to be under the same substantial act; for there cannot
be two existences without two formal principles. Hence, if there were any
continuous matter, the beginning and the end of its dimensions should be
actuated by distinct acts; and the same would be true of any two distinct
points throughout the same dimensions. Nor does it matter that the
dimensions are supposed to be formed of one unbroken piece; for, before we
conceive distinct parts, or terms, as forming the continuation of one
another, we must admit the substance of such parts, as their continuation
presupposes their being. Hence, however intimately the parts may be
united, they always remain substantially distinct; which implies that each
one of them must have its own substantial act.

Moreover, continuous extension is divisible. If, then, there is anywhere a
piece of continuous matter, it may be divided into two, by God at least.
But as division is not a magical operation, and does not give the first
existence to the things which are divided, it is plain that the parts
which after the division exist separately must have had their own distinct
existence before the division; and, evidently, they could not have a
distinct existence without being actuated by distinct substantial acts.
What we say of these two parts applies to whatever other parts are
obtainable by continuing the division. Whence it is manifest that
continuous matter needs as many substantial acts as it has divisible
parts.

The advocates of continuous matter try to decline this consequence by
pretending that matter, so long as it is undivided, is _one_ matter and
needs only one form; but this form, according to them, is divisible; hence
when the matter is divided, each part of the matter retains its own
portion of the substantial form, and thus the same form which gives
existence to the whole gives existence to the separate parts. This is,
however, a mere subterfuge; for the undivided matter is indeed one
accidentally, inasmuch as it has no _division_ of parts; but it is not one
substantially, because it has _distinction_ of parts. This distinction
exists before the division is made, and we have already seen that no
actual distinction is possible without distinct acts. And again, the
hypothesis that substantial forms are divisible, is a ridiculous fiction,
to say the least. For nothing is divisible which has no multiplicity of
parts and consequently a multiplicity of acts. How, then, can a
substantial act, which is a single act, be conceived as divisible?

They also argue that as the soul, which is a simple form, actuates the
whole matter of the body, so can the material form actuate continuous
matter. This comparison may have some weight with those who confound the
_essential_ with the _substantial_ forms, and believe that the soul gives
the first being to the matter of the body. But the truth is that the
substance of the soul is the _essential_ form of the living organism, and
not the _substantial_ form giving the first being to matter. The organism
and its matter must have their being in nature before being animated by
the soul; each part of matter in the body has therefore its own distinct
material form and its own distinct existence. The soul is a principle of
life, and gives nothing but life.(75) Hence the aforesaid comparison is
faulty, and leads to no conclusion.

In the second place it follows that _no continuous matter can be styled a
single substance_.

For within the dimensions of continuous matter there must be as many
distinct substantial acts as there are material points distinct from one
another; it being clear that distinct points cannot have the same
substantial actuation, and accordingly require distinct substantial acts
and constitute distinct substances. Against this some will object that a
mere point of matter is incapable of supporting the substantial form. But
we have already shown that the substantial form is not _supported_ by its
matter, as the objection assumes, but only terminated to it, the matter
being the substantial term, not the subject, of the substantial form.(76)
On the other hand, it is manifest that a form naturally destined to act in
a sphere, by actuating a single point of matter, actuates just as much
matter as its nature requires. For it is from a single point, not from
many, that the action must be directed. Hence nothing more than a point of
matter is required to terminate the substantial form and to constitute a
perfect substance. Additional proofs of this truth will be found in our
next article, where we shall rigorously demonstrate the impossibility of
continuous matter. Meanwhile, nothing withstands our conclusion that there
must be as many distinct substances in continuous matter as there are
distinct points within its dimensions.

In the third place, it follows that _this multitude of distinct substances
is not merely potential, but actual_.

This conclusion is very clear. For every multitude of actual parts is an
actual multitude, or, as they say, a multitude in act. But in continuous
matter all the parts are actual, although they are not actually separated.
Therefore the multitude of such parts is an actual multitude.

The upholders of continuous matter do not admit that this multitude is
actual; they contend that it is only potential. For were they to concede
that it is actual, they would be compelled to admit either that it is
actually finite, or that it is actually infinite. Now, they cannot say
that it is actually finite, because this would be against the well‐known
nature of continuum, which admits of an endless division, and therefore
contains a multitude of parts which has no end. On the other hand, they
cannot say that it is actually infinite; because, even admitting the
absolute possibility of a multitude actually infinite, it would still be
absurd to assert that such is the case with a piece of matter having
finite dimensions. Indeed, Leibnitz and Descartes did not hesitate to
teach this latter absurdity; but they could not make it fashionable, and
were soon abandoned even by their own disciples. Thus the difficulty
remained; and philosophers, being unable to solve it, tried to decline it
by denying that there can be in the continuum an _actual_ multitude of
parts. This was, in fact, the view of the old advocates of continuous
matter, who uniformly admitted that the parts of an unbroken continuum are
merely _potential_, and form a potential multitude. For, they say, the
_actual_ multitude results from actual division, and therefore has no
existence in the undivided continuum.

This last view would be very good, if the continuum in question were
_successive_—as is the case with movement and time, which are always _in
fieri_, and exist only by infinitesimals in an infinitesimal present, or
if the continuum in question were _virtual_, as is the case with any
mensurable interval of space; for evidently in these continuums no
_actual_ multitude is to be found. But the case is quite different with
continuous matter. For he who asserts the existence of continuous matter
asserts the existence of a thing having parts _formally_ distinct and
_simultaneous_. He therefore affirms the actual existence of a formal
multitude of distinct parts, or, in other terms, an actual multitude. To
deny the actual multitude of the parts, on the plea that there is no
actual division, is to take refuge in a miserable sophism, which consists
in denying the substantial distinction of the parts on the ground that
they are not divided, and in ignoring their actual being solely because
they have not a certain special mode of being.

As to the axiom that “Number results from division,” two things are to be
noticed. The first is that the term “division” here means _mensuration_,
not separation. Thus we divide the day into twenty‐four hours, without
discontinuing time for all that; and in like manner we divide the length
of a journey into miles without discontinuing space. This shows that the
numbers obtained by the division of the continuum are only artificially or
virtually discrete, and that the continuum remains unbroken. The second is
that a number is not merely a multitude, but a multitude measured by a
certain unit, as S. Thomas aptly defines it: _Numerus est multitudo
mensurata per unum_. Hence, if the unit of measure is arbitrary (as is the
case with all continuous quantities), the same quantity can be expressed
by different numbers, according as a different unit is employed in
measuring it. But so long as the unit is not determined, the quantity
cannot be expressed by any definite number. And if the unit employed be
less than any given finite quantity, the thing which is measured will
contain a multitude of such units greater than any given number. All such
units exist in the thing measured prior to its mensuration; and as such
units are actual and distinct, there can be no doubt that they constitute
an actual multitude.

Some modern advocates of continuous matter have imagined another means of
evading the difficulty. Tongiorgi admits extended atoms of continuous
matter, but denies that their parts are _actually_ distinct. As, however,
he confesses that extension requires parts outside of parts (_Cosmol._, n.
143), we may ask him: Are not such parts _actually_ distinct? Distinction
is a negation of identity; and surely parts existing actually outside of
one another are not actually identical. They are therefore actually
distinct. Now, to use the very words of the author, “where there are
distinct parts there is a plurality of units, that is, a multitude,
although the parts which are distinct be united in a common term, as is
the case with the parts of continuum”;(77) and therefore it is manifest
that the continuous atom involves actual multitude.

Liberatore does not entirely deny the actual distinction of the parts in
continuous matter, but maintains that the distinction is _incomplete_, and
accordingly cannot give rise to an actual multitude. The parts of a
continuum, says he, are united in a common term; hence they are
incompletely distinct, and make no number, but are all one. They are
outside of one another, yet in such a manner as to be also inside of one
another. They do not subsist in themselves, but in the whole. The whole
displays many parts, but it is one, and its parts are so indeterminate
that they cannot be measured except by an arbitrary measure.(78)

This view scarcely deserves to be discussed, as the author himself owns
that it makes continuous matter seem somewhat
contradictory—_Contradictoriis quodammodo notis subditur_—though he
attributes this kind of contradiction to the opposition which exists
between the matter and the form—an explanation which we do not admit for
reasons which we shall give in our next article. But as to the assertion
that the parts of a continuum, on account of their having a common term,
are only _incompletely_ distinct, we can show at once that the author is
much mistaken. Incomplete distinction is a distinction which does not
completely exclude identity. Hence where there is incomplete distinction
there is also incomplete identity. Now, not a shadow of identity is to be
found between any two parts of continuum. Therefore any two parts of
continuum are completely distinct. Thus each of the twenty‐four hours into
which we divide the day is completely distinct from every other, although
the one is united with the other in a common term; for it is evident that
the common term, having no extension, is no part of extension, and
therefore cannot originate identity between any two parts of extension. To
say that there is some identity, and therefore an incomplete distinction,
between two extensions, because they have a common term which has no
extension, is to pretend that the unextended has some identity with the
extended; and this pretension is absurd. We conclude that, in spite of all
the efforts of our opponents, it is manifest that continuous matter would
be an _actual_ multitude of distinct, though not separated, substances.

Lastly, it follows that _actual continuous matter would be an actual
infinite multitude of substances_.

This conclusion is fully warranted by the infinite divisibility of the
continuum. But here again the advocates of material continuity contend
that this divisibility is potential, and can never be reduced to act;
whence they infer that the multitude of the parts is not actual, but
potential. We, however, repeat that if the division is potential, the
divisible matter is certainly actual; and therefore the potency of an
infinite division presupposes an infinite multitude of distinct terms
actually existing in the divisible matter. And as we have already shown
that each distinct term must have a distinct substantial act, we must
conclude that the least piece of continuous matter would consist of an
infinite actual multitude of substances—a consequence whose monstrosity
needs no demonstration.

Hence we are not surprised to see that Goudin, one of the great champions
of the old physics, considers continuous matter as “a philosophic mystery,
about which reason teaches more than it can understand, and objects more
than it can answer.”(79) He tries, however, to explain the mystery in some
manner, by adding that “when the continuum is said to be infinitely
divisible, this must be understood mathematically, not physically—that is,
by considering the quantity as it is in itself, not as it is the property
of a corporeal form. For in the process of the division we might finally
reach a part so small that, if smaller, it would be insufficient to bear
any natural form. Nevertheless, mathematically speaking, in that smallest
physical part there would still be two halves, and in these halves other
halves, and so on without end.”(80)

This explanation is taken from S. Thomas (I _Phys._, lect. I.), and shows
philosophical thought; but, far from solving the difficulty, it rather
proves that it is insoluble. For if, mathematically speaking, in the
smallest bit of continuous matter there are still halves, and halves of
halves, clearly there are in it distinct parts of matter, and therefore
distinct forms actuating each of them distinctly, as the being of each
part is not the being of any other part. It is therefore false that
nothing smaller is sufficient to bear any natural form. And hence the
difficulty is not solved. On the other hand, the necessity of resorting to
purely mathematical (geometric) quantity clearly shows that it is _the
space_ inclosed in the volume of the body (of which alone geometry
treats), and not _the matter_ (of which geometry has nothing to say), that
is infinitely divisible; and this amounts to a confession that continuous
matter has no existence.

While making these remarks, we willingly acknowledge that S. Thomas and
all the ancients who considered air, water, fire, and earth as the first
elements of all things, were perfectly consistent in teaching that natural
forms require a definite amount of matter. For by “natural forms” they
meant those forms from which the specific properties of sensible things
emanate. Now, all things that are sensible are materially compounded in a
greater or less degree, and possess properties which cannot be ascribed to
a single material point. So far, then, these ancient philosophers were
right. But they should have considered that the required amount of matter
ought to consist of distinct parts, having their own distinct being, and
therefore their own distinct substantial acts. This would have led them to
the conclusion that the natural form of air, water, etc., was not a form
giving the first being to the material parts, but a form of natural
composition giving the first being to the compound nature. But let us stop
here for the present. We have shown that continuous matter cannot be
proved to exist, and is, at best, a “philosophic mystery.” In our next
article we shall go a step further, and prove that material continuity is
a metaphysical impossibility.

To Be Continued.




New Publications.


    ALZOG’S UNIVERSAL CHURCH HISTORY. Pabisch and Byrne. Vol I.
    Cincinnati: Robert Clarke & Co. 1874. (New York: Sold by The
    Catholic Publication Society.)


This manual for ecclesiastical students is confessedly the best extant.
Dr. Pabisch, the chief translator and editor, is well known for his vast
erudition, and his associate, the Rev. Mr. Byrne, has paid careful
attention to the style of rendering the German into English. The
publishers have made the exterior of the work worthy of its contents. We
need not say any more to recommend a work which speaks for itself and has
received the sanction of names the highest in ecclesiastical rank and
theological repute in this country.


    HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH IN SCOTLAND. By James Walsh.
    Glasgow: Hugh Margey. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic
    Publication Society.)


This is a valuable work, because it is the only one of its kind, and, even
were there others, it would stand on its own merits and still be valuable.

Scotland being so closely united in its history and destinies, and having
so much in common with the sister countries, the history of the Scottish
Church must necessarily have a close affinity and throw much light upon
the ecclesiastical annals of England and Ireland; so that the interest and
importance of this work is greatly heightened by the fact that it supplies
an integral part of the history of Christianity in the British Isles.
Hitherto that history was not complete. It may be said to be completed
now. If those among our separated brethren who pretend to seek so
diligently after truth in the teachings and practices of the early church
will deign to glance at these pages, they will find that Scotland too was
evangelized by the popes, and that its first Christians professed, not a
mutilated Christianity, but the whole cycle of Catholic doctrine. They
will learn, moreover, that the so‐called Reformation in Scotland was
entirely a political job, and that there, as elsewhere, the Protestantism
in which they pride themselves was tinkered up by a herd of fanatics and
foisted upon the people by a rapacious, profligate, unprincipled nobility.
Never was there a more truthful page of history written than this. The
author, though he modestly claims for himself nothing more than the title
of compiler, has many of the qualifications of an historian; his research
has been long and laborious, and he notices only the most authentic
documents and records of the past. In no instance do we discover any
attempt to color or gloss over any of his statements, and he is never
betrayed into exaggerating the virtues or concealing the faults of his
countrymen.


    MANUAL OF MYTHOLOGY: GREEK AND ROMAN, NORSE AND OLD GERMAN, HINDOO
    AND EGYPTIAN MYTHOLOGY. By Alexander S. Murray, Department of
    Greek and Roman Antiquities, British Museum. Second Edition.
    Rewritten and considerably enlarged. With forty‐five plates. New
    York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co., 654 Broadway. 1874.


As a manual of mythology this seems to be as concise, complete, and
accurate as such a book can be made. As a specimen of art it is
remarkable. The author is apparently one of our modern, cultivated pagans,
very much at home among the heathen religions he describes. The very brief
exposition of his own theological opinions contained in his introduction
ignores the true and primitive religion revealed from heaven altogether,
and propounds the utterly unhistorical, pernicious, and false notion that
monotheism is a development from polytheism produced by intellectual
progress. The author does not, however, put forth anti‐Christian views in
an offensive or obtrusive manner, and indeed all he says is included in a
few sentences. We cannot, certainly, recommend the study of pagan
mythology to young pupils, or consider the present volume as suitable for
indiscriminate perusal. Those who are fit for such studies, and for whom
they are necessary or proper, will find it a very satisfactory compendium
of information and a work of truly classical taste and elegance.


    CURTIUS’ HISTORY OF GREECE. Vol. V. New York: Scribner, Armstrong
    & Co. 1874.


This volume completes the work of Dr. Curtius. We have already given it
the high commendation which it deserves in our notices of previous
volumes. It is one of the first‐class historical works of German
scholarship, and this is the highest praise that can be given to any work
in those departments in which German scholars excel, so far as learning
and ability are concerned.


    A THEORY OF FINE ART. By Joseph Torrey, late Professor of Moral
    and Intellectual Philosophy in the University of Vermont. New
    York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1874.


Looking through this treatise of Prof. Torrey, whose intellectual head,
stamped in gold on the cover, leads the reader to expect a thoughtful work
on the most attractive subject of æsthetics, our impression is decidedly
favorable. The University of Vermont used to be considered as quite
remarkable for an elevated, philosophical tone. Such seems to be the
character of this condensed summary of the retired professor’s lectures on
art, evidently the result of much study and observation, and given to the
reader in that pleasing style which best suits such a very pleasant branch
of knowledge.


    PROTESTANT JOURNALISM. By the author of _My Clerical Friends_.
    London: Burns & Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic
    Publication Society.)


It is enough to name the author of this collection of short, lively
essays—Dr. Marshall. It is the cream of the London _Tablet’s_ articles,
during the author’s active connection with that journal, on the most
living and interesting topics of the day in regard to the warfare between
the Catholic Church and her enemies. We recommend it to universal reading
and circulation in the warmest possible manner, and with the most sincere
desire that the author may long be spared to continue his admirable and
useful career as a champion of religion and truth.


    CHARTERIS; A Romance. By Mary M. Meline. Philadelphia: J. B.
    Lippincott & Co. 1874.


This romance does not belie its name in its contents. Its plot and
incidents are romantic and tragic in the highest degree. Bordering, at
least, on the improbable, as they are, they are nevertheless managed with
a very considerable degree of skill and power by the author, who has
improved very much on her last story, _In Six Months_. The characters are
drawn with free and bold strokes, and have dramatic individuality. The
plot excites even a painful interest all through, and there is no mawkish
sentimentalism anywhere. Some scenes are remarkably well drawn. There are
no lectures on religion or morals, but the purity of a true Catholic
woman’s faith and morality shines through the whole story. We may
congratulate the fair author on her success.


    KATHERINE EARLE. By Miss Adeline Trafton. Boston: Lee & Shepard.
    1874.


An interesting story, beautifully illustrated and neatly bound.


    SUMMER TALKS ABOUT LOURDES. By Cecilia Mary Caddell. London: Burns
    & Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication
    Society.)


In this little book the authoress relates some of the wonderful miracles
of Lourdes. Its style is simple and chaste, and, we should say,
particularly suited for children.





THE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XX., NO. 117.—DECEMBER, 1874.




The Persecution Of The Church In The German Empire.


The Catholics are suffering today, in the very heart of Europe, a
persecution which, if less bloody, is not less cruel or unjust, than that
which afflicted the Christian Church in the beginning of the IVth century,
under the reign of the brutal old emperor, Diocletian. The prisons of
Germany are filled with confessors of the faith, who, in the midst of
every indignity and outrage, bear themselves with a constancy and heroism
not unworthy of the early martyrs. And it is strange, too, that this
struggle should be only a renewal of the old conflict between Christ and
Cæsar, between the Son of Man and the prince of this world. In fact, anti‐
Christian Europe is using every exertion to re‐create society on the model
of Grecian and Roman paganism. This tendency is manifest in all the
various realms of thought and action.

We perceive it—and we speak now more particularly of Germany—in
literature, in science, in the manner of dealing with all the great
problems which concern man in his relations with both the visible and the
unseen world; and it looms up before us, in palpable form and gigantic
proportions, in the whole attitude of the state toward the church. There
has never lived on this earth a more thorough pagan than Goethe, the great
idol of German literature, to whom the very sign of the cross was so
hateful that in his notorious Venetian Epigram he put it side by side with
garlic and vermin. The thought of self‐sacrifice and self‐denial was so
odious to his lustful and all‐indulgent nature that he turned from its
great emblem with uncontrollable disgust, and openly proclaimed himself a
“decidirter Nichtchrist.” “Das Ewig Weibliche”—sensualism and
sexualism—were the gods of his heart, in whose praise alone he attuned his
lyre. And Schiller, in his _Gods of Greece_, complained sorrowingly that
all the fair world of gods and goddesses should have vanished, that one
(the God of the Christian) might be enriched; and with tender longing he
prayed that “nature’s sweet morn” might again return.

Both the religion and the philosophy of paganism were based upon the
deification of nature, and were consequently pantheistic. Now, this pagan
pantheism recrudescent is the one permanent type amid the endless
variations of modern German sophistry. It underlies the theorizing of
Schelling, Fichte, and Hegel, as well as that of Feuerbach, Büchner, and
Strauss. They all assume the non‐existence of a personal God, and transfer
his attributes to nature, which is, in their eyes, the mother of all, the
sole existence, and the supreme good. This pantheism, which confuses all
things in extricable chaos, spirit with matter, thought with sensation,
the infinite with the finite, destroying the very elements of reason, and
taking from language its essential meaning, has infected all non‐Catholic
thought in Germany. When we descend from the misty heights of speculation,
we find pantheistic paganism in the idolatry of science and culture, which
have taken the place of dogma and morality. It is held to be an axiom that
man is simply a product of nature, who knows herself in him as she feels
herself in the animal.

The formulas in which the thought is clothed are of minor importance. In
the ultimate analysis we find in all the conflicting schools of German
infidelity this sentiment, however widely its expression may vary: that
nature is supreme, and there is no God beside. The cosmos, instead of a
personal God, is the ultimate fact beyond which science professes to be
unable to proceed; and therefore the duality of ends, aims, and results
which underlies the Christian conception of the universe must necessarily
disappear. There is no longer God and the world, spirit and matter, good
and evil, heaven and hell; there is not even man and the brute. There is
only the cosmos, which is one; and from this it necessarily follows that
the distinction between the spiritual and the temporal power is unreal and
should cease to be recognized.

Now, here we have discovered the very germ from which the whole Prussian
persecution has sprung. In the last analysis it rests upon the assumption
that the spiritual power has no right to exist, since the truths upon
which it was supposed to be based—as God, the soul, and a future life—are
proven to be myths. Hence the state is the only autonomy, and to claim
authority not derived from it is treason. Thus the struggle now going on
in Prussia is for life or death. It rages around the very central citadel
of the soul and of all religion. The Catholics of Germany are to‐day
contending for what the Christians of the first centuries died—the right
to live. To understand this better it will be well to consider for a
moment the attributes of the state in pagan Greece and Rome.

Hellenic religion, in its distinctive forms, had its origin in the
deification of nature and of man as her crowning work, and both were
identified with the state. Hence religion was hero‐worship; the good man
was the good citizen, the saint was the successful warrior who struck
terror into the enemies of his country, and thus the religious feeling was
confounded with the patriotic spirit. To be a true citizen of the state,
it was necessary to profess the national religion; and to be loyal to the
state was to be true to its protecting gods. The highest act of religion
was to beat back the invader or to die gloriously on the battle‐field.
Indeed, in paganism we find no idea of a non‐national religion. The pagan
state, whether imperial, monarchical, or republican, was essentially
tyrannical, wholly incompatible with freedom as understood in Christian
society. To be free was to be, soul and body, the slave of the state.
Plato gives to his ideal Republic unlimited power to control the will of
the individual, to direct all his thoughts and actions, to model and shape
his whole life. He merges the family and its privileges into the state and
its rights, gives the government absolute authority in the education of
its subjects, and even places the propagation of the race under state
supervision.

The pagan state was also essentially military, recognizing no rights
except those which it had not the power to violate. Now, the preaching of
Christ was in direct contradiction to this whole theory of government. He
declared that God and the soul have rights as well as Cæsar, and
proclaimed the higher law which affirms that man has a destiny superior to
that of being a citizen of any state, however glorious; which imposes upon
him duties that transcend the sphere of all human authority. Thus religion
became the supreme law of life, and the recognition of the indefeasible
rights of conscience gave to man citizenship in a kingdom not of this
world. It, in consequence, became his duty as well as his privilege to
obey first the laws of this supernatural kingdom, and to insist upon this
divine obligation, even though the whole world should oppose him.

This teaching of Christ at once lifted religion above the control of the
state, and, cutting loose the bonds of servitude which had made it
national and narrow, declared it catholic, of the whole earth and for all
men. He sent his apostles, not to the Jew, or the Greek, or the Gentile,
but to all the nations, and in his church he recognized no distinction of
race or social condition—the slave was like the freeman, the beggar like
the king.

This doctrine, the most beneficent and humanitarian that the world has
ever heard, brought forth from the oblivion of ages the all‐forgotten
truth of the brotherhood of the race, and raised man to a level on which
paganism was not able even to contemplate him; proclaiming that man, for
being simply man, irrespective of race, nationality, or condition, is
worthy of honor and reverence. Now, it was precisely this catholic and
non‐national character of the religion of Christ which brought it into
conflict with the pagan state. The Christians, it was held, could not be
loyal citizens of the empire, because they did not profess the religion of
the empire, and refused to sacrifice to the divinity of Cæsar. They were
traitors, because in those things which concerned faith they were resolved
not to recognize on the part of the state any right to interfere; and
therefore were they cast into prison, thrown to the wild beasts in the
Amphitheatre, and devoured under the approving eyes of the worshippers of
the emperor’s divinity. This history is repeating itself in Prussia to‐
day.

Many causes have, within the present century, helped to strengthen the
national feeling in Germany. The terrible outrages and humiliations
inflicted upon her by the pitiless soldiers of the first Napoleon made it
evident that the common safety required that the bonds of brotherhood
among the peoples of the different German states should be drawn tighter.
The development of a national literature also helped to foster a longing
for national unity. In the XVIIth, and even down to nearly the end of the
XVIIIth, century, French influence, extending from the courts of princes
to the closets of the learned, gave tone to both literature and politics.

Leibnitz wrote in French or Latin, and Frederick the Great strove to
forget his own tongue, that he might learn to speak French with idiomatic
purity—an accomplishment which he never acquired.

As there was no German literature, the national feeling lacked one of its
most powerful stimulants. But in the latter half of the XVIIIth century,
and during the first half of the XIXth, a literature rich, profound,
thoroughly German, the creation of some of the highest names in the world
of letters, came into existence, and was both a cause and an effect of the
national awakening. Goethe especially did much, by the absolute ascendency
which he acquired in the literature of his country, to unify and harmonize
the national mind.

Still, a thousand interests and jealousies, local and dynastic, old
prescriptive rights, and a constitutional slowness and sluggishness in the
Germanic temperament, stood in the way of a united fatherland, and had to
be got rid of or overcome by force before the dream of the nationalists
could become a reality.

Prussia, founded by rapine, built up and strengthened by war and conquest,
has always been a heartless, self‐seeking state. The youngest of the great
European states, and for a long time one of the most inconsiderable, she
has gradually grown to be the first military power of the world. Already,
in the time of Frederick the Great, she was the formidable rival of
Austria in the contest for the hegemony of the other German states. This
struggle ended, in 1866, in the utter defeat of Austria on the field of
Sadowa. Hanover, Saxony, Hesse‐Cassel, and other minor principalities were
at once absorbed by Prussia, who, besides greatly increasing her strength,
thus became the champion of German unity. But German unity was a menace to
France, who could not possibly maintain her preponderance in European
affairs in the presence of a united Germany. Hence the irrepressible
conflict between France and Prussia, which ended in the catastrophe of
Sedan.

The King of Prussia became the Emperor of Germany, and German national
pride and enthusiasm reached a degree bordering on frenzy.

By a remarkable coincidence the Franco‐Prussian war broke out at the very
moment when the dogma of Papal infallibility was defined, and immediately
after the capitulation of Sedan, Victor Emanuel took possession of Rome.
The Pope was without temporal power—a prisoner indeed. The feeling against
the newly‐defined dogma was especially strong in Germany, where the
systematic warfare carried on by the _Janus_ party against the Vatican
Council had warped the public mind. France, the eldest daughter of the
church, was lying, bleeding and crushed, at the feet of the conqueror. The
time seemed to have arrived when the bond which united the Catholics of
Germany with the Pope, and through him with the church universal, might
easily be broken.

The defection of Döllinger and other rationalistic professors, as well as
the attitude of many of the German bishops in the council, and the views
which they had expressed with regard to the probable results of a
definition of the infallibility of the Pope, tended to confirm those who
controlled the policy of the new empire in the opinion that there would be
no great difficulty in forming the Catholics of Germany into a kind of
national religious body wholly subject to the state, even in matters of
faith. If we add to this the fact that the infidels of our day have a kind
of superstition which leads them to think that all religious faith has
grown weak, and that those who believe are for the most part hypocritical,
insincere, and by no means anxious to suffer for conscience’s sake, we
shall be able to understand how Bismarck, who is utterly indifferent to
all religion, and who believes in nothing except the omnipotence of the
state, should have persuaded himself to destroy the religious freedom
which had come to be considered the common property of Christendom.
Already, in the month of August immediately following the close of the war
with France, we find the Northern German press, which obsequiously obeys
his orders, beginning to throw out hints that Rome had always been the
enemy of Germany; that her claims were incompatible with the rights of the
state and hurtful to the national development; and that, in presence of
the newly‐defined dogma of Papal infallibility, the necessity of resisting
her ever‐increasing encroachments upon the domain of the civil authority
had become imperative. The watchword given by the official press was
everywhere re‐echoed by the organs of both infidel and Protestant opinion,
and it at once became evident that the German Empire intended to make war
on the Catholic Church.

There was yet another end to be subserved by the persecution of the
church. Bismarck made no secret of his fears of a democratic movement in
Germany after the excitement of the French campaign had died away, and he
hoped to avert this danger by inflaming the religious prejudices of the
infidel and Protestant population.

On the 8th of July, 1871, the Catholic department in the Ministry of
Public Worship was abolished, and the government openly lent its influence
to the Old Catholic movement.

According to the Prussian constitution, religious instruction in the
gymnasia is obligatory; but where a portion or all of the students were
Catholics, the state recognized that their religious instructors should
not be appointed until they had received the approbation of the bishop.
Dr. Wollmann, who had for a long time held the office of teacher of
religion in the Catholic gymnasium of Braunsberg, apostatized after the
Vatican Council, and was, in consequence, suspended from the exercise of
the priestly office by his bishop, who declared that, since Wollmann had
left the church, he could no longer be considered a suitable religious
instructor of Catholic youth. Von Mühler, the Minister of Public Worship,
refused to remove Wollmann; and since religious instruction is compulsory,
the pupils who could not in conscience attend his classes were forced to
leave the school.

This act of Von Mühler was in open violation of the Prussian constitution,
which expressly recognized in the Catholic Church the right of directing
the religious instruction of its members.

To require that Catholics should send their children to the lessons of an
excommunicated priest was to trample upon the most sacred rights of
conscience. By declaring, as in this case, that those who rejected the
dogma of infallibility were true Catholics, the German government plainly
showed that it intended to assume the competency of deciding in all
matters of faith, and consequently to wholly ignore the existence of any
religious authority distinct from that of the state.

Bismarck’s next move was not less arbitrary or tyrannical. He proposed to
the Federal Council and Reichstag a law against what was termed the abuse
of the pulpit, by which the office of preaching should be placed under the
supervision of the police.

This law, which was passed by a feeble majority, was simply a renewal of
the attempt to suppress Christianity made by the Jewish Council in
Jerusalem when the apostles first began to preach in the name of Jesus,
without asking permission of the rulers of the people: “But that it may be
no further spread among the people, let us threaten them, that they speak
no more in this name to any man. And calling them, they charged them not
to speak at all, nor teach in the name of Jesus” (Acts iv. 17, 18).

The injustice of this law was very well shown by the Saxon member of the
Federal Council, who pointed out the fact that, whilst liberty of speech
was denied to Catholic priests, socialists and infidels were permitted
every day to attack the very foundations of all government and
civilization.

This, however, is but the necessary consequence of the theory of the
_state‐God_. To preach in the name of any other God is treason; whereas
atheism is the correlative of the omnipotence of the government. That the
present tendency in Germany is to put the nation in the place of God is
expressly recognized by the _Allgemeine Evang. Luth. Kirchenzeitung_,
which is the organ of orthodox Lutheranism. These are its words: “For the
dogmatic teaching of Christianity they hope to substitute the national
element. The national idea will form the germ of the new religion of the
empire. We have already seen the emblems which foreshadow the manner in
which this new worship is to be organized. Instead of the Christian
festivals, they will celebrate the national memories, and will call to the
churches the masses to whom the road is no longer known. Have we not seen,
on the anniversary of Sedan, the _eidolon_ of the emperor placed upon the
altar, whilst the pulpit was surrounded with the busts of the heroes of
the war?

“During eight days they wove crowns of oak‐leaves and the church was
filled; whilst out of ten thousand parishioners, scarcely a dozen can be
got together to listen to the word of God. Such is the religion of the
future church of the empire. Little more is needed to revive the ancient
worship of the Roman emperors; and if the history of Germany is to be
reduced to this duel between the church of the emperor and that of the
Pope, we must see on which side the Lutherans will stand.”

The next attack on the church was made under cover of an enactment on the
inspection of public schools. A project of law was presented to the House
of Deputies, excluding all priests from the inspection of schools, and at
the same time obliging them to undertake this office whenever asked to do
so by the state authorities. This latter clause was, however, so openly
unjust that it was rejected by the House. But the law, even as it stands,
is a virtual denial that Catholic schools have any right to exist at all,
and is an evidence that the German Empire intends to destroy Christian
faith by establishing an atheistic system of popular education.

And now war was declared against the Jesuits. The Congress of the Old
Catholics, which met at Munich in September, 1871, had passed violent
resolutions against the order; and later the Old Catholic Committee at
Cologne presented a petition against the Jesuits to the imperial
Parliament.

The debate was opened in the month of May, 1872. A project of law,
restricting the liberties of religious orders, and especially directed
against the Society of Jesus, was brought before the Federal Council and
accepted by a large majority. When it came before the imperial Parliament,
amendments were added rendering it still more harsh and tyrannical. The
order was to be shut out from the empire, its houses to be closed, foreign
Jesuits were to be expelled, and the German members of the society were to
be confined to certain districts; and the execution of these measures was
to be entrusted to the Federal Council.

On the 4th of July the law received the approval of the emperor, and on
the 5th it was promulgated.

Thus in the most arbitrary manner, without any legal proceedings, hundreds
of German citizens, against whom there was not the slightest proof of
guilt, were deprived of all rights and expelled from their country.
Besides, the measure was based upon the most ignorant misconception of the
real condition of the church, and was therefore necessarily ineffective.
The religious orders and the secular priesthood do not represent opposite
tendencies in the church; their aims are identical, and, in our day at
least, the secular priests are as zealous, as active, and as efficient as
the members of the religious orders.

What end, then, was to be gained by expelling the Jesuits, whilst devoted
and faithful priests were left to minister to the Catholic people, whose
faith had been roused by this scandalous persecution of men whom they knew
to be guilty of no crime except that of loving Jesus Christ and his
church? The blow struck at the Jesuits was, in truth, aimed at the church,
and this the bishops, priests, and entire Catholic people of Germany at
once recognized. They saw now, since even the possibility of doubting was
no longer left to them, that the German Empire had declared open war
against the church; and Bismarck, seeing that his half‐way measures had
deceived no one, resolved to adopt a policy of open violence. With this
view a new minister of Public Worship was appointed in the person of Dr.
Falk, who drew up the plan of the famous Four Church Laws to which he has
given his name, and which was adopted on the 11th of May, 1873.

In virtue of these laws—which it is unnecessary to transcribe in full—the
state arrogates the right of appointing to all ecclesiastical offices,
since the government claims authority to approve or annul all nominations
made by the bishops; and the President of the Province (_Oberpraesident_)
is bound to interdict the exercise of any religious function to
ecclesiastics appointed without his consent. The bishop who makes an
appointment to the cure of souls without the consent of the civil
authority is fined from two hundred to one thousand thalers; and the
priest who, appointed in this way, exercises spiritual functions, is
visited with a proportionate fine. This is an attempt to change the very
nature of the church; it is a denial of its right to exist at all.

The third of these laws creates the “Royal Court of Justice for
Ecclesiastical Affairs,” which claims and possesses by act of Parliament
the right to reform all disciplinary decisions made by the bishops in
relation to the ecclesiastics under their jurisdiction. This same court
has by law the right to depose any ecclesiastic whose conduct the
government may see fit to consider _incompatible with public order_.

The Pope is interdicted from the exercise of disciplinary power within the
territory of the Prussian monarchy.

The state takes control of the education of the young men destined to the
priesthood. It requires them to pass the _arbiturienten‐examen_ in a
German gymnasium, and then to devote three years to the study of theology
in a German university, during which time they are not to be permitted to
live in an episcopal seminary; and thereafter they are to pass a public
examination before the state officials. All educational establishments for
the clergy, especially all kinds of seminaries, are placed under the
superintendence of the government, and those which refuse to submit to
this supervision are to be closed. The education of priests, the fitness
of candidates for holy orders, appointments to the cure of souls, the
infliction of ecclesiastical censures, the soundness of the faith of the
clergy, are, in the new German Empire, matters to be regulated by the
police.

This is not a struggle between Catholicity and Protestantism; it is a
battle between the Atheist State and the Kingdom of God. The Protestant
Church in Germany does not alarm Bismarck, because it is feeble and has no
independent organization, since its ministers are appointed and ruled by
the emperor, and it is also well understood that very few of them have any
faith in positive religion.

But the orthodox Protestants of Germany thoroughly understand that the
attempt to crush the Catholic Church is meant to be a fatal blow at the
vital principle of all religion. This is recognized by the _Allgemeine
Evang. Luth. Kirchenzeitung_ in the article from which we have already
quoted. “It is a common remark,” says this organ of orthodox Lutheranism,
“that the blows struck at the Church of Rome will tell with redoubled
force against the evangelical church. But what is meant to injure, only
helps the Roman Church. There she stands, more compact than ever, and the
world is amazed at beholding her strength. Once the word of the Monk of
Wittenberg made her tremble, but to‐day the blows of power make her
stronger. Let us beware of illusion; it is certain that in the Protestant
North of Germany there has grown up a public opinion on the Church of Rome
which provokes the respect even of the liberals. We have enough to do,
they say, to fight the socialists; it is time to leave the Catholic
bishops in peace.”

To Be Concluded Next Month.




The Veil Withdrawn.


Translated, By Permission, From The French Of Mme. Craven, Author Of “A
Sister’s Story,” “Fleurange,” Etc.



XXVI.


Among the amusements of the Carnival, there was one in which I was not in
the least tempted to take part—that of the _bal masqué_, or, as it was
called, the Festino di San Carlo. I ought to remark here, however, that it
was with respect to this amusement, above all, Naples differed from Paris.
There was no resemblance between the _bals masqués_ at San Carlo and those
given at the opera in Paris. No virtuous or even prudent woman, I imagine,
would think of venturing to attend the latter; whereas at San Carlo it was
not only common to find married women of rank, but even young ladies under
their mothers’ protection as at any other ball. They wore their masks
awhile, amusing themselves, if they had the turn, with mystifying their
friends; then, at a certain hour, several rooms having been formed by
uniting a number of boxes, and illuminated, they all laid aside their
masks, and the various coteries, in groups of ten, fifteen, or twenty
persons, took supper together. I certainly do not pretend to deny (my
story itself would forbid it) that the opportunity of profiting by this
disguise, in order to pass the evening in a less inoffensive manner, was
not made use of by more than one of the company. It could not be
otherwise, perhaps, in a place where this kind of folly reigns, even in a
mitigated form. I only wish to describe its general character at that
time.

I had not, however, the least inclination to attend. The very thought of
wearing a mask was repugnant to me, and to see anybody else with one on
caused me a kind of fear. Besides, I never could understand what pleasure
was to be found in a mystery of this kind, which always seemed childish
and trivial, if not culpable and dangerous. I had neither the faculty of
disguising my voice nor of making use of the jargon that constitutes the
spirit of a _bal masqué_. I therefore flatly refused to join a party of
twenty persons who were to attend the _Festino_ on _Jeudi‐Gras_, and,
after participating for awhile in the amusements of the ball‐room, were to
take supper together.

Stella had neither my repugnance nor my incapacity. She knew how to play
the part of another with grace and skill, and had been urged, as well as
I, to join this merry party; but she denied herself the pleasure in order
to attend a family supper with her aged relatives and their friends, and
we decided with mutual accord that our amusement for the day should be
confined to that which awaited us on my aunt’s balcony on the Toledo.

The hour came at last, and found us under arms—that is to say, our faces
protected by a kind of visor of wire netting, and all of us, except my
aunt, dressed in such a way as not to fear the clouds of flour we were to
face, as well as the missiles which, under the name of _confetti_, were
fearful to encounter, and had nothing sweet about them but the name. Some
carried their precaution so far as to prepare a _costume de bataille_
expressly for the occasion. Of this number were Teresina and Mariuccia,
who, at Lando’s suggestion, had provided themselves with dresses of white
cotton ornamented with bows of rose‐colored ribbon, which enabled them to
encounter the showers of missiles, and were so becoming that they looked
like two of Watteau’s shepherdesses. But my aunt disdained this mixture of
elegance and economy. She did not give a thought to what was to take place
in the street; her whole mind was absorbed in what was to occur in her
drawing‐room. Regardless of danger, she put on a dress of yellow silk of
the brightest shade, and set off her _chignon_ and false braids with a cap
adorned with poppies and corn‐flowers, above which was fastened a bow of
red ribbon, which streamed like a flag from the summit of a tower. This
display was intended to do honor to the visitors who merely came for their
own convenience. For the most part, they only entered her house with an
eye to her balcony: but in order to obtain access to it, they were obliged
to pass through the drawing‐room, where Donna Clelia herself was stationed
to arrest the passers‐by and exact a tribute of politeness no one could
refuse, and which, brought to such close terms, every one liberally paid.
Never had she, therefore, in a single day reaped a like harvest of new and
distinguished acquaintances; never had she received at once so great a
number of desirable invitations, for could they do otherwise than requite
hospitality with hospitality? My aunt thus had at the beginning of the day
one hour of happiness without alloy!

At length the battle began in earnest. To those who have taken part in
such combats it is useless to describe the enthusiasm and madness which
every one ends by manifesting; to those who have not had the experience it
is equally useless to try to give an idea of it. It must be acknowledged,
however, that the first volley of _confetti_ is by no means very amusing
to the recipient, and he is tempted to withdraw ill‐humoredly from what
seems at first mere rough, childish sport. Then he endeavors to defend
himself by retaliating. By degrees the ardor of combat is awakened; he
yields to it, he grows furious, and for hours sometimes he persists in
returning volley for volley, unmindful of fatigue, and regardless of the
blows he receives. One thing is hurled after another—hard _confetti_,
fragile eggs, flour, sugar‐plums, flowers, and immense bouquets.... If the
ammunition fails, he throws out of the window whatever comes to hand. He
would rather throw himself out than give up the contest!

This sport had been going on for an hour, and we were still in full glee,
when the Venetian gondola made its appearance in the street. It was
welcomed with shouts and cries of applause from the crowd. In fact,
nothing so splendid of this kind had ever been seen before. It came slowly
along, stopping under every balcony. When it arrived before ours, it
remained a long time, and a furious combat took place. Notwithstanding the
visor that concealed Lorenzo’s face, I easily recognized him by his
slender, stately form. Lando and Mario looked very well also, but Lorenzo
surpassed them all by the grace and ease with which he wore his costume,
as well as the skill with which he threw his bouquets to the precise spot
he aimed at. He soon recognized me likewise, and threw me a bunch of
roses!...

Alas! those withered roses. I preserved them a long time in memory of a
day that was to end in so strange a manner!...

After the gondola had gone entirely out of sight, I concluded to leave the
balcony, in order to take some rest while awaiting the return of the
brilliant masquerade. This would not be till nightfall, when the gondola
was to be illuminated throughout. I had therefore nearly an hour before me
in which to repair my strength. But when I entered the drawing‐room, I was
frightened at the sight which met my eyes. My poor aunt’s brilliant toilet
had undergone the most disastrous consequences possible to imagine, and I
found her so covered with flour and blood that I scarcely recognized her!

In this kind of war, as in all others, nothing is more dangerous than to
attract the attention of the enemy. A hat, a ribbon, any dress whatever
the least remarkable in its color, instantly becomes the object of
universal aim. It seems Donna Clelia, after welcoming her company in the
drawing‐room, was tempted to go and see in her turn what was taking place
on the battle‐field; but no sooner had she stepped her foot on the
balcony, no sooner were her poppies visible, and her red ribbons began to
wave in the air, than from every balcony, every window, in the
neighborhood, there fell on her head such a hail‐storm of missiles of all
kinds that, in a second, not only had her flowers, ribbons, and _chignon_
disappeared under a thick layer of flour, but, having neglected to provide
herself with a visor, she had been struck in the very middle of the face
by some of the _confetti_ I have spoken of, which are merely hard balls of
plaster in the centre. No one perceived this in the ardor of the combat,
no one left the _mélée_ to go to her assistance, and she was still in the
arm‐chair where she had thrown herself, stunned by the violence of the
attack!...

I sprang towards her, and hastened to bathe her face with cold water. I
then saw it was only her nose (a somewhat prominent feature in her face)
that had suffered a slight contusion, though sufficient to inundate her
laces and yellow dress with blood, so that the damage they sustained, as
well as her head‐dress, was irreparable!...

But in the midst of all this my aunt remained cool and courageous. Like a
general wounded on the day of victory, she smiled at the result of her
rashness, and, while I was ministering to her wants, she exclaimed:

“It is nothing; no matter! Thanks, Ginevrina mia! _Che bel divertimento!_
I never passed such a day in my life!... Do you know, the Duchessa di L——
has invited me to play _la pignata_(81) at her house a week from Sunday.
And then the gentleman with H.R.H., the Count of Syracuse, has promised to
get me an invitation to one of the amateur comedies. And the gondola—what
do you say to that? Didn’t your husband look handsome enough for you?...
How _simpatico_ that Lorenzo is!... Ah! _figlia mia_, the Madonna has done
well for you!... I hope she will think of us some day!...”

My aunt rambled on in this way while I was trying to repair her disordered
attire, after dressing her wounds. This took some time; but I still
hesitated about leaving her, though she begged me to return to the balcony
and not trouble myself any more about her. I obeyed her at last; but this
interruption had put an end to my enthusiastic gayety, and, when I
returned to my place, I no longer felt any disposition to resume the sport
I found so amusing only a short time before. Besides, it was growing dusk
and the combat was slackening, though the noise and confusion in the
street increased as the time approached for the return of the gondola.
While I was thus standing motionless in the obscurity of one corner of the
balcony where we were assembled, I suddenly heard some words from the
adjoining balcony of the next house that attracted my attention:

“Valenzano must be fabulously rich, but he is going to ruin at full speed,
the dear duke.”

“In the first place, he is really very wealthy,” was the reply; “and when
he gains his lawsuit in Sicily, he will be the richest man in this part of
Italy. I do not consider his entertaining company, however distinguished
it may be, or giving his pretty wife a new set of ornaments now and then,
or throwing away a few hundred dollars as he has done to‐day, as an
extravagance that will ruin a man of his means.”

“No, of course not, if that were all.”

“What else is there?... He used to play high, but they say he never
touches a card now.”

The other speaker burst into a loud laugh, and, after a moment’s silence,
resumed in a lower tone:

“He no longer plays in company, but I assure you _Qui a bu boira_ and _Qui
a joué jouera_. I should be satisfied with an income equal to what he
spends in one evening at _lansquenet_ or _baccara_ since he stopped
playing whist and _écarté_ in the drawing‐rooms to which he accompanies
the duchess.”

Their voices grew still lower, and the few words I heard were so
indistinct that I only caught the following:

“But as there is no doubt as to the result of the lawsuit in Sicily, there
is no danger of a catastrophe.”

At that moment the uproar in the street became deafening. Shouts and wild
applause announced the approach of the gondola, and redoubled in
proportion to its nearness. It really presented a fairy‐like appearance.
It was lit up with a thousand lamps of all colors, and from time to time
brilliant rockets were sent up, casting a momentary gleam over the crowd,
and then vanishing, leaving everything in obscurity except the dazzling
gondola, which proceeded slowly along without stopping this time beneath
the balconies. No _confetti_ or flowers were thrown; the combat was over.
It was now merely a magnificent picturesque spectacle. I saw Lorenzo
again, and more distinctly than before, for he had taken off his visor;
but he could not see me in the obscurity of our balcony. He was standing
in a group on the deck of the gondola as it went by. They were all dressed
in Venetian costumes, which produced an extremely picturesque effect. It
was like a living representation of one of Paul Veronese’s paintings. I
could not take my eyes off so brilliant and extraordinary a spectacle, and
the gondola had gone some distance when I suddenly saw Lorenzo (it was
really he; I should have known him, even if his face had not at that
moment been turned towards the bright light) rapidly ascend the light
staging at one end of the gondola, holding in his hand a small bunch of
jasmine tied with a white ribbon, which, when he arrived at the top, he
threw towards a window in which gleamed a little light. ... It reached its
destination. The window immediately closed, the light disappeared, and
Lorenzo descended and was lost in the crowd that thronged the gondola. All
this took place so quickly that I could hardly account for the attention
with which I watched this little evolution and the degree of vexation it
caused me. Lorenzo, in the course of the day, had thrown more than a
hundred bouquets of the same kind. Why was I more curious to know the
destination of this one than I had been of the rest? But fatigue and the
deafening noise rendered me incapable of reflecting any length of time on
what I had just witnessed and what I had heard on the balcony. There was
almost immediately a general confusion, for the return of the gondola was
the signal for dispersing. I remained till the last to ascertain the
condition of my aunt after her accident, and did not leave her till she
had promised to go to bed and let the baroness, who willingly accepted the
charge, accompany her daughters to the _Festino_ at midnight.

Having returned home, I likewise returned to my room, where I threw myself
on a sofa, exhausted with fatigue. Lorenzo returned at a later hour. He
came up to my room, spoke affectionately, advised me to take some repose,
and inquired if I had absolutely decided not to go to San Carlo. I replied
that, even if I had intended going, I should be obliged to give it up now.
He did not insist, and my eyes were already beginning to close when he
embraced me, as he was going away, and said: “Till to‐morrow, Ginevra; for
the _Festino_ will not be over till daylight, you know.”



XXVII.


I slept as the young do when suffering from unusual fatigue—that is to
say, with a sleep so profound that, when I awoke, I had no idea of the
lateness of the hour or where I was, and I felt as completely rested as if
I had slept the entire night. The sound of carriage‐wheels on the gravel
of the avenue facing my room had roused me from my slumbers, and I now
heard steps and the sound of voices in a subdued tone in the chamber
adjoining mine. My door soon opened, and Ottavia entered, moving
cautiously, as if she supposed me asleep. But as soon as I spoke, I heard
a silvery laugh behind her, and, to my great surprise, Stella made her
appearance. She had on a black domino with the hood thrown back, and in
her hand she held two masks and another domino like her own.

“You see I was right, Ottavia,” she exclaimed. “I was sure we should find
her awake, and, what is still better, she is dressed! That is fortunate!
Now, Ginevra, you must absolutely consent to indulge in the pleasure of
spending an hour with me at San Carlo—only an hour! Here, look at the
clock; it is half‐past twelve. I promise to bring you back before two to
continue the fine nap I have disturbed.”

I rubbed my eyes and looked at her, without comprehending a thing she
proposed.

“Come, come, Ginevra!” she continued, “wake up, I tell you, and listen to
what I say. In the first place, you must know we have had no supper or
company at our house to‐night. My uncle had an attack of the gout and went
to bed at nine o’clock, and I played cards with my aunt till midnight. But
just as we were both going to our rooms, she all at once
remembered—perhaps touched by my good‐humor—how much she used to enjoy
going to the _Festini_, and told me, of her own accord, it was not too
late to go, if I knew of any friend to accompany me. It occurred to me at
once, Ginevra, it would be very amusing for you to go and quiz _il Signor
Duca_ a little. He is absolutely sure you are in bed fast asleep. You can
tell him a thousand things nobody knows but yourselves, which will set him
wild with amazement and curiosity. You can acknowledge everything to‐
morrow, and he will be the first to declare it an excellent joke. As for
me, I am not sorry to have an opportunity of telling your august brother a
few truths in return for certain remarks about my exuberant gayety and
levity not quite to my liking. . . . Come, come, Ginevra, we must not lose
any time. Consent, and I will tell you the rest on the way.”

It is useless to enumerate the additional arguments she used. The result
was, she not only triumphed over my repugnance, but she succeeded in
exciting a lively desire to meet Lorenzo in disguise. It seemed to me I
could say many things I should not dare breathe a word of to his face, and
I could thus relieve my mind of the two or three incidents that had
troubled it within twenty‐four hours.

Stella saw I was ready to yield.

“Quick! quick! Ottavia, help me to put on her domino, and above all, put
back her hair so it cannot be seen. The least curl peeping out of her hood
would be sufficient to betray her. Now, let us see; as we shall have to
separate on entering the hall, we must wear something not too conspicuous
which will enable us to find each other in the crowd of black dominos. Let
me hunt for something.”

She looked around, and soon discovered a large basket, in which remained a
number of small bouquets tied with ribbons of all colors, prepared for the
contests that morning.

“The very thing,” said she. And while Ottavia was executing her orders and
concealing my hair, Stella selected two small bunches of flowers, one tied
with red, and the other with white, ribbon.

“Nothing could be better,” said she. “The flowers are alike; the ribbons
alone different. Look! see where I have put my badge. Here is yours. Put
it in the same place, on the left side near the shoulder.”

But when I saw that the little bouquet she gave me was of _jasmine tied
with a white ribbon_, the emotion I felt was extreme. I did not manifest
it, however, for I knew if I told Stella the reason, she would burst into
laughter, and ask if I was going to worry myself about all the bouquets my
husband had thrown by the dozen that day upon all the balconies on the
Toledo, and if I intended to bring him to an account for them. I therefore
made no comment on this singular coincidence; but while I was fastening
the bouquet on, as Stella had directed, I suddenly recollected, I know not
why, it was by giving Lorenzo a sprig of jasmine I pledged myself to be
his for life!

Having completed my preparations, with the exception of my mask, which I
carried in my hand to put on at the last moment, I drew up my hood and
followed Stella, escorted to the foot of the staircase by my good old
Ottavia, who, though accustomed to the follies of the Carnival, shook her
head as she saw me depart, and looked at me with a more anxious expression
than usual. Was she thinking of the evening when she saw me set out for my
first ball—of fearful memory? Did she recall my mother’s anxiety? And did
she remember to beg her to watch over her child and pray for her, as she
did then? . . .

As we approached San Carlo, I was again seized with fear, and regretted
having yielded to Stella’s entreaties.

“What will become of us alone in the crowd with no one to protect us?”
said I.

“Our masks are a sufficient protection, especially to‐night. There will be
so large a number of ladies of rank at the _Festino_ that no one will
venture to say a word to us that surpasses the bounds of pleasantry. There
would be too much danger of addressing some one who would resent it. As to
our masks, you need not be anxious. The rules of the _bals masqués_
absolutely forbid any one’s touching them, and these rules are respected
even by those who do not respect any other. But, apropos of masks, it is
time to put yours on.”

I still hesitated. But at last, as I was on the point of descending from
the carriage, I decided to fasten my mask on, and I tremblingly followed
Stella, or rather, she took my arm and drew me along.

My first feeling, on finding myself in such a crowd, was one of
inexpressible terror. I was seized with an invincible embarrassment and a
sensation of suffocation so painful that it was with all the difficulty in
the world I kept myself from tearing off the mask that seemed to hinder me
from breathing. But Stella laughingly encouraged me in a whisper, and by
degrees I became accustomed to the deafening sound of the music, the
exclamations and resonant voices on every side, as well as the sight of
the dominos and masks of all colors in circulation around us. She led me
on some distance, cautioning me in a low tone to make no reply, and making
none herself, to the observations here and there addressed the two “fair
masks” who were gliding through the crowd. At length we came to a pillar,
against which we leaned, and she whispered:

“Let this place be our rendezvous. You will certainly see Lorenzo pass by
in a few moments. As for me, I do not see your brother anywhere, but
yonder is Landolfo. I will amuse myself by talking nonsense with him. Do
not be afraid, and, above all, do not lose your badge, or I shall be
unable to find you. I will be careful of mine also. If I arrive here
first, I will wait for you. You must do the same.”

She disappeared as she uttered these words, and I stood still for some
minutes, looking around with uneasiness and terror caused by the
impossibility of persuading myself I was not seen and recognized by
everybody. But after three or four gentlemen of my acquaintance passed by
with a mere glance of indifference, I began to take courage, and finally
became sufficiently cool to consider what I should do and the means of
attaining my object.

I began by looking around on all sides, but for some time it was in vain.
I could not see Lorenzo anywhere, and had decided to leave my post in
order to search for him in some other part of the hall, when all at once I
saw him some distance off, coming in my direction. He was walking slowly
along, looking around with a certain attention, as if he was also in
search of some one. We were separated by the crowd, and it was not easy to
reach him. I advanced a few steps, however, and at that instant, but only
for an instant, there was an opening in the crowd which enabled him, in
his turn, to see me. I saw a flash of joy on his face. He recognized me,
it was evident; by what means I did not ask. I no longer remembered my
intention of mystifying him. I sprang towards him, and he towards me. I
passed my arm through his, still too much excited by my previous fears and
my joy at finding him to utter a word....

A moment passed—a single moment, brief and terrible,... for he spoke—yes,
at once, and with vehemence, with passion!... But ... it was not to me!...
No, it was to her he expected to meet. I heard his lips murmur the
detested name that had not met my ear since I left Paris!...

I was so astounded that I gave him time to say what I ought not to have
heard, what I did not wish to hear!... Then ... I know not what impulse I
yielded to, for I lost the power of reflection—I abruptly withdrew my arm
from his, and fell back with so quick and violent a movement that the
crowd opened a moment to make way for me, and then closed, completely
separating me from him.... I tore off the flowers and ribbon I wore, and
threw them on the ground. I could not now be distinguished from the other
black dominos around me. But I was no longer afraid. I cared for nothing
now but to get away—to fly as fast as possible from so horrible a place. I
hurried along in such a wild, rapid way that every one looked at me with
surprise, and stood aside for me to pass. I thus succeeded in leaving the
hall and reaching the passage, where I was obliged to stop to take breath.
The passers‐by addressed me, but I heard nothing but the words that still
resounded in my ears. I was conscious of nothing but a fearful anguish and
the rapid beating of my heart.

While standing there, all at once ... O merciful heavens!... I saw a lady
pass only a few steps off.... She was of my height, and, like me, wore a
black domino with a sprig of jasmine tied with a white ribbon, similar to
the one I had just torn off, and doubtless the same my eyes had followed a
few hours before! I recognized her at once, and imagined I saw through her
mask the sinister gleam of two large blue eyes! She traversed the passage
and entered the hall, where she disappeared. I trembled fearfully from
head to foot, my sight grew dim, my strength began to fail me. I felt as
if I should die on the spot if I did not take off the mask that was
suffocating me, and yet I was still conscious I ought to keep it on at all
hazards. I threw around a glance of despair, hoping to see Stella, and
forgetting she would not be able to recognize me, even if she thought of
looking for me so far from the spot where she left me. What torture! Great
God!... My strength was gone, my voice failed me, I felt my knees give
way, when, O unlooked‐for happiness! I saw Mario pass by. The stifled cry
I uttered died away on my lips before it could reach his ear, but he saw
the effort I made, he felt my hand on his arm, and stopped. He began to
address me in the customary way on such occasions, but I made no reply. I
had recovered strength enough, however, to draw him towards the door, and
he unresistingly followed my lead; but, as we were going out, he stopped
me with an air of surprise, and said:

“I am ready to follow you wherever you wish, fair mask, but do you know
yourself where you wish to go?”

I was only able to incline my head as a sign of affirmation, and he
suffered me to lead him into the street. As soon as we were out of doors,
I tore off my mask, and found strength enough to say:

“It is I, Mario. Help me to get away from this detestable place!”

“Ginevra!” exclaimed he, drawing me along several steps to look at my face
by the light of the torches not far off. He seemed frightened at my looks.
My face was convulsed and lividly pale.

“Good heavens, sister!” said he gravely, “what has happened? How is it you
are alone in this place at such an hour? Where is Lorenzo? Shall I go for
him?”

“No, no! Oh! no,” I exclaimed with anguish. “For pity’s sake, Mario, be
silent. Help me to get away, I say. That is all I ask. Do this, and ask me
no questions.”

His face darkened He silently took hold of my arm, and led me to the place
where he had left his carriage. I entered it, and was on the point of
going away without another word when I bethought myself of Stella. I
hesitated, however, to expose her to his sarcastic comments, and perhaps
to the suspicions I saw were already excited in my brother’s distrustful
mind, and said in a supplicating tone:

“One favor more, Mario, which I am sure you will no more refuse your
sister than any other lady. I did not come here alone.”

At these words his face assumed an expression which I answered with a
smile of disdain.

“Do you suppose, Mario, if I did not come here with Lorenzo, I would
accept the escort of any other gentleman?” I stopped a moment, at once
irritated and impatient, but finally continued:

“The fact is, Mario, if you must know it, it was he, it was Lorenzo
himself, I came to see. I wished to play a joke on him and mystify him a
little, by way of amusing myself.”

I think my smile must have been frightful as I said this, for my brother
looked anxiously at me, though he seemed satisfied with my explanation.

“But I have been punished,” I continued, “terribly punished.... I failed
in my object,... and thought I should die in the crowd.”

I could say no more. The tears I could not repress choked me. Mario at
once softened.

“I understand, sister—the noise, heat, and so forth were overpowering.
Those who go to a _bal masqué_ for the first time often experience this,
but another time it will not happen.”

“God preserve me from ever going to another!” said I in a low tone. “But I
was about to say, Mario, that the person, the lady, who came with me is
probably looking for me by this time. Search for her. Her domino is like
mine, and you will know her by a sprig of jasmine tied with a red ribbon.”

“I saw such a domino not long ago on Lando’s arm.”

“It was she. Find her, and tell her not to be anxious; that I was ill, and
could not wait for her. That is all. Thanks, Mario. One word more,
however. As I did not succeed with regard to Lorenzo, I do not wish him to
know anything about it.”

He made a sign that he understood me, and closed the door of the carriage,
which soon took me home. Ottavia, who alone sat up for me, was alarmed at
seeing me return in such a condition. I repeated the account I had given
Mario, and had no difficulty in convincing her I was ill. The change in my
face was sufficient to prove it; but what was this paleness, great God! in
comparison with the change that had come over my life within the hour that
had scarcely elapsed?



XXVIII.


This time the thunderbolt had really fallen on my head! Many times had I
heard it rumbling afar off, and once I thought myself fatally injured; but
after a few stormy days, calmness was restored, the blue sky became
visible, and the sun once more diffused the light and warmth of renewed
confidence and happiness. The desire of being happy seconded my effort to
become so. And, as I have remarked, the liveliness, buoyancy, and love of
pleasure natural to the young, as well as the beauty of Naples and the
influence of its climate, all tended to surround me with an atmosphere at
once enervating and intoxicating. But now, in an instant, without any
warning, all my hopes were crushed, annihilated, for ever at an end!

“Should Lorenzo become treacherous, unfaithful, and untrue to his word,
could I continue to love him? What would become of me in such a case?”
Such were the questions I once asked myself, and they were the sincere cry
of my heart.

Now all this was realized. A person more treacherous, more deceitful, more
untrue than he it seemed impossible to find. Everything now became clear.
The words I heard, so plainly interpreted by the instinct they awakened
and that had already warned me so strangely, enabled me to comprehend
everything. Whether there was any good reason or not for his frequent
absence, it was evident he had always met her. It was therefore from these
interviews he had derived the cheerfulness and good‐humor that apparently
made him enjoy so much the comfort and splendor he afterwards came to
participate in with me. Once—who can tell for what reason?—he had delayed
going. It was then, probably, she came herself to meet him, not
foreseeing, or he either, it would be before my very eyes!...

Even at the present time it would perhaps agitate me and disturb the
tranquillity of my soul, should I dwell too long on the thoughts which
then overwhelmed me, and from which I derived the conviction that I no
longer loved Lorenzo. But I suffered from the deadly chill his treachery
had struck to my heart. I would rather have experienced the torment of
jealousy than the chill of indifference. To suffer from that would still
have been life. To suffer as I did was like being paralyzed, petrified,
dead.

Women more generous, more courageous, and more devoted than I, had, I was
aware, won back such inconstant hearts, and found happiness once more in
the sweetest of victories; but their example occurred to me without
producing any impression. I was not in a condition to be influenced by it.
My aimless life had resulted in the almost complete prostration of my
strength of volition. In this condition I could neither suffer with
courage, nor act with wisdom, nor resist temptation with any energy of
will....

O my God! it is with my face prostrate in the dust I desire to write the
pages that are to follow. It is not without hesitation I continue my
account. But the remembrance of thy mercy prevails over everything, and
effaces the very recollection of the faults and follies that serve to make
it manifest! Like our divine poet wandering in the mazes of that gloomy
forest which is the image of life, I, in my turn, attempt


    “To discourse of what there good befell;
    All else will I relate discovered there.”(82)


Mario, Stella, and Ottavia were the sole confidants of my secret, and they
kept it faithfully. Lorenzo had the less reason for suspecting I had been
to the ball when, returning home at six o’clock in the morning, he learned
I had had a violent attack of fever in the night, and was not able to
rise. There was no deception in this. It was not a mere pretext for
keeping my chamber, but the too natural consequence of the terrible
excitement of the night I had passed.

Lorenzo came several times to know how I was, and manifested more apparent
affection than usual; and yet once or twice, though perhaps my imagination
deceived me, I thought I saw something like embarrassment or uneasiness in
his face. I was, however, too ill all the morning to observe him closely
or make any reply to what he said.

Towards evening I felt better, and, though still weak, I got up. Lorenzo
came to see if anything serious was likely to result from my
indisposition, and, being reassured on this point, he went out as usual,
leaving me alone with Stella, who had spent part of the day at my bedside,
though I had not been able to talk with her any more than with him. Her
face was as grave that day as it was usually smiling. Stella’s
cheerfulness resulted from her complete lack of egotism. She regarded the
happiness of others as a treasure from which she took all she needed for
herself; and was happy, therefore, through sympathy. It was, so to speak,
a reflected happiness. Admirable disposition! Incapable of exacting
anything in view of her own lot, or of envying that of others, she was a
delightful friend in times of prosperity, and, at the same time, a devoted
adherent in misfortune, and the sweet, compassionate confidant of others’
sorrows. My disappearance the evening before, the condition in which she
found me in the morning, the incoherent words I uttered, prepared her for
something serious, and she knew beforehand I, of all people in the world,
would not hesitate to tell her the truth. In fact, as soon as we were left
alone in a small sitting‐room next my chamber, I gave her for the first
time a full account of all that had taken place at Paris, as well as the
night before. She listened without interrupting me, and, after I ended,
remained silent for some time.

“This is indeed a good lesson for me,” said she at length. “I am cured for
life, I hope, of a folly like that I committed last night.”

“What folly do you allude to?”

“Why, that of coming here and persuading you to go to a place where you
learned what you might for ever have remained ignorant of.”

“And continue to be taken in, deceived, and blinded, to live in an
atmosphere of deception, hypocrisy, and lies, to love what no longer
merits affection? No, Stella, no; do not regret that, thanks to you, it is
no longer the case. Were I to suffer even a thousand times more, were I to
die of anguish, as I thought I should on the spot when I saw that woman
pass by, I should be glad the veil had been torn from my eyes. I can no
longer be happy, it is true. My happiness is ruined beyond repair, but I
love truth better than happiness.”

“And do you think,” said Stella after a fresh pause, “that you can never
forgive Lorenzo?”

“He must, at least, desire it, as you will acknowledge, and this is
precisely what will never happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know Lorenzo. If I utter a reproach, it is he who thinks he has
something to forgive. He really obeys no law but the impulse that happens
to predominate. It is not in his nature, doubtless, to show me openly any
ill treatment, but he would break my heart without any scruple in order to
gratify his inclinations. I have no doubt he thinks he has acted with
great delicacy, because he has taken pains to conceal the base course he
has pursued; and when he finds out I have discovered it, it is he who will
think he has a right to be angry. That will be the result. What room is
there for forgiveness in such a tissue of falseness?”

“What can I say to you? It will be no consolation to hear there are many
women who have husbands like him. It is sad to feel there is nothing in
the world so rare as happiness. Nevertheless, it is true, and, for my
part, it has often consoled me for having had so little in my life. And
had I been happy in the beginning, who could tell what the future had in
reserve for me?”

“And you have never thought of marrying again? You can content yourself
with a life devoid of happiness, as well as of suffering?”

She smiled.

“My life is not so exempt from suffering as you may suppose. Neither is it
devoid of happiness while I have my Angiolina. As for marrying again, I
have never happened to meet a person who inspired me with the least desire
of that kind, and I imagine I never shall.”

“It is certain, however, if you wish to marry, you would only have the
trouble of choosing.”

“Perhaps among men not one of whom pleases me. Who knows how it would be
if I took it into my head to fancy some one? But let us leave my affairs
and return to you. Tell me, are you sure Lorenzo has not discovered you
were at the ball?”

“Yes, I am certain he has not. If he had any suspicion, he would not
conceal it from me. Besides, he found me too ill at his return to conceive
such an idea. And yet...”

“Well, go on.”

“Well, I noticed something that seemed to indicate he is not so sure as he
was yesterday of my utter ignorance of all he has thought proper to hide
from me.”

“I agree with you, Ginevra. And shall I tell you what I think?”

“Tell me.”

“That he supposes me to be the mask he addressed by mistake, and does me
the honor of supposing I have denounced him.”

“What an idea!... Why should he suppose it was you?”

“Oh! by that aberration of mind common to gentlemen who frequent masked
balls and persist in thinking they are right every time they are
mistaken.”

“But once more: Why should he suppose you were at the ball? Your secret
has been as well kept as mine, I imagine.”

“Not quite. In the first place, I spoke to several persons. And when Mario
came to deliver your message, I could not repress an exclamation of
surprise, which betrayed me, not only to your brother, but to Lando, on
whose arm I was then leaning. I do not know whether it was he or not who
spread the report, but it has certainly been whispered around that I
attended the _Festino_. Lorenzo has taken the idea I have mentioned into
his head, and of course supposes what I know has been communicated to you,
or will be. This is what I have been wishing to say to you.”

My faithful Ottavia now made her appearance to warn me it was time to
retire. Stella left me, and, after her departure, I began to reflect on
her conjecture and consider what reply I should make, should Lorenzo
question me on the subject. I was far from suspecting the means he would
adopt to anticipate the scene he foresaw.

I was alone the following morning when I saw him enter, calm, smiling, and
self‐possessed, as if there was no actual or possible cloud between us. He
spoke of my health, and, satisfied that I was really better, proceeded to
more indifferent subjects, and then suddenly, with an assurance the
recollection of which still astonishes me, he said:

“Apropos, Ginevra, the Marchesa di Villanera has been in Naples several
days.”

I turned pale.

“Oh! do not be alarmed,” said he. “I have not the slightest intention of
asking you to receive her. I remember too well the sentiments you
expressed on this point at Paris. No, I wish instead to let you know I am
going to escort her to Milan myself, and shall remain there till after the
Carnavalone.”(83)

My heart gave a violent bound. I could not utter a word, but the surprise
that rendered me dumb enabled me to be calm, and, when I finally recovered
my voice, I said:

“You are at liberty to go where you please, Lorenzo. It is a liberty,
moreover, you have always had, and have already made use of, and I cannot
conceive why _this time_ (I emphasized these words) you feel obliged to
tell me the precise object of your journey.”

“Because I wish to be frank with you this time, and I should have been so
before had I not remembered your reproaches, and wished to spare you the
occasion of renewing them. Besides, I no longer have it in my power to
prevent your jealousy, or forbid the conjectures you think proper to
indulge in.”

“Lorenzo!” I said almost in a scream, and I was on the point of giving
utterance to all that filled my heart to overflowing when, with the stern,
imperious accent he knew how to assume, though without rudeness or the
least violence, he stopped me.

“Not another word, Ginevra; not one, I beg, out of love for yourself. Do
not destroy your future happiness in a moment of anger! There are some
things I _will not_ listen to, and which, for your own interest as well as
mine, I forbid your saying!”

I had no chance to reply, for he took my hand before I could prevent it,
and said:

“_Au revoir_, Ginevra. I hope, at my return, to find you as calm and
reasonable as I desire.”

He kissed my hand and left the room.

The state in which he left me cannot be described. I need not say how
incapable I was of reflection, of effort, or any struggle whatever against
the feelings it was natural I should have. I felt outraged as it seemed to
me no woman had ever been. My mind lost its clearness, my judgment was
impaired, and for some hours I was wild.

After Lorenzo’s departure, it seemed impossible to remain alone. I could
not endure inaction and repose for an instant. I ordered my carriage for a
drive—not, as usual, with Stella and in a direction where I should find
solitude, but, on the contrary, where I was most sure of meeting a crowd.
I smilingly returned the numerous salutations I received, and, instead of
appearing troubled or downcast, I looked around with eager interest, as if
hoping to find some means of escaping from myself and leaving my troubles
forever behind me.

I returned home as late as possible, and found Stella awaiting me. She had
been disappointed at my not calling for her, and had come to ascertain the
reason. Finding I had gone out, she was surprised I had forgotten her, but
was still more so when I told her I should go to the ball at the French
ambassador’s that evening. I seldom went anywhere alone, and it was only
the day before I had told her decidedly I should never attend another
ball. Her eyes were fastened on me with a look of sympathy, as she said:

“Poor Ginevra!”

I begged her in a hasty, irritated manner not to waste any pity on me, and
then added:

“To‐morrow, if you like, we will talk about it; but not to‐day, I beg. Let
us give our whole thoughts to the ball. You will go, I hope.”

“Yes, if you have really decided to go.”

“That is right. Good‐by till this evening, then.”

Thus dismissed, she left me, and I summoned my waiting‐maid to do what I
had never required before. I ordered everything I was to wear to be spread
out before me. I examined my diamonds and pearls, and gave the most minute
directions about the way I intended to wear them. I then began my toilet,
though long before the time, and was as long about it as possible. So many
women, thought I, seem to take infinite pleasure in creating a sensation
when they enter a ball‐room, receiving compliments and homage on all
sides, why should I not try this means of diversion as well as other
people? I am beautiful, there is no doubt; very beautiful, they say. Why
should I not endeavor to excite admiration? Why not become vain and
coquettish in my turn?

In a word, the hour had arrived spoken of in the first part of this story,
as the reader will recollect—the hour when, for the first and only time
after my mother’s death and the tragical end of Flavio Aldini, the lively
vanity of girlhood, roused by irritation, jealousy, and grief, broke
through the restraint which an ineffaceable remembrance and the grace of
God had imposed upon it, and for once I saw what I should doubtless have
been without the divine, mysterious influence that warred within me
against myself. I had corresponded to this grace, it is true, by my
sincere, determined will, but my volition had now become feeble and
uncertain, and I set out for the ball after thus carefully preparing in
advance the draught of vanity I wished to become intoxicated with.

I had the satisfaction I desired in all its plenitude. I was handsome,
stylish, and elegantly dressed; and yet all this is not the chief cause of
a lady’s success in society. Let those who think so be persuaded of their
error. People accord to these gifts a certain respectful admiration, but
such a success as I obtained that evening—brilliant, demonstrative, and
universal—does not depend on the beauty a person is endowed with, but on
the wish to please she manifests, and this is why the victory is sometimes
so strangely awarded!... I was changed in no respect, except in the
disposition with which I attended the ball, and yet I did not seem to be
the same person. I was surrounded as I had never been before. I excited a
kind of enthusiasm. I received compliments that evening I had never
listened to before. And when, contrary to my usual custom, I announced my
intention to dance, everybody contended for my hand. But, as the evening
advanced, I grew weary of it all, and began to feel my factitious,
feverish gayety subside. When I rose to waltz for the last time, it was
with an effort, and, after my partner led me back to my seat, my smile
vanished, and a cold sense of my wretchedness came over me with unpitying
grasp. “All is useless,” a secret, sorrowful voice seemed to say; “you
must awaken to the reality of your sufferings....”

At that moment I heard beside me a familiar, half‐forgotten voice—calm,
sonorous, and sweet, but now somewhat sarcastic:

“I cannot aspire to the honor of dancing with the Duchessa di Valenzano,
but I hope she will not refuse to recognize me.”

I eagerly turned around, and there beside me I saw the person who uttered
these words was Gilbert de Kergy.



XXIX.


During the week following the ball a most unexpected change took place in
my feelings—a change that at once afforded me so much comfort that I did
not hesitate to think and say that heaven had, in the hour of my greatest
need, sent me a friend.

It must be acknowledged, however, the hour when Gilbert de Kergy so
suddenly made his appearance was not exactly that in which I should have
expected an extraordinary intervention of divine Providence in my behalf.
I ought even to say that the first feeling I experienced at seeing him
again was one of extreme confusion at exhibiting myself under so different
an aspect from that he had seen me in before, and, in fact, so different
from that which was usually mine. This confusion, added to my fatigue and
the painful reaction and disgust which inevitably follow such intoxication
as I had voluntarily indulged in, sent me home in a totally different
frame of mind from that I was in when I left. Two hours before, I beheld
myself in the mirror with great complacency; but when I now saw myself in
this same glass resplendent with jewels and flowers, I turned away with
displeasure, and do not think I should have felt the least regret had I at
that moment been told I wore this brilliant array for the last time.

I hastily took off my diamonds and pearls, and changed my dress; and when
at length I found myself alone, face to face with the thoughts I had
vainly tried to escape from, for the first time since my interview with
Lorenzo a flood of tears came to my relief. The nature of the distraction
I had sought now appeared in all its vanity, and the shame I felt was
increased by the remembrance of Gilbert’s smile and the sarcastic accent
of his words. It was not in this way he had addressed me at Paris. This
was not the grave, respectful manner, so different from that of any other
person, which had so touched and flattered me then. The contrast made me
blush, and I longed to meet him again, that I might efface as completely
as possible the impression now left on his mind.

I longed also to inquire about his mother and Diana. In short, a thousand
recollections, as foreign as possible to everything that surrounded me
now, came to my mind and diverted it more effectually than any amusement
could have done from the cause of my present troubles. I slept more calmly
than I should have supposed after so exciting a day, and the following
morning when I awoke, though my first thoughts were of all I had suffered
the day before, I could not forget the pleasant event that had also
occurred to lighten my burden.

Gilbert had asked at what o’clock he could see me, and, at the appointed
hour, I was ready to receive him. I anticipated his arrival with pleasure,
and felt no embarrassment, except that which resulted from the
recollection of the previous evening. He came punctually, and, after an
observant look and a few minutes’ conversation, he became the same he once
was; which reconciled me a little to myself. We talked about Paris, the
Hôtel de Kergy, and a thousand other things, and his conversation, as
formerly, absorbed my attention, diverted my mind from my troubles, and
awoke an interest in a multitude of things unconnected with him or myself.

As he was on the point of leaving, he smiled, as he said with something of
the sarcastic tone of the evening before:

“I suppose, madame, I cannot flatter myself with the hope of finding you
at home, at least as long as the Carnival lasts.”

“Allow me to undeceive you,” I hastened to reply with a blush. “Whatever
you may have thought last evening, I am not fond of dancing. I very seldom
go to a ball of my own accord, and am sure I shall not attend another this
year. This _soirée_ was every way an exceptional one, as far as I was
concerned.”

“Really! I hope you will not think me too bold if I acknowledge that what
you say affords me pleasure.”

He said this in so frank and natural a way that I was restored to my ease,
and laughingly replied:

“You prefer my former manner? Well, Monsieur de Kergy, I acknowledge you
are right, and let me assure you it was my true one.”

As he was going away, I expressed the hope of seeing him again, and from
that time not a day passed in which I did not meet him. When I had no
engagement elsewhere, I usually spent my evenings at home, where I
invariably received a certain number of friends who were in the habit of
meeting in my drawing‐room. These _soirées_ were not interrupted when
Lorenzo was absent from home, but the number of those who composed the
little circle was more restricted. Stella, of course, never failed to
come, and the other _habitués_ consisted of friends and some of the
foreigners who lived in Naples, or were there temporarily, and preferred a
quiet circle to gayer society.

On the first story, to the right and left, were two long, lateral
terraces, united by a third which extended all along the front of the
house. These terraces surmounted a Greek portico, whose colonnades
surrounded a small square court, like those of Pompeii, into which looked
all the windows of the ground floor. All that part of the house, with the
exception of Lorenzo’s studio, was reserved for large parties, while the
first story was used for ordinary reunions. We therefore generally
assembled in an upper drawing‐room, which opened on one of the lateral
terraces; and from the day I allude to Gilbert regularly formed a part of
the little coterie which met there every evening. His influence was
speedily felt, and the atmosphere once more changed around me as at Paris,
and this change seemed even more beneficial than before. Every one felt
Gilbert’s influence more or less. He possessed the enviable faculty of
elevating the minds of others above their usual level, and of
communicating to them the interest he felt in whatever he was conversing
about. Not that he tried to introduce subjects he had made a special study
of, or to advance theories or opinions that first excited wonder and
afterwards wearied the minds of those on whom he wished to impose them. On
the contrary, he seemed to take an interest in everything except what was
low, repulsive, and absolutely trivial. But subjects of this kind were
rather not thought of than avoided intentionally in these conversations,
which were lively, natural, unrestrained, and agreeable, and at the same
time different from those I took a part in anywhere else.

It soon became evident that this addition to our daily reunions added
singularly to their charm. Never had the annual influx of foreigners been
so favorable to us. Stella, I observed, sometimes looked pensive while
listening to him, and one day she remarked to me she had never seen any
one like M. de Kergy. As for me, I felt the beneficial influence of his
society, and welcomed it without analyzing the enjoyment that had come so
opportunely to divert me from my present trials and renew the influences
of the past, which seemed the best in my life.

The lively indignation that filled my heart every time I thought of
Lorenzo’s absence and its cause continued to be felt. I bitterly compared
the world of perfidy and deceit he had forced me to know, with that to
which Gilbert belonged. I thought of the hopes I once had, and how
irreparably they had been deceived, and these reflections were my only
danger at the time I am speaking of.

The Carnival was now over, but it excited no surprise that Lorenzo wished
to prolong it by remaining at Milan during the Carnavalone. No one even
seemed to think it extraordinary he had gone there with a beautiful woman
who was returning without any escort. Naples, as I have said, was not a
place where evil reports were readily credited. People were not much in
the habit of discussing the deeds and actions of others. Rather than give
themselves up to conjectures common elsewhere, they would make a sign, by
putting the hand to the chin, to signify a thing was nothing to them or
concerned them but little. But this charitable indifference did not
exactly spring from love of their neighbor, and sometimes went so far, it
must be confessed, as to be scandalized at nothing.

I soon perceived, therefore, that though the true cause of Lorenzo’s
absence was known to almost everybody, and though his course inspired a
universal sympathy and compassion for me which wounded my pride, it by no
means excited against him the indignation that at least would have
somewhat avenged me.

Mario alone appeared grave and anxious, but Lando, who was not slow in
discovering the real state of the case, confined himself to some
characteristic remarks which would have appeared insulting had I not
learned never to take anything he said seriously, or attach any importance
to it. One evening, however, finding himself by chance near me in the
drawing‐room, he said in his incorrigible way:

“If I were in your place, I would punish that dear Lorenzo in the way he
deserves. Unfortunately, you are not the woman for that, I know. And,
after all, you need not take the trouble, for I can assure you the fair
Milanese herself will be sure to avenge you.”

I did not utter a word in reply to this language, which wounded all the
pride and self‐respect in my nature, and, at the same time, excited a
torrent of bitterness and contempt for Lorenzo. I thought at that moment
of the fearful vow Livia once spoke of, and asked myself if he, this
perjured partner of my life, did not make this vow as well as I. By what
law, then, was I bound to it, when he had chosen to be free?

I abruptly turned away from Lando as he said this, and left the drawing‐
room, where we happened to be alone.

The fineness of the weather and some indications of activity in Mt.
Vesuvius had drawn all the company that evening out on the terrace. I went
out as if intending to join them, but I did nothing of the kind. On the
contrary, I sought a place apart, where I could enjoy in peace the serene
brilliancy of the heavens, and took a seat overlooking the garden and
commanding a view of the Villa Reale, the bay, and the long line of
mountains beyond It was one of those incomparable evenings in spring‐time
when all you see or hear, and the very air you breathe, at once softens,
enchants, and predisposes the heart to melancholy. I had thrown over my
white dress a large veil of black lace, which I drew up over my head; and,
thus protected from the scarcely perceptible dampness of the night, I gave
myself up without restriction to my feelings of admiration, as well as the
sadness, indignation, and bitterness that filled my heart. Afar off on the
sombre azure of the cloudless heavens streamed a reddish flame whose
brilliancy formed a strong contrast with the trembling, silvery light the
growing moon cast over the waters of the sea. It was one of those
awakenings of Vesuvius, the fearful but magnificent spectacle of which is
always regarded at Naples with a pleasure that greatly surpasses the
anxiety it would be natural to feel at the probable consequences of a new
eruption.

All my guests were at that moment at the end of the terrace, where they
could have a full view of the flaming crater. But I was by no means
disposed to follow their example. I remained in the seat I had taken, my
face uplifted and my eyes gazing into the blue, mysterious depths, which
seemed to direct my thoughts to something far beyond the visible, starry
heavens. I know not how long I had been in this attitude when I perceived
Gilbert, who had been on the other side of the terrace, now standing
before me.

“May I have a seat here, madame,” said he, “or do you prefer continuing
your reverie alone?”

“Oh! no; remain. It is better for me to talk than to dream.”

“And yet, to judge from your looks while thus absorbed, your dreams must
have been delightful I longed to participate in them.”

“I know not whether they were delightful or otherwise, but they were
commonplace and true. Alas! I was thinking that the heavens are as
beautiful as the earth is sad.”

“Sad?... Yes, without doubt, but likewise very beautiful at times,
something like the sky above our heads, so glorious to‐night, but which
does not always look as it does now.”

“But the clouds pass away, and the sky again appears in its unchangeable
beauty; whereas....”

“Whereas, a single day is sometimes sufficient to render our lives totally
different from what they were before. Yes, you are right,” said he.

He was silent for an instant, and then resumed with a smile:

“But these gloomy thoughts do not always prevail. It was very far from the
case the evening I first saw you in Naples.”

“Oh! never speak again of that evening, Monsieur de Kergy, I conjure you,”
I exclaimed with a warmth I could not repress. “Have I not already told
you that I was wretched, infatuated, desperate?...”

I stopped short, confused at what had escaped me. I saw his expression of
surprise, and noticed again the look of sympathy and emotion he had shown
at Paris, as I wept while listening to Diana’s music—a look that silently
asked me the cause of my tears. Alas! the day I last visited the Hôtel de
Kergy was that on which the sadness that now wholly surrounded me first
cast its shadow over my path. But I did not wish to betray what I felt
now, any more than I did then, and I instantly regretted the words I had
just uttered. I think Gilbert perceived it.

“I assure you,” said he after a moment, as if I had never spoken,
“notwithstanding the brilliancy of your attire, you were far less imposing
in my eyes than you are at this moment; and yet I am going to show a
boldness I certainly should not have thought of manifesting that evening,
to which I shall never allude again.”

“What do you mean?”

“You seemed that night to belong to a world whose manners and language I
was ignorant of, and where I felt more out of place and uninitiated than a
savage. I could not have said such a word then. I hardly dared look at you
afar off; whereas—but you will think me presumptuous.”

“No, say what you were going to.”

“Well, then, you seem now, on the contrary, as you did at Paris, a member
of the world I live in—an inhabitant, a queen if you like, or a sister,
perhaps, whose language I speak, as you can mine. That is why ...”

He hesitated an instant, and then continued with an accent of truth and
simplicity that prevented his manner from appearing singular: “That is why
I venture—and it is showing myself very bold—yes, venture, madame, to
consider myself worthy of being your friend, and, should you deign to
accord me this title, I think I can safely promise never to show myself
unworthy of it.”

What reply I made I hardly know, but what I am only too sure of is that
these words were welcome to a heart at once crushed and embittered as mine
then was. The void occasioned by Lorenzo’s treachery caused a suffering
like that of intense hunger. My dignity, even more than my conscience,
forbade my alleviating this hunger by giving vent to my grievances; nor
was I tempted to do so. But was there any reason why I should refuse
myself the solace of such a friendship as Gilbert now offered me? Had I
any other duty now, with regard to Lorenzo, than to show a respect he had
not manifested to the tie that united us? Could not Gilbert, as he had
just offered, be truly my brother in heart and soul? Was he not different,
as Stella acknowledged, from any one I had ever met? And was I not myself
in a position without parallel?

I pass over the remainder of my reflections in silence, merely remarking
here that if all the women who believe themselves to be in an exceptional
position could be counted, they would be astonished, I imagine, to find
their number so great, and would perhaps have to renounce some of the
privileges they lay claim to by virtue of the singularity of their
destiny.

To Be Continued.




Church Chant _Versus_ Church Music.


Concluded.

“Ah! but it is sad to think,” objects a friend at our elbow, “that your
rigid principles deprive the church of the use of the _best_ music. _I_
think she ought to have the very best of all that this world can offer.”

We have already given our friend his answer, from one point of view, in a
former article. We will endeavor to give a fair interpretation of the
answer which the church herself would make:

“It is not the best music, as such, that I want for my divine offices, any
more than I wish my priests to decorate the walls of my churches with the
_chefs‐d’œuvre_ of painting and sculpture simply because they are
masterpieces of art. I certainly want, and rejoice to possess, _the best
that is suitable_ in art, whether of melody, painting, or sculpture, and
even of scientific discovery or invention; but my canons of suitability
would be a besom of destruction to gas‐lighted altar‐candles and sanctuary
lamps, fixed or portable opera‐glasses for the use of distantly‐placed
worshippers, the manufactured mimic rain, hail, and thunder storms at the
beck of organ pedals, the statues of the Apollo Belvidere or the Greek
Slave, valuable paintings of first‐class yachts, fast horses, or prize
cattle, even if they came from the pencil of a Landseer or a Rosa Bonheur;
and if I cared for melody of any style for its own sake, my child, I would
strongly advise my American clergy to engage the services of Theodore
Thomas or Patrick J. Gilmore, whose orchestral performances are truly
delicious, and the best for their purpose that can be procured in my
beloved dominions of the western hemisphere. _But the purpose of these
delightful concerts is not a part of my programme._ The disciples of the
Grand Lama, I am told, turn off their rosaries and other prayers by means
of a crank, as music is often made by mechanical organs; but my prayers
and melodies are not made in this fashion. Have your _best_ music, as you
define it, sung and performed where it suits the best; go and hear it, and
God bless you; but please do not let me hear of your inventing and using a
small patent steam‐whistle to replace the acolyte’s altar‐bell, nor a
large one either in lieu of the church‐bell, for that would smack a little
too much of the cotton‐mill or the iron‐foundry; and I do not think I
_would_ tolerate that.”

We must confess to having our patience severely tried when the question of
“suitability” comes under discussion, and we burn to cry out, Where is the
honest musician who is not so engrossed with, and mastered by, his art as
to become, like it, deprived of ideas, or at least of the power of
expressing them in one single logical affirmation, and who has a principle
which he will fairly state and reason from instead of taking us into the
pathless dreamland of sentiment, or enticing us for ever off the track on
to side switches of individual tastes and special pleas that lead nowhere?
Discussing the relative suitability of music and plain chant for the use
of the Liturgy of the church is, in our experience, only equalled by the
purgatory of suffering one’s reason endures when talking “controversy”
with a Protestant. Has art no first principles? Is there no relation
between art and the nature and purpose of the object to be expressed or
illustrated by it? Do you _dare_ define “suitability” to be the harmony of
the subject with _your_ present mood, with the fashion of the hour, or
with the demands of ignorance and prejudice, or presume to close all
discussion with your “_Sic volo, sic jubeo; stet pro ratione voluntas_”?

But this is a digression. Let us return to our argument.

_Thirdly._ If we were to say that, contrasted one with the other, the
expression of plain chant is unimpassioned, and that of modern music is
impassioned—in other words, that the former has not much, if any, capacity
for expressing human passions, and that the latter has not only a great
capacity for expressing them, but also for exciting them, we think we are
affirming what every one who knows anything of the philosophy of music, as
well as every one who has been subjected to the influence of both, will
readily acknowledge to be true. There is martial music for soldiers, to
excite them to combat, or cheer them in victory, or stir their enthusiasm
on the triumphant return from battle. There is music for the dancers, and
distinct kinds of dance music which invite and sustain those who may wish
to waltz or polka, thread the figures of the quadrille, or indulge in the
lascivious mazes of other such‐like enjoyments not worthy of our mention
or consideration outside of our duty as confessor or preacher. There is
funny music to make us laugh, and there are funereal dirges to keep us in
fit mood as we march after a coffin. There is music which we know will
rouse the wrath of our enemy, and there is amorous music which awakes the
passion of love, pure and impure.

We have already signalized the cause which gave to music its sensuous
character. Lest it may be supposed that we are endeavoring to create a
theory without sufficient warrant, we quote from one who holds an
undisputed post of honor in the musical world:

“Very well! that which musical doctrine had condemned, that which ages had
proscribed, a man one day dared to do. Guided by his instinct, he had more
confidence in what it counselled him than in what the rules commanded, and
in spite of the cries of horror which arose from a whole nation of
musicians, he had the courage to bring into relation the fourth note of
the gamut, the fifth, and the seventh (the tritone). By this one act he
created the natural dissonances of harmony, a new tonality, the kind of
music called _chromatic_, and, as a consequence, modulation. What a world
of things produced by one single harmonic aggregation! The author of this
wonderful discovery is Monteverde.(84) He gives himself the credit, in the
preface of one of his works, for the invention of the modulated, animated,
and expressive style of melody. In fact, the impassioned accent (_l’accent
passionné_) does not exist, and cannot exist, except in the leading note
(_la note sensible_), and this cannot itself be produced, except by its
relation with the fourth and fifth degrees of the gamut—in other words
that any note placed in the harmonic relation of augmented fourth with
another note produces the sensation of a new tone, without the necessity
of hearing the tonic or making a cadence, and that by this faculty of the
augmented fourth to create immediately a leading note, modulation—that is
to say, the necessary succession of different tones—is rendered easy.
Admirable coincidence of two fruitful ideas! The musical drama is born;
but the drama lives on emotions, and the tonality of plain chant, grave,
severe, and calm, could not furnish it with impassioned accents; for the
harmony of its tonality does not contain the elements of transition. Hence
genius found inspiration in the demand, and all that could give life to
the music of the drama was brought into existence at one blow.”(85)

We cannot refrain from adding the reflections of another eminent
musician—M. Jos. d’Ortigue:

“Is it not evident that a new order of ideas, a new social element, and a
novel spirit, were introduced in music by the fact alone of the creation
of a tonality, and that dissonance, modulation, transition, the leading or
_sensible note_, the _impassioned accent_ (mark the words), were but the
material clothing, the means, the outward expression, thanks to which this
new principle—namely, the _moi humain_—which had already, so to speak,
broken through the upper strata of thought, made for itself a vent by
means of the art of music? For just as the ancient tonality, by the fact
of its constitution, inspired the sentiment of repose—that is to say, gave
birth to the ideas of permanence, of immutability, of the infinite, which
comport with the expression of divine things—so also disturbance,
agitation, the febrile and tumultuous expression of the passions, which
are the essential characteristics of all earthly things, are inherent in
the modern tonality precisely in virtue of its constitution, which depends
upon _dissonance_ and _transition_.”(86)

Those wise old Spartans who made it a capital crime to add a new cord to
the lyre, lest the people should be rendered effeminate, would certainly
despair of finding a man living in our XIXth century who was fit to be
called a man, if they were told that the chord of the minor seventh was in
such common use that hardly one melody can be found where its effeminate
dissonance is not made to appear and to be felt.(87) We pray to be
understood when we call the tonality of “impassioned accent” effeminate. A
few words from M. Victor de Laprade will convey our meaning: “I dare to
class music, and even women themselves, in the order of femininity—that is
to say, in that class in which sentiment rules ideas, in which the heart
is more manifestly active than reason. It is bold, I acknowledge. We are
no longer living in the age of the Book of Wisdom, of the sacred
lawgivers, of the prophets, of the philosophers, nor simply of Molière; we
are of the age of Saint‐Simon, of Fourier, of Auguste Comte, and we have
changed all that. We have put the heart on the right side. I am obstinate
enough to feel it beating on the left.”

In his famous Instructions (we beg our readers to recall our proposed
amendment of their title) the cardinal vicar feels the necessity of
protesting against this emotional tendency of music. “We forbid,” he says,
“too lively or exciting movements,” and dreads lest some composers may be
led to express “the unbridled liveliness of the dance.” He would not
“deprive the music of that grace and coloring which art and _good taste_
suggest,” but thinks it necessary to add that “an effeminate softness is
to be avoided.”

Without question, the best music, allied to words, as music, is in the
compositions for the opera. Those eminent composers who have written for
the opera and for the church have indisputably produced works of a higher
order of musical merit for the former than they have for the latter.(88)
And is not operatic music the most intensely impassioned of all melody,
and is it not, alas! becoming a vehicle for the expression of the most
debased and lascivious passions of the human heart? Give to modern music
language and a stage, free it from all the restraints of Catholic
morality, and who does not see, after the experience of an operatic season
in one of our great cities, that it would soon become the most powerful
and dangerous of all the forces which are now threatening to enervate and
demoralize our modern society? We must not be surprised, therefore, nor
should we much regret, that “modern composers have failed in their works
to meet the requirements of Catholic devotion.”

Let us see what spirit marks the ceremonies of the church when considered
as opportunities for exhibiting, or as exciting causes of awakening, the
passions. It is not possible to find one such occasion. All gesture which
might suggest aught but the most perfect calm and repose of the soul in
the actors is absolutely out of place. It is very difficult in sudden,
unlooked‐for instances of disturbance for the priest not to show in his
countenance or by his manner symptoms of alarm, disgust, or annoyance; but
he ought not to do so, and would not fail to scandalize the people, unless
such disturbance happened to be extraordinary. To betray by look, gesture,
or intonation of voice the slightest emotion of sensual passion, however
innocent in itself, would disgust and horrify all observers. Neither do
the rubrics permit him or his assistants to excite any passion in the
hearts of others; for the ceremonial directs their most simple movements,
the position of the body, the _tenue_ of the eyes, the hands, and the
feet. That “ecclesiastical modesty” which forms so constant a theme of
instruction to candidates for the sacred ministry here finds its perfect
realization, and is exacted in the highest degree.

The sacred offices are essentially unlike opera, and the church has the
good sense to dread the introduction of anything in connection with her
divine ceremonies that might be suggestive of it. We now understand why
the cardinal vicar throughout the Instructions vehemently proscribes, and
over and over again warns composers not to write, operatic or theatrical
music, or anything like it, either in its _melodies_ or its character, nor
borrow from it, nor imitate it in the use of ariettas, duets, trios,
recítative, _finales_, or _cabaletta_. Truly, “the best music” is pretty
well ruled out by his eminence. By his cautious discrimination, and
prudent lopping off, and general toning down he has pretty closely clipped
the wings of the steed of Helicon, and, after all, it must be
acknowledged, has made of him rather a sorry and unreliable nag, not worth
half the old horse who all his lifetime has never given out, or baulked,
or behaved in any unseemly manner.

We trust that a distinct disavowal of any intent on our part to treat with
flippancy and disrespect the oft‐quoted Instructions of his eminence is
not needed, for nothing could be further from our thought; but that our
readers will perceive that the point of our lance is directed against the
endeavor to impose a restrictive and prohibitory circular‐letter of the
cardinal vicar as a brief in favor of modern music with apostolic
sanction. We complain, also, that the words of Benedict XIV. have been
quoted by the same writers in such a way as to leave the impression on the
mind of the general reader that the learned pope treated modern music as
_un fait accompli_, and rather preferred it if composed according to
certain demands which he makes of musicians. Wherefore we quote again his
words, by which we get at his real sentiments: “The Gregorian chant is
that song which excites the minds of the faithful to piety and devotion;
it is that music, therefore, which, if sung in our churches with care and
decorum, is most willingly heard by devout persons, and is justly
preferred to that which is called figured or harmonized music. The
titillation of figured music is held very cheaply by men of religious mind
in comparison with the sweetness of the church chant, and hence it is that
the people flock to the churches of the monks, who, _taking piety for
their guide_ in singing the praises of God, after the counsel of the
prince of psalmists, skilfully sing to their Lord as Lord, and serve God
as God with the utmost reverence.”

The learned Suarez has also been cited in favor of modern church
music—rather a strange fact, as the great theologian was dead and buried
before the system of modern music was invented! S. Alphonsus—no mean
theologian, nor a rigorist either—says: “The devil usually gets more by it
than God does.”

This attempt to argue a positive approval from prohibitory enactments
reminds us of “a little story.”

“I had the honor this morning,” boasted a vain soldier, “of holding a
conversation with his majesty the king.”

“_You_ converse with his majesty?” exclaimed his companion. “And what did
you say to him?”

“Oh! _I_ said nothing. His majesty alone conversed.”

“And pray, what did _he_ say to _you_?”

“He said: ‘Fellow, stand out of the way!’ ”

Who has ever thought of denying that the old plain chant suits exactly the
ceremonies of the church? There were never any “Instructions” promulgated,
that we know of, to curb its worldly, operatic, sensual, or effeminate
tendencies, simply because by its essential melodic form it does not lend
itself to any such aberrations. By its short intervals, its grave and
unmeasured movement, and its intellectual character,(89) it is freed from
all sensuousness. You can neither march to it, dance to it, nor make love
with it. But you can appropriately accompany any of the ceremonies of the
church with it, and pray with it; that is—to forestall the special plea of
a theological “distinction”—you can _adore_ with it, _propitiate_ the
divine justice with it, _supplicate_ with it, _praise_ and _thank_ God
with it; and doing all this, we respectfully ask, what more do you want,
and, if you do want more, what right have you to ask it?

In the interests of art, do you say? Pshaw! You know well that the church
can offer but a very confined field for the cultivation of music _as an
art_, and, compared with music inspired by other wants and tastes, the
music written for her use is not worth mentioning. It is only fit to be
consigned to the flames, as our friend observes. Besides, the church is
not an Academy of Arts and Sciences. Try again.

If being content with what the church prescribes, refusing to admit what
she has not distinctly commanded, and contending stoutly for the fitness
of that melody for the expression of her divine prayer, and as an
accompaniment to her sublime offices, and which she has never declared to
be unsuitable, be to “censure the whole church, and even the Pope
himself,” as it is insinuated we do, then we offer ourselves at once for
safe conduct to a lunatic asylum, for assuredly we have lost our senses.

_Fourthly._ We hear much of the _coloring_ in the phraseology of modern
music. That it is essentially rhetorical is plain enough. It is pretty
much all made up of figures of speech, musically expressed. It is
especially antithetical, full of striking contrasts, and highly
metaphorical. We used to hear frequently in our own church, when we had a
“mixed” choir and a gallery, a _finale_ of the Gloria in Excelsis which
the unlearned in musical gymnastics were accustomed to say sounded like
the men scampering after the women, and the women scampering after the
men, and neither coming out ahead of the other. This rhetorical character
of music, this dealing in figures of musical speech, which we dare affirm
is not free in many an instance from the faults of tautology, bombast, and
mixed metaphor, lucidly explains the reason why the frequent repetition of
_morceaux de musique_, whether anthems, motets, “grand Masses,” or
“musical Vespers,” by any celebrated composer whomsoever, soon grows
tiresome. The same rhetorical phrases and identical figures of speech in
the discourses of a preacher Sunday after Sunday would set all the people
yawning, and, if the sacredness of the place and of the speaker were not a
hindrance to such emotional display, laughing and hissing as well.

The metaphorical character of music is the result of its theme, which may
be, as we have already said, either pastoral, martial, amorous, saltatory,
funereal, or even prayerful, etc.; but it is not really pastoral, for
there are no green fields to pipe in or any hay‐making going on. It is
_like_ pastoral music, and would be only tolerable, even in a concert‐
room, on the strength of the maxim, “Art for art’s sake”—a principle we
contend to be unphilosophical at best, and absolutely intolerable when
applied to sacred ceremonies, and not sanctioned by a single instance in
the rubrics. So, also, there are no military evolutions, no love‐making or
dancing, going on, for which reason the music is not _really_ martial,
amorous, or saltatory, but only _like_ such music. But there may be a
funeral, and there certainly is prayer going on; and what objection can
there be to funereal and prayerful music? We have never heard any funereal
_music_ that was fit to accompany a Requiem Mass. We have heard musical
howling, wailing, sobbing, groans and sighs of despair, and even the
spiteful cursing and gnashing of teeth of the damned, as in the
_confutatis maledictis_ of Cherubini’s _Requiem_; but let that pass for
the present. Prayer_ful_ music there is of incomparable sweetness and
ravishing harmony, but _prayer_ music—_i.e._, music which _is_ prayer—is
quite another thing. Music does not lose its metaphorical character
because its theme is prayerful. There is the greatest difference in the
world between first‐class paste and real diamond, or between vermeil and
pure gold, although it is possible that neither you nor we could
distinguish them without the application of a scientific test. The paste
may have a perfect diamond_ful_ glitter, if you will; but that this
glitter is the expression of the substance of real diamond needs no
argument to disprove.

Let us again apply our test. The official acts of the celebrant and his
assistants at the altar are not figurative, but real. The priest acts _as_
a priest, and not _like_ a priest. The chorus rise, kneel, bow, prostrate,
as a chorus should, and not as a chorus might. All their acts are real,
finding their _ratio_ in themselves, and not in something else of which
they are now a good and admirable, or now a poor and far‐fetched, figure.
Melody for such performances should be a faithful and _true_ expression of
these realities. That is to say, when you hear the melody, you should hear
the prayer which is the form of the _corpus rubricarum_, as the soul is
the form of the human body. Subjected to this test, the paste is easily
distinguished.

Now, will the diamond, as we choose to typify the church chant, be as
readily known by the like test? There is nothing corresponding or similar
to figures of speech in the chant, neither is it based upon metaphorical
themes. It has properly no theme, but only modes, with their special
intonations, mediations, and cadences. Considered in its melodic form, it
is a rhythmic combination of unities, the purest artistic expression of
communion with the Infinite Unity—with God. Sung in or out of the
celebration of the divine offices, if it be not simple rehearsal, it is
prayer, and nothing else but prayer. It rejoices in the “perennial
freshness” of the Holy Mass and Divine Office, because, like these, it is
not metaphorical, but real; and hence we deduce at once the explanation of
its lasting character. Its melodies do not wear out or become tiresome. It
would never occur to a child of the church, although he were the most
accomplished musician the world ever knew, if his age surpassed that of
Mathusala, and he had heard High Mass every day of his life, that the
Preface or the Pater Noster (and wherefore any other chant?) was a worn‐
out or tiresome melody. There is a truth for the lovers of church _music_
to digest.

The essential reason—to go to the very bottom of the matter—of the lasting
character of the chant, lies in the form of its phraseology, which is
purely didactic, consisting of simple and therefore sublime affirmations;
this simplicity of its phraseology being often reduced to the utterance of
pure substantives, as if the soul were in rapture, meditating upon God and
his attributes, the Alpha and Omega, the Beginning and the End, the Being
of beings, the Eternal, the Omnipotent, the Everlasting, the All in all,
the All wise, the All fair, and the All good.

There is an instance of this sublime simplicity of language in Holy
Scripture which is an apt example to illustrate our meaning. It is the
twelfth verse of the viith chapter of the Apocalypse: “Amen. Benedictio,
et claritas, et sapientia, et gratiarum actio, honor, et virtus, et
fortitudo Deo nostro in sæcula sæculorum, amen”—Amen. Benediction, and
glory, and wisdom, and thanksgiving, honor and power, and strength to our
God, for ever and ever, amen.

The test being applied, we think we may affirm and certify the diamond.

_Fifthly._ From what we have already said, and to judge from the
extraordinary pretensions of its capacity for expression put forth in
these later days, modern music is essentially dramatic, mimetic, or
imitative. That it is especially suitable as the melody to accompany and
aid the expression of dramatic representation there is no question. There
appears also to be hardly any limit of its capacity, as musicians affirm,
for word‐painting and scene‐painting. If the musical critics are not
deceived, we think that, with the full score of some genius who may be
even now about to graduate in the school of “the music of the future,” a
Thomas or a Gilmore might dispense with the actors on the stage
altogether, and with the services of the scene‐painter as well. What is
thought of this power of word‐painting, when employed to illustrate the
sacred text of the church’s offices, we quote from the _Dublin Review_,
Oct., 1868:

“What is called word‐painting in music is, of course, very effective, but,
as a rule, it cannot be carried so far in sacred as in secular music
without detriment to the dignity of the subject. Indeed, even where it is
not otherwise objectionable, it sometimes becomes tiresome from its
conventionality. The run down the notes of the scale at the _descendit de
cœlis_, and such like effects, do not bear much repetition. Indeed, the
attempt at minute expression has often led to odd blunders, such as in the
passages _resurrectionem mortuorum_, where the music for the first word is
usually made to have a joyful effect, the latter a lugubrious one (and
that, too, sometimes drawn out into musical passages cut off from the
previous word, as if it were a fresh sentence), the composer forgetting
that the phrase only comprehends one idea—that of the resurrection. So
with the passage _remissionem peccatorum, exaltavit humiles_, and others
that might be named.”

We have already mentioned a notable instance of this word‐painting—the
_confutatis maledictis_ from the _Dies Iræ_ of Cherubini. The vividly
descriptive and intensely dramatic power of that passage is well known;
and if it were further heightened by a mechanically‐darkened church, with
a flash or two of stage‐lightning and the rumbling of sheet‐iron thunder,
we are sure the effect would be quite as much as we could bear, whether as
celebrant or as near relatives of the departed. Overpowered with the
emotions of horror and fear which we are sure we would experience in thus
having hell opened to us, we would be thinking a great deal more of the
devil than of the God of mercy and compassion when the cry of fright broke
from our lips, “Libera me, Domine, de morte æterna!” Certainly, deprived
even of any stage effects, we have never listened to it without a shudder.
And now comes the pertinent question, Is dramatic, theatrical effect what
the church desires to obtain from her melody, or, at least, is she willing
that there should be anything of this kind at all employed to illustrate
her liturgy? We refer to the Instructions of his eminence the cardinal
vicar. He is “polarized,” as we say in America, on that subject. We also
quote from the late articles on church music in this magazine:

“ ‘Humana nefas miscere divinis’ finds its application here. To carry the
minds of worshippers in the church back to the theatre by the music is a
crime, for it is a desecration.”

Musicians themselves are not wholly devoid of the sense of propriety. Mme.
de Sévigné relates that _Baptiste_—the celebrated Lulli—hearing at Mass
one day an air which he had composed for the theatre, cried out: “Lord,
Lord, I crave your pardon. I did not write it for _you_!”

We wonder if the correspondent of the _Herald_ was aware of the satire
contained in the following late announcement: “Signor Verdi protests
indignantly against his _Requiem_ being played in a circus at Ferrara.”

Yet let us see if our comparison with the ceremonies of the liturgy and
the character of the actors holds good as before.

There is no scenery, nor should there be any for any occasion. No, good
reader, not even for the Repository of Holy Thursday. Those puppet‐show
“tombs,” with pasteboard soldiers sleeping and watching before pasteboard
rocks, are not prescribed by the rubrics, or even tolerated, and are
therefore entirely out of order and unmeaning. The Holy Mass is a
continuation of the crucifixion and sacrificial death of our Lord on Mount
Calvary; but there is no dramatic representation of that event, for the
reason, among others that we have alleged before, that it is not a
representation, but a reality. We could readily understand its propriety
if the Episcopalians or other sects of Protestants were to have a stage
erected with scenery of the “upper room,” and a supper‐table with living
actors or wax‐figure ones, _à la_ Mme. Tussaud or Mrs. Jarley, in order to
vividly represent to their people the celebration of the Last Supper,
because their “celebrations,” high, low, broad, or evangelical, expect to
have nothing more at best than a representative sacrifice or commemorative
supper; but the Catholic Mass is a perfect and real sacrifice in itself,
and mimics nothing.

Apart from the Mass, we have a remarkable example in our own day of a
sacred drama, the Passion Play of Ober‐Ammergau, which is not a real but
an imitative crucifixion, mechanical in the highest degree, passional,
figurative, and dramatic. Music for that, _à la bonne heure_!

Let us again bring the chant into comparison. When we say that it is pre‐
eminently the chant of priests, each one of whom is “alter Christus,”(90)
the chorus song of psalmists, we at once proclaim it as pre‐eminently
fitted for the expression of the liturgy, and therefore to be wanting in
dramatic or word‐painting capacity. There have been a few insignificant
attempts made by late composers to express, after a musical fashion, the
_descendit de cœlis_ with square notes on a four‐lined staff, in the hope,
probably, that it would be mistaken for plain chant; but the guise is too
thin!

Here is a fitting opportunity to explain our former intimation that
horrifying, tearful, and groaning melody is not suitable even for a
requiem. How often have we not heard it said, “Oh! Gregorian chant is
admirable for occasions of sorrow; just the thing for a Dead Mass”; or
again, “I think the chant is so lugubrious and solemn; every inflexion
seems to be in the minor key,” to which we reply:

In the first place, they who suppose plain chant to be in the minor key
are simply in ignorance of its tonality. These we advise to study enough
of the chant of their church to avoid making ridiculous objections to it.
The others evidently suppose, 1st, that the church intends to excite
emotions of sadness at a requiem, and to perform, especially with the
services of the choir, the office of a paid mute; and if the friends and
relatives are moved to weep bitterly and for a long time, every one will
say, “How impressive, how touching!” meaning, “How saddening! How
depressing to the spirits!” 2d. That the Gregorian chant Requiem is most
admirably suited to this purpose, being a melody of _such_ a sorrowful
character and of _so_ lugubrious a tone.

On which we remark that they are most egregiously mistaken in both
suppositions. The object which the church has in view at a requiem is not
to make people weep and wail, but to console, comfort, and soothe the
bleeding hearts of the bereaved mourners; to pray herself, and to excite
them to pray earnestly, for the soul of the departed. Nothing could be
further from her thought than to horrify them with visions of the grave
and imaginations of the torments of the damned. No, it is rest, eternal
rest, the rapture of the soul’s enjoyment of the everlasting light of
glory in heaven, that forms the burden of her funereal refrain,


    “Requiem æternam dona ei Domine,
    Et lux perpetua luceat ei!
      Requiescat in pace!”


Those who love to indulge in the luxury of woe, and who fancy that
plentiful tears and a thoroughly broken‐hearted manner are the proper
accompaniments to a mourning dress, highly approve of the anti‐rubrical
exhibition of painted or embroidered skulls and cross‐bones, heightened in
effect by a diapering of gigantic tears, which the artist in funereal
trappings has intruded upon the altar or about the catafalque. The Requiem
Masses of Mozart and Cherubini would certainly admit of these imitative
skeletons and mechanical grief; but not so the Gregorian Requiem.

Hark! what are those strange words which break the silence as the coffin
is borne into the church? “Subvenite sancti Dei, occurrite Angeli Domini,
suscipientes animam ejus, offerentes eam in conspectu Altissimi. Suscipiat
te Christus qui vocavit te, et in sinu Abrahæ angeli deducant te.”(91)

And now the Introit begins, which gives the keynote, so to speak, to the
whole Mass:

“Requiem æternam dona eis Domine; et lux perpetua luceat eis.”(92)

What a world of comfort in those words! How soothing and hopeful; and
chanted to such a smooth, sweet melody, like oil poured out upon the
troubled waters, calming the agitated and fretted spirits of the mourners,
and gently turning all hearts away from the thoughts of the irreparable
loss they have sustained, and shutting out the memory of the scenes of
anguish and horror that marked the hours of the agony and death, solicits
them to pray for the soul of the beloved departed, and to cast all their
sorrow at the feet of God.

Doubtless you presume the chant is very sorrowful; and, like all Gregorian
chant, this is, of course, “in the minor key.” Not at all, however
inexplicable it may appear to you. Read over again what we have just
written above, and now learn one more astonishing fact. The chant for this
Introit is written in the sixth mode, the only one of all the Gregorian
modes whose scale is identical with the scale of the modern major key!

There is not an invitation to weep in the whole Requiem, neither in the
words nor in the melody. It is true the church takes care to improve the
occasion by preaching her sermon on the Judgment in the chant of the _Dies
Iræ_; but she soon returns to her keynote of comforting prayer, and at the
_Communio_ (which, of course, is not sung at all at our concert requiems)
she essays even a bright and cheerful melody in the triumphant eighth
mode, to the old refrain,

“Lux æterna luceat eis,”

and, addressing the sweet mercy of God, inspires hope and submission to
the divine will by the reminder that he is ever kind and good—“quia pius
es.”

Oh! what is this? It is the sympathizing pressure of the hand of the old,
old friend who has always been true in sunshine and storm, in our sins and
our miseries; it is her sheltering arm that folds our drooping head upon
her gentle breast, and her cheery voice that has so often gladdened us in
days gone by, soothing our broken heart with the only words that have
power with us now—“God is good,” “It is his holy will.”

When we were aforetime groping in the darkness of heretical error, and
denied all privilege of stretching out our hands in prayer to help our
beloved dead through the mysterious way that death had opened to them, and
sternly forbidden to hope for a deeper look into the future than the
yawning chasm of corruption opened to our gaze in the earth, we felt—alas!
how keenly—the appropriateness of the only burial service we knew of then,
whose doleful burden—“ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” and “We commit this
body to the _ground_”—expressed well the faith that was of the earth,
earthy. But now our voice is lifted up in praise, and our heart‐strings
tuned to strains of festive joy, when God has spared our innocent loved
ones the dangers and sorrows of life, chanting their translation to the
skies in robes of white, and in words of joy that erst were sung by angels
proclaiming “Glory to God in the highest, and peace on earth to men”; and
at the borders of the tomb which hides from our sight the forms of those
who for many a year have grown with our growth, and knit our very
existence unto theirs, the earth with its darkening clouds is made to
disappear, and heaven itself is revealed as the herald who precedes the
soul to the gates of everlasting light, chants in our hearing its
melodious welcome to the home of rest and glory.

“In paradisum deducant te angeli; in tuo adventu suscipiant te martyres,
et perducant te in civitatem sanctam Jerusalem. Chorus angelorum te
suscipiat, et cum Lazaro quondam paupere æternam habeas requiem.”(93)

The Catholic Church calm in the face of death, and triumphant at the edge
of the grave! Why does not the sight convert every Protestant and
unbeliever before the setting of the sun? This is our answer: Because you
have brought upon the true Israel the calamity which Mardochai the just
prayed God to avert when “the mouths of them that sing unto God are shut,”
and by your music have bedimmed one of the most sublime manifestations of
the church, and by the banishment of her chant have silenced her voice in
that supreme, faith‐inspiring hour!

_Music_ at a funeral! We would as soon think of getting an Episcopalian
parson to read his gloomy burial service, or of hiring a Methodist
preacher to declaim by the hour, for the purpose of exhibiting his own
vanity and ministering to ours.

The reason why the much‐lauded musical Masses, whether of requiem or for
other occasions, have failed to meet the requirements of Catholic
devotion, is because their composers have sought by word‐painting to
illustrate the words, as separately defined in a dictionary, instead of
grasping the chief and leading ideas to which the church strives to give
expression; pretty much as if a painter, intending to paint a man, should
most carefully sketch apart every separate bone, muscle, nerve, artery,
and organ in the body. The result obtained would be a series of most
excellently delineated anatomical drawings, no doubt, but no bodily form
of a man, and no expression of what makes the body a living body, which is
the soul.

Hence we deduce a most important conclusion. The _form_ of modern music is
not prayer, but recreation, the delectation of the imaginative faculty. It
aims at producing the impressions which material things excite by their
contact with the senses. It seeks to imitate motion in direction or
velocity, light and darkness, cold and heat, serenity or disturbance in
nature. The piano alone is supposed to make us hear the booming of cannon,
the galloping and neighing of horses (the _tritone Si, Fa_, which in the
palmy days of Gregorian chant was called _diabolus in musica_, and which
is the _essential_ chord in the tonality of modern music, will be found to
give the exact notes of an ass’ braying), the dying moans of the wounded
in battle, the rising and setting of the sun, and a host of other equally
curious things. “I shouldn’t wonder,” exclaims a witty writer, “if one day
I might see upon a piece of sheet music, ‘_Demonstration of the square of
the hypothenuse_,’ or ‘_The theory of free trade_!’ ” Will not some
composer produce a “work” which will give the impressions produced on the
souls of the people at Mass and Vespers? It might be found convenient for
home use on rainy Sundays!

This suggestion quite tickles our fancy. It has the smack of originality
about it, and we feel like playing with it, as a cat plays with a mouse.
Who does not see at once that it opens a vast field for development of
music as an art, and _precisely in the order in which musicians are now
striving to give it expression_? Yes, the glory of the invention is ours.

“PATENT MUSICAL IMPRESSIONS, adapted to every want in church and state.”

“Save your fuel! _Summer Impressions_, warranted for the coldest climate.”

“Watering‐places superseded! Refreshing _Winter Impressions_, deliciously
cool, flavored with hops, serenades, moonlight excursions, sea‐views,
Adirondack trips, etc., according to taste.”

“_Sermon Impressions_, a great variety. Parties ordering will please state
their religious views or the particular branch of the Episcopalian or
other denomination to which they belong.” _N.B._—Agents and composers
wanted.

If our readers think this to be nonsensical trifling, let them read a few
of those lucubrations styled “musical criticisms.”

Musical _coloring_ has only been equalled in its fantastic conceptions by
the so‐called _ocular harmony_ and _visual melody_ imagined by the French
Jesuit, Father Castel, who lived about the beginning of the last century.
Starting with a fancied principle that colors are reducible to a harmonic
scale corresponding to the scale of musical sounds, he had manufactured
what he called his _universal ribbon_, on which were graduated all colors
and their most minute shades. Of this ribbon he made a little book, which
he ingeniously attached to a harpsichord in such a manner that certain
leaves would open at the touch of the different keys, thus presenting to
the sight a particular shade of color at the same time that the hearing
perceived the musical note. It is said that he spent large sums of money
on this hobby. He wished also to have silks and other stuffs woven after
this principle and “_dans ce goût_” of which the sacerdotal vestments
ought to be made, so that every feast and season would be not only
distinguished by those parti‐colored robes, but also, according to his
principle of the harmonic proportions of color, that by a scientific
arrangement of the colors derived from his graduated ribbon one might,
and, as he contended, _should_, note upon the vestments melodies, and even
harmony, so that a chasuble would _sing_ the Gloria in Excelsis or a cope
the Antiphons at Vespers! We do not find, however, in his works, any
proposal to _sing_, in colors, either at Mass or Vespers, thunder and
lightning, landscapes and sunrises, jigs and waltzes, serenades of love‐
sick swains, the shrieks and gnashing of teeth of devils and lost souls,
as our modern musicians have done with their musical coloring.

_Sixthly._ One of the chief complaints justly made against church music is
its liability to the abuse of bringing certain singers of remarkable
talent into an undue and often indecent prominence, and thus ministering
rather to personal vanity, to petty jealousies and envies, and to the
critical delectation of the audience (?), than to the praise and glory of
God. That music can be written so as to preclude such an offensive result
we are not prepared to deny; but that there is any reasonable hope that it
ever will be we do not believe. The principle upon which choice is made of
it in preference to chant, and which has extorted the restricted and
evidently unwilling toleration of it, forbids us to entertain such a hope.
We fancy that such a chastened style of music, composed so as to meet this
requirement, would soon be voted as “confessedly unequal to the task of
evoking and expressing the feelings of Christian joy and triumph,” and,
with plain chant under the same ban, this world would become indeed a vale
of tears and


                “... plain of groans,
    Whose arid wastes resound with moans
    Of weepers over dead men’s bones.”


The style inherent in music certainly calls for more or less of personal
display, and consequently for some sign of appreciation from the
listeners, if it be nothing more than that entranced silence which is
often the most flattering applause, especially in church.

A little incident has just occurred in connection with our own church
choir—we hardly need say that no women sing in it, or that chant is its
accepted melody—which illustrates better than long argument the spirit
that Gregorian chant inspires in the hearts of the singers. One of their
number, a little chorister, lies sick in a hospital. The members of the
chorus have made an offering of all the merit they gain in the sight of
God, on account of their singing, for his recovery. We imagine the look of
puzzled surprise if such an “act” were proposed to the singers of a
musical chorus in one of our ordinary gallery‐choirs.

We would furthermore ask whether music for the church could be, or is at
all likely to be, composed so as not to betray the hand of the composer
and elicit applause for him? Ought the people, or priest either, to suffer
the distraction of remarking interiorly, “We have Mgr. Newsham’s Mass to‐
day, but it is not so pleasing as Mr. Richardson’s revised Mozart that we
had last Sunday. I do hope the organist will soon give us one of those
Mechlin prize Masses; but we cannot have that, I suppose, until we get a
better tenor, for ours is rather a poor voice, etc., etc., etc.”?

We say that all such reflections are out of order, and are a valid
argument against the use of musical compositions.

What of personal display in church ceremonies? It is not only in bad
taste, but irrational, stupid, and contemptible, if it be not grievously
scandalous, as it might very easily become. Does any one ever dream of
applause to be either given or acknowledged? Why does not the church offer
prizes for the composition of “Masses” which will vie with each other in
their literary style, their devotional phraseology, and other
characteristics, so that the people may have the enjoyment of hearing a
Mass, now of the celebrated Dr. Brown, now of Dean Jones, and now of Canon
Robinson, instead of being obliged to listen week after week to the same
old, tiresome Masses of the Feasts of our Lord, the Blessed Virgin, and
the saints, the productions of the same “barbarous” age which formed the
chant, and whose composers are not known to one in a million? Do not the
exigencies of modern progress, and the aspirations to see themselves in
print of more literati than she can find room for in her contracted temple
of fame, demand that the church shall take this matter into serious
consideration? We advise the American daily press to press this matter
into the notice of the hierarchy at once, or at the reassembling of the
Vatican Council at furthest.

As to plain chant, it corresponds exactly with this anonymous character of
the present liturgy of the church, as every one can see—immortal works,
that immortalize only the common faith which produced them—and then _that_
will be got rid of, which is all we need or care to say on this point.
_Verbum sap._

_Seventhly_ (and lastly, for the present). Modern music is essentially
national and secular. It is the product of a natural and sensual
civilization (a question we have not the space to fully discuss here), and
advances in a degree corresponding to the cultivation of the arts for
their own sake by this or that nation, besides receiving a marked impress
from the national habits and tastes.

Art for art’s sake! What else could we expect from a civilization which
has ignored the supernatural and placed scientific investigation above the
revelations of God, whose painters have abandoned the ideal for servile
copying of nature, and whose highest type of beauty for the sculptor’s
chisel is a naked Venus?

The secular character of music—by which we mean its variability with
succeeding centuries or still shorter periods of time—is also
unquestionable. It is of this age or of that; now “all the rage,” and now
“old‐fashioned” and “out of date.” Modern musical airs enjoy a very short‐
lived popularity. Fashion is the autocrat, almost the divinity, of modern
civilization. It is the logical expression of cultivated sensualism, and
the art of music has basely given itself up to its tyrannical rule and
whimsical lusts. Church music has been forced to bend its neck and go
under the same yoke, and we do not believe it has the power to shake it
off. Talk of making the style of music “alla Palestrina” popular now! We
have been offered Chevalier Pustet’s costly _Musica Divina_ for a song;
and Herr Franz may call the attention of church musicians to the works of
Durante until he is hoarse. We tell you that such music is “out of
fashion”; and fashion’s ban in the kingdoms of this world is as blasting
as the ban of the church’s excommunication in the kingdom of Christ.

There must be nothing national or secular, nothing suggestive of the petty
partisanship and strifes of the world, about the melody which expresses
the universal and everlasting liturgy of the church. Kenelm Digby, whose
judgment is of worth, says: “Sooth, no tongue can be adequate to give an
idea of the impression produced by the plain song of the choir. It is full
of poetry, full of history, full of sanctity. While the Gregorian chant
rises, you seem to _hear the whole Catholic Church behind you
responding_.”

Music may do for religions that are national or fashionable. Hymns in the
German style may do for German Protestants; hymns and anthems in the
English style may do for English Protestants; and American music (if there
be such) may answer for all the requirements of devotion among the fifty
odd sects that are struggling for existence amongst us—and we advise them,
if they wish to make their churches “pay,” to keep their music well up to
the fashion—but the Catholic Church, who knows no present, past, or future
in her eternal faith, whose liturgy has never been subjected to the genius
of national language, whose motto, “Quod ubique, quod semper, quod ab
omnibus,” has defied the attacks of fashion, as her rock‐founded edifice
defies the gates of hell, she must have, and, thank God, she has a melody
no nation or age shall call “its own,” whose purity no _soí‐disant_
“civilization” shall ever be able to defile, which her faithful children
shall always recognize as the voice of their true mother, and know it well
from the voice of a foreign step‐dame or of a hireling housekeeper—a voice
which, through the mysterious link of divine generation, will ever speak
to the child of the Father, who is his through the church, and whose
Paternal compassion is sure to be moved by the tones of that song which
the Mother taught him to sing.




Assunta Howard. V. Sienna.


It was on a beautiful evening in June, just when spring was merging into
summer, that Mr. Carlisle’s family arrived in Sienna, and found a truly
delightful home awaiting them, thanks to Giovanni’s energy and thoughtful
skill. The soft but somewhat enervating air of Rome had failed to restore
Mr. Carlisle’s strength; and the physician imperatively ordered that
panacea which seems, in the opinion of the faculty, to be the last
resource when other prescriptions have failed—complete change. An almost
unaccountable attraction had drawn their thoughts towards Sienna, and
Giovanni had been despatched to Tuscany with _carte blanche_ as to
preparations. He had proved himself entirely worthy of confidence; and the
praises bestowed upon him by all the family, as they inspected the result
of his efforts, were not unmerited. He had succeeded in engaging, for the
season, a pleasant, airy villa about a mile beyond the Florentine gate of
that quaint, proud city, and no expense had been spared to render it
comfortable and home‐like. A small grove in front of the house and a
flower garden on one side promised many a pleasant hour during those days
when shade and beauty afford relief and divert the mind from the power of
the midsummer sun. The _loggia_ in the rear of the house, where Mr.
Carlisle, his sister, and ward were now standing, commanded a most
extensive and beautiful view. Directly beneath them the land sloped down
into a graceful valley covered with vineyards. Beyond was a long stretch
of _campagna_; and in the far distance, like a giant sentinel, rose
Radicofani, on the summit of which still lingered the glory of a sunset
whose gorgeousness had already departed. There is much in first
impressions—more, perhaps, than we are willing to acknowledge—and it may
well be doubted whether any after‐sunshine would have secured for Sienna
the favor it now enjoyed had Radicofani appeared for the first time before
the little group assembled on the balcony, rising weird‐like from out a
veil of mist and cloud.

Mrs. Grey actually sighed, as, instantly spanning with a loving, womanly
thought the distance which separated her from the lover she had
regretfully left in Leghorn, she turned to her companions, saying: “Oh! I
wish George were here. I think Sienna is lovely. There! I have seen the
new moon over my left shoulder, and now I am sure he will not come this
month.”

Mrs. Grey was evidently very much in love. Mr. Sinclair’s presence and
absence formed the light and shade of her life’s picture; and a picture it
was whose colors were too glaring, its contrasts too striking, and it
lacked deep feeling in its tone. After a pause she continued:

“But then I have always noticed that George does not like views.” And
removing her pretty travelling‐hat, she went away to superintend Amalie’s
unpacking.

“He certainly did not like _my_ views,” said Mr. Carlisle in a low voice
to Assunta, “when I expressed them to him rather freely the other day. But
neither did I like his; so we were quits there.”

But the attention of the traveller was soon entirely engrossed in securing
the rest needful after so fatiguing a journey; and it was some days before
Mr. Carlisle was sufficiently strong to explore the city, whose walls and
towers could be seen, in all their mediæval picturesqueness, from the
_loggia_.

At last, however, the change recommended began to tell upon the invalid,
and each day added its portion of renewed strength, until Mr. Carlisle
threatened every possible and impossible herculean labor, by way of
proving that he was, as he said, “ready for anything.”

The ladies had insisted upon postponing any sight‐seeing until all could
enjoy it together, though Clara protested that complete stagnation was
evidently her fate. One could not find much excitement in a grove and a
mountain after the first hour of novelty. Still, as long as the mail
brought her a daily letter from Mr. Sinclair, and took in return the
dainty, perfumed envelope containing so many pretty, loving nothings, she
did not appear to be hopelessly inconsolable.

Assunta had, without scruple, made one exception to the generous
resolution of waiting. But it was because she knew that the expedition she
wished particularly to make alone would afford no pleasure to the others,
while their presence might be the occasion of much pain to herself. Of
course the interest Sienna had for her was its association with S.
Catherine; and she longed to see the spot consecrated by the heroic
sanctity of one whose humility was as profound as her influence on the
world was powerful. She took the opportunity on Sunday, after she and
Marie had assisted at Mass in a little suburban church, to visit the house
of the dyer whose honor and privilege it was to be the father of a woman
the life and character of whom might well be studied by the women of to‐
day. S. Catherine possessed all that the most ambitious of her sex in the
present day could desire—an immense public influence. How did she gain it?
Only by seeking to lose herself in the obscurity of an ignoble origin; in
labors and privations for the sake of a love whose consuming fire many
waters of tribulation could not quench; and in that truly hidden life in
which God delights to work his wonders. The only right she claimed was
that of loving, and consequently of suffering, more than others. The only
insignia of rank she coveted was a crown of thorns, and it was granted to
her by her Eternal Lover, who could refuse her nothing. Her power was in
God’s exaltation of the humble, in his use of the weak things of the world
to confound the mighty. Well might those hands, which were privileged to
bear in them the marks of the Lord Jesus—the sacred stigmata—be made
instrumental in leading back to Rome its exiled pontiff‐king. Self‐
annihilation was the secret of the influence of those glorious women of
the ages of faith who have since been placed upon the altars of the
church. O restless, self‐seeking women of to‐day! striving for a power
which will curse and not bless you, where is the sweet perfume of your
humility? Where are the fruits of mortification? Where the aureola of
sanctity? Where are those grand works for God, offspring of a faith that
believes all and a love that dares all? For these are the virtues in a S.
Catherine or a S. Teresa which all can imitate. Or, if these standards are
too high for modern souls, where are the homely qualities of those women
commended by S. Paul, who adorn themselves with modesty, learn in silence,
are faithful in all things, having a care of the house? Thank God, the
hand of the Lord is not shortened, and holy mother church cherishes many a
hidden gem of sanctity which will one day adorn the bride at the coming of
her divine Spouse! Yet these are but the exceptions, unknown in the midst
of the vast, ever‐moving multitude seeking the open arena of life, and
desiring a part in its contests, animated by hopes as false as they are
human, placing that almost insuperable barrier of pride between their
souls and the Sacred Heart of our divine Lord. S. James has given us this
simple rule of a holy life: “To visit the fatherless and widows in their
tribulation, and to keep ourselves unspotted from the world”—in two words,
charity and purity. May the ever Blessed Mother of God and her glorious
servant S. Catherine intercede for the women of the church, that they may
never covet those empty baubles for which the women of the world are now
spending their lives!

Assunta, simple child of the faith, thought nothing of all this, as she
passed reverently over the threshold of the house, whose rooms, retaining
still something of their original appearance, are now converted into
chapels. The sacristan, perceiving in the young girl an earnestness of
piety to which he was not accustomed in most of the strangers who visited
this holy spot, showed to her, without solicitation, the crucifix before
which S. Catherine was kneeling when she received the stigmata. With kind
attention the good man placed a _prie‐dieu_ before the precious object of
veneration and, then retiring, gave Assunta an opportunity to satisfy her
devotion. Making a place for Marie beside her, she was soon absorbed in
prayer. Here, where the very atmosphere was filled with a spirit of love
and sacrifice, where the crucifix before her spoke so eloquently of the
closeness of the union between the faithful soul and its suffering Lord,
how easy it seemed to make aspirations and resolutions which would of
necessity lose something of their heat when exposed to the chilling air of
the world’s indifference! How far off now was Mr. Carlisle’s affection, of
whose influence she never ceased to feel something; how near the divine
love of the Sacred Heart, that one sole object of S. Catherine’s desire
and adoration! It had been the last request of Father Du Pont, when he
gave Assunta his good‐by and blessing, that, while in Sienna, she would
often visit this holy house. He judged rightly that the evident presence
of the supernatural would help to counteract the spirit of worldliness
which surrounded her in her daily life. She herself already felt that it
was good for her to be there; and though, when she returned home, the
sensible fervor of the moment died away, the effects remained in
reanimated strength. “Courage, my child, and perseverance; God is with
you,” were the last words she had heard from the good priest’s lips; and
they kept singing on in her soul a sweet, low harmony, like the music of
seashells, soothing her in many an anxious hour.

When once Mr. Carlisle was able to go out without danger of fatigue, Mrs.
Grey could no longer complain of stagnation. The cathedral, the academy,
and the numberless places of interest within the city walls, the drives,
the walks through the shady lanes near the villa, twilight strolls through
the vineyards, and excursions into the surrounding country, filled up the
time through all those pleasant weeks. Before they could realize it
Assunta’s birthday, her day of freedom, was at hand. A week before the
eventful occasion Mr. Sinclair had arrived in Sienna, making Mrs. Grey
superlatively happy. The joy he imparted to the others must be expressed
in something less than the positive degree.

The sun rose brightly on the 15th of August. Nature responded to the
joyous Benedicite, and “all the works of the Lord” seemed to “magnify him
for ever” for the great things he had done in giving to heaven a Queen, to
earth an Advocate. Nor was man silent. The grave city of Sienna put off
its wonted dignity, and, by the unfurling of its gay flags, the spreading
of tapestries, and the ringing of bells, testified its share in the common
rejoicing of Christendom. It was the Feast of the Assumption, and Assunta
Howard’s twenty‐first birthday. Was it strange that the young girl should
have arisen with a heavy heart but little in sympathy with the glad sights
and sounds that greeted her in these first waking moments? Surely, to
those who understand the workings of the human heart it was most natural.
On this day ended the relations between herself and her guardian. However
hard the tie which bound her had made her duty towards him, it was harder
still to nature to sever the bond. She was free now to go where she would;
and it would soon be right for her to separate from him who was no longer
her guardian, and was not satisfied to be only her friend. She had not
realized before how much happiness she had experienced in the relationship
which existed no longer; how she had rested content in the very face of
danger, because the peril had in it so much more of pleasure than of pain.
How sweet had been the intercourse which duty had sanctioned, and which
duty must now interrupt! The feeling was all wrong, and she knew it, and
she would not fail to struggle against it. Her will was resolute, but it
was evident that she was not to conquer in life’s battle by throwing aside
her arms and withdrawing from the contest. The bearing of the cross must
be daily, and not only day after day, but year after year. Only to‐day she
seemed to feel its weight more, and she sank a little beneath it. Was it
her guardian angel that whispered courage to her soul, or was it the
Blessed Mother, to whose loving protection she had been specially
confided, who reminded her that our dear Lord fell three times beneath the
overwhelming burden of his cross, and bade her be comforted? Yes, it was
the feast of that dear Mother, and no mere human feeling should prevent
her joining in the church’s exultation and corresponding to her salutation
in the Introit: “Gaudeamus omnes in Domino.”

Assunta had ordered the carriage to be in readiness to take her to San
Domenico for early Mass, and Marie’s knock at the door informed her that
it was waiting. She had before visited the church, but only in the way of
sight‐seeing. She had then been struck with its many points of interest;
she had no idea until this morning how devotional it was. After Mass, at
which she had received, in the Holy Communion, strength and peace, she
remained a long time before the chapel containing those most beautiful
frescos, by Razzi, of incidents in the life of the great saint of Sienna.
The finest of all, S. Catherine in Ecstasy, is a treasure both of art and
devotion. Apparently fainting, supported by two of her nuns, the
countenance of the saint has that indescribable expression of peace which
we see in those whose conversation is in heaven. But, more than this, the
evident absence of all sensation indicates that the soul is rapt into an
ineffable union with its divine Lord, and has passed, for the moment,
beyond the confines of earth. Seemingly dead, and yet alive, the frail
body, with its beautiful, calm face, rests upon its knees in the arms of
the two Sisters, who, with all the tranquillity of the cloister, yet form
a contrast to her who is so wholly dead to the world.

Assunta gazed upon the picture until it seemed to impart rest to her own
soul; and yet the impression was very different from that she always
received in looking at the other S. Catherine whom angels are bearing to
her sepulture. Marie at last interrupted her, and, reminding her that she
was the important personage at the villa on that day, suggested that she
should return to breakfast. And Assunta determined that no cloud should
disturb the serenity of the occasion, which all intended should be joyous.

Mr. Carlisle met her at the door on her return, and assisted her to
alight. Then he took her hand in both his, and his eyes spoke volumes, as
he said:

“Let me look at you, child, and see how you bear your honors. You are more
of a heroine than I thought; for even at this distance we have heard the
bells and have seen the flags. What an important little body you are! No
one thought it worth while to ring me into my majority.”

“It is because you did not come into the world under the same auspices,”
replied Assunta.

“Auspice Maria—that is the secret, then.” And Mr. Carlisle lowered his
voice as he added: “Consider me a Mariolater from this time, my devotion
deriving an ever‐increasing fervor from the doctrine of the Assumption.
Well, you are free, and I suppose I am expected to congratulate you. How
do you enjoy the sensation of liberty?”

“I do not think that I am yet enough accustomed to the use of my wings to
feel the difference between what I was yesterday and what I am to‐day. But
in one point I am unchanged. I have an excellent appetite for my
breakfast.”

Assunta was determined to ward off all approach to sentiment.

“And here is Clara, wondering, no doubt, if I have been left behind in
Sienna.”

Mrs. Grey came out into the garden, looking very lovely in her white
morning dress, and followed by Mr. Sinclair.

“Severn, you are the most selfish man I ever saw,” exclaimed the impetuous
little lady. “Do you flatter yourself that you have the monopoly of
Assunta, and that no one else is privileged to wish her _cento di questi
giorni_, as Giovanni says?—though I am sure I should not like to live a
hundred years. My beauty would be gone by that time.” And she looked
archly at her lover standing beside her.

“I fancy that even relentless time would ‘write no wrinkles on thine
antique brow,’ reluctant to spoil anything so fair,” said Mr. Sinclair in
his most gallant tone; then extending his hand to Assunta, he continued:

“Miss Howard, allow me to congratulate you, and to wish that your life may
be as cloudless as is this wonderful sky. The day is like
yourself—exquisitely beautiful.”

The color mounted into Assunta’s cheeks, but it was with displeasure at
such uncalled‐for flattery. Mr. Carlisle turned away, and walked into the
house; while his sister, with that amiability which often atoned for her
want of tact, exclaimed:

“Bravo! George, you have said quite enough for us both; so I will only
ditto your speech, and add to it my birthday kiss. Now, dear, let us go to
breakfast. Severn is already impatient.”

The table had been placed in a large hall running the whole length of the
house; and as the three were about to enter, Assunta paused on the
threshold, in astonishment and delight at the magical transformation. The
walls were literally garlanded with flowers, and fresh greens were
festooned from the ceiling, while in the centre of the breakfast‐table was
a basket of the rarest exotics. Not only Sienna, but Florence, had been
commissioned to furnish its choicest flowers for the occasion. Assunta’s
eyes filled with tears, and for a moment she could not speak. Mr.
Carlisle, perceiving her emotion, offered her his arm, and led her towards
a side‐table, saying:

“And here are our trifling birthday gifts, which you must not despise
because they fall so far short of expressing all that we feel for you.”

There was a beautifully‐framed proof engraving of Titian’s masterpiece,
the Assumption, from Mr. Carlisle. Clara had chosen as her gift a set of
pearls, “because they looked so like the darling,” she said. Mr.
Sinclair’s offering was a bouquet of rare and exquisite flowers. He had
all the penetration of an experienced man of the world, and understood
well that Miss Howard would prefer not to accept from him anything less
perishable. Assunta put her hand in Clara’s, as she said:

“I never can thank you, it is all so beautiful.” And then she paused,
until Clara exclaimed:

“Why, Assunta love, what a solemn birthday face! To be sure, the flight of
time is a serious thing. I begin to feel it myself, and shall very soon
dispense with birthdays altogether—such disagreeable reminders as they
are.”

“What is it, _petite_?” asked Mr. Carlisle. “You know that to‐day you have
only to command us, and we will prove your most obedient subjects.”

“Oh! it was nothing of any consequence; only a thought that you would
consider very foolish crossed my mind. I am sure my solemnity was quite
unintentional.”

“Well, a penny for that thought, twice told.”

Assunta, perceiving that Mr. Sinclair was out of hearing, explained:

“All this for my poor worthless self and nothing for Her whom God has
delighted to honor. I think I was feeling a little jealous for my dear
Mother. I did not want my feast to be better than hers.”

“Is that all?” said Mr. Carlisle. “To hear is to obey.” And without
another word he quickly removed from the table everything but the picture,
and, taking flowers and candles from the mantel‐piece, he improvised a
really artistic shrine. Giovanni, who was serving breakfast, lighted the
candles, and surveyed the effect with satisfaction.

“Thank you,” said Assunta, and she would not even remember that the love
was wanting which would give value to the offering. “I shall hardly dare
think a wish to‐day, the consequence is so magical.”

“And now, Severn,” said his sister, “if you have finished your popery, you
had better call Assunta’s attention to my ever‐increasing appetite.
Giovanni, too, will not like to have his efforts to honor the occasion
slighted by a want of appreciation.”

Mr. Carlisle offered the young girl his arm, and led her to the table,
saying:

“This is my first attempt at Mariolatry. Quite a success, is it not?”

“If it were only an outward sign of inward grace,” said Clara, laughing,
“exterior piety would be quite becoming to you, Severn. You really have an
artistic taste. But you are too absent‐minded to‐day! Can you not see that
we are starving?”

Assunta was so accustomed to hear sacred things spoken of lightly, and
often irreverently, that she had learned to make a little solitude in her
heart, into which she could retire from the strife, or even the
thoughtlessness, of tongues, and many a short act of reparation was there
performed for those who were unconscious of offence.

“I wonder,” said Mrs. Grey, as after breakfast the party were standing on
the _loggia_—“I wonder if Giovanni has succeeded in finding a good balcony
for the races to‐morrow. I would not miss seeing them for the world. I
dote on horses.”

“I very much doubt,” replied her brother, “if the horses will excite the
least admiration, judging from the specimens Sienna has thus far produced.
But the races will be interesting, because they are entirely unique. I
believe that Giovanni has been very successful in securing a balcony, and
he intends to have it surpass all others in decoration; so I hope that the
ladies will do their part, not to disgrace his efforts. He will expect the
jewels to be set in a manner worthy of the casket which contains them.”

“Never fear, Severn! Do you think a lady ever failed to look her best on
such an occasion? An open balcony and a crowd—surely, she needs no other
occasion for vanity.”

George Sinclair removed his cigar to remark carelessly:

“And so the admiration of _one_ is, after all, insufficient to satisfy
you?”

“No, it is not, you dear, lazy, old fellow, and you know it. It is only
because I like your taste to be appreciated that I want others to admire
me. I do not think there is a more delicious sensation than to feel that
you are pretty to begin with, and then dressed so as to show every point
to the best advantage, and to know that every eye is fixed upon you. One
can be so innocently unconscious of it all the time.”

“Clara, I am ashamed of you,” exclaimed her brother. “You are a perfect
mirror of your sex; only, unfortunately, it is the weaknesses that you
reflect to the life, and none of the virtues.”

“Hush, impertinence!” replied Clara, laughing merrily. “One cannot always
be a well awfully deep and reflecting only the stars. Come, George, what
will be most becoming to me for to‐morrow?”

If it had been a few months after marriage, instead of before, this
devoted lover would probably have replied, “A fool’s cap and bells, for
all I care!” As it was, he concealed his inward irritation, and no one
would have doubted his sincerity as he said: “You cannot fail to be
charming in anything; and I will not choose or suggest, because I would
like to enjoy the pleasure of a surprise.”

Mr. Sinclair was sometimes fascinated by Clara’s piquancy and brightness;
but she did not suit all moods, and to‐day Assunta’s quiet dignity and the
antagonism that Mr. Carlisle always excited more or less, produced an
interior disturbance of which a wife would surely have received the full
benefit. It is strange that an entirely worldly man will often, from a
selfish motive, show a power of self‐control which Christians find it
difficult to practise, even for the love of God. Alas! that the devil
should receive many a sacrifice, many an offering of suffering and
heroism, which, the intention being changed, would produce a saint.

Mrs. Grey had not penetration enough to see below the surface, and she was
entirely satisfied with her lover, whom she considered the best and
handsomest man in the world, not even excepting her brother. She could
rush fearlessly against a mood which would have kept a more appreciative
nature at a distance; and here, perhaps, she had an advantage.

She was now about to answer Mr. Sinclair’s very gratifying speech when an
interruption came in the shape of Giovanni with a note for herself, which
she read hastily, and then said: “Severn, it is from Lady Gertrude. They
were passing through Sienna, and have remained over a day expressly to see
your humble servant. They wish me to dine with them this evening,
accompanied by my _preux chevalier_—her own expression, George. But I do
not know about leaving Assunta alone on her birthday, even for Lady
Gertrude.”

“Oh! I hope you will not disappoint your friends on my account,” said
Assunta. “I have already had my celebration this morning, and it is quite
proper that I should devote this evening to reflections upon my coming
responsibilities.”

“Besides,” said Mr. Carlisle, “I beg to inform you that Assunta will not
be left alone. I flatter myself that I count for one, at least; and I will
endeavor to act as your substitute, Clara, in most effectually preventing
those contemplated reflections. Responsibility and golden hair are an
association of ideas quite incongruous, in my opinion.”

“I see,” said Clara, “that the balance is in Lady Gertrude’s favor. What
do you say, _caro_?”

“If you mean me,” said George Sinclair in a slightly unamiable tone, “I am
always at your service.”

“You bear!” replied the irrepressible Clara, “I will not allow you to go
if you are cross. Well, Giovanni, come to my room in ten minutes for the
answer; and remember to order the carriage for half‐past five.”

“Truly,” said Mr. Carlisle, turning to Assunta after his sister had left
the _loggia_, “I think I never saw so sunshiny a person as Clara. It is
always high noon with her.”

While Assunta assented cordially, Mr. Sinclair said to himself:

“Too much sunshine makes an unpleasant glare, and noon is always the most
disagreeable part of the day. I confess to liking a little of the shadow
of repose.”

He was careful, however, to keep his thoughts to himself. If the lover
could feel imperfections so keenly, it argued but poorly for the blindness
of love on the part of the husband. And yet this blindness, false and
unworthy as it is, seems to be the only chance of peace for worldly
husbands and wives, the only protection against the evil tendencies of
uncontrolled human nature. All Clara’s sunshine might fail to make even a
silver lining to the cloud rising in the distant future.

The sun shone brightly enough, however, when Mrs. Grey and Mr. Sinclair
took their seats in the barouche to drive into Sienna; and the lady, who
so much delighted in the delicious sensation of undisguised admiration,
must have been more than satisfied this afternoon. Many eyes followed the
handsome pair, as they passed rapidly towards the hotel. Clara knew that
she was looking uncommonly well, and she was very proud of her companion’s
distinguished air and manner; so, altogether, she enjoyed quite a little
triumph.

Assunta and Mr. Carlisle dined alone; and, as they rose from the table
just at sunset, Mr. Carlisle proposed a walk down into the vineyards.

“It will soil that pretty white dress of yours, I know; but the air is so
refreshing, and I want you to occupy for a while the new rustic seat I
have had placed near the brook, in that lovely spot we discovered the
other day. Take a shawl with you, _petite_, for it will be cooler as soon
as the sun sets.”

They strolled along slowly down through the narrow paths which separated
the vines heavy with the fast‐ripening fruit, pausing now and then, as
some new beauty in the distant view or in their immediate surroundings
excited their attention. At last, at the bottom of the valley, close
beside a brook, and beneath a clump of trees, they came upon one of those
fairy spots where nature seems to have arranged herself expressly to
attract an artist’s eye.

“Giovanni is truly invaluable,” said Mr. Carlisle. “I had only to give him
a suggestion, and see how well he has carried out my ideas. This is the
very luxury of comfort.” And seating himself, he lighted a cigar, advised
Assunta to put on her shawl, and was evidently prepared for a pleasant
hour.

As they sat there, almost in silence, the Angelus sounded from a distant
convent tower; and, as if in answer to its summons, Assunta began to sing
in a sweet, low voice Schubert’s Ave Maria. Mr. Carlisle did not say a
word until it was finished; then he begged for just one more, and, knowing
how much he liked the simple Scotch songs, she sang “Robin Adair.”

“Assunta, your voice grows sweeter every day. It is perfect rest to me to
hear you sing.” Then, after a pause, he threw away his cigar, and turned
towards her a very earnest face.

“_Petite_, listen to me patiently a moment. I am a very proud man, as you
know, and one who is not apt to sue, even where he greatly desires. It
seems”—and the peculiar smile broke over his face—“that you have exercised
some magic power, and with a touch of your finger have thrown down the
barrier of pride against which an army might beat in vain. My child, you
know what I am going to say, because I have not changed since that
moonlight night in the Colosseum, except, indeed, that the feeling I then
expressed has strengthened and deepened every day. I made you a promise
that night. I confess that it has been poorly enough redeemed; still, you
must judge me by my self‐conquests rather than by my failures. But to‐day
releases me: and having ceased to be your guardian, I cannot give you up.
I need not repeat to you what I have already said. You know that you are
dearer to me than the life you have saved. I only ask, as before, the
right to devote that life to you. May I?”

“I had hoped, Mr. Carlisle, that you would consider my former answer as
final,” said Assunta; but, though her words were cold, her voice trembled.
“I, too, am unchanged since that night you speak of. I am compelled to be
so.”

“Assunta, you are such a child; do you, then, think it nothing to have won
the love of a man who has reached middle life and has never loved before?”

“Mr. Carlisle,” said the young girl sadly, “if I thought it nothing, I
should not feel the pain it costs me to repeat to you, that it cannot be.
I am so unworthy of your love; you must not think I do not value it. Your
friendship has been more to me than I dare tell you, lest you should
misunderstand me.”

“Your heart pleads for me, child.”

“Then I must not listen to it; for the voice of God in my soul pleads more
loudly.”

“Assunta,” said Mr. Carlisle, “I think you did not understand me
before—you do not understand me now. Do you suppose I should interfere in
your religion? No more than I have ever done. You do not know me, child.”

“I think I know you better than you know yourself, presumptuous as this
sounds,” said Assunta, forcing a smile. “I am sure that, were I to marry
you, you would not be satisfied to hold a place in my heart second even to
God. But,” she added, as the old expression of bitterness crossed her
guardian’s face, “all this is useless. Let me put a question to you, and
answer me candidly. Suppose I had made a promise to you, who love me—made
it, we will grant, out of love for you—and afterwards, yielding to my own
weakness, I should break that promise. Would you feel that I had done
rightly—that I was to be trusted?”

“Certainly not, child. You ask strange questions.”

“Well, I have, out of love for our dear Lord, made him a promise which I
believed his love required of me. He is a jealous Lover, Mr. Carlisle. I
dare to say this reverently. Suppose, for the sake of a human
affection—for your sake—I should fail to keep my promise; would you not
have reason to doubt my fidelity to you, when I could be unfaithful to my
God?”

“My child, I do not comprehend such reasoning. You either do not, cannot
love me, or else you have suffered religious fanaticism to get the better
of your judgment. I hoped that the plea of love would be sufficient to win
my cause; but it is not all. Look your future fairly in the face, Assunta.
What are you going to do? You are young; I need not add, beautiful.
Surely, you understand that without me you are unprotected. Have you any
plans, or have you already become so independent that you prefer not to
make me your confidant? My pride is gone indeed when I put my suit in
another form. I ask only your hand. Let me have the right to protect you
in the world you know so little. I will wait to win your heart.”

“Mr. Carlisle,” interrupted Assunta with more emotion than he had ever
seen in her before, “you are cruel in your persistence. You wilfully
misunderstand me. It seems to give you pleasure to make this trial as hard
for me as possible. I have told you before that I can never marry you; let
that be enough.” And bursting into tears, she rose hastily from her seat.

Her guardian was so taken by surprise that for an instant he sat
motionless; then he followed the excited girl, and joined her before she
had proceeded far along the vineyard path.

“Take my arm, _petite_,” he said gently, and they walked some distance in
silence. At last Assunta said with regained composure:

“Mr. Carlisle, you asked me about my plans, and you have a right to know.
I have thought much of the future, as you may believe. My desire is to
return to Baltimore with Clara after her marriage, and pass the winter
with Mary Percival. Further than this I need not look.”

There was no immediate answer. After a pause Mr. Carlisle said:

“You are your own mistress now. I shall of course place no obstacle in the
way of your carrying out any wish or design which will conduce to your
welfare. As for myself, the time may come when I shall cease to regret
that I am in no wise necessary to your happiness. Meanwhile, it shall be
as you say. Good heavens! to think that a mere girl should have the power
to move me so,” he went on, as if speaking to himself.

And apparently his thoughts were so full of Assunta that he forgot her
actual presence, for they reached the house in silence, and then Mr.
Carlisle proceeded at once to his own room; and so ended the birthday.

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

The Sienna races are a thoroughly unique spectacle—almost childish, like
many features of the Roman Carnival, to the over‐cultivated and
consequently over‐fastidious taste of this age. They take one back to the
days when men were more simple, when hearts did not grow old and faith was
strong. These childlike traits produced a race of men who were but
“children of a larger growth,” and, like children, amused with even a
small amount of pomp and show, heroes as they were. And a strange contrast
were the races of that 16th of August to the usual occupations of the
Siennese. Mr. Carlisle’s carriage passed beneath innumerable flags and
between gayly‐tapestried windows, as it drove to the amphitheatre‐shaped
piazza, the centre of which was already filled, while every seat placed
against the houses which bounded the square was occupied. The bright
colors worn by the peasant women, with their large Tuscan hats and the
more subdued dress of the men, produced an effect at once very peculiar
and very picturesque. A little cheer from the bystanders greeted Mr.
Carlisle’s party, as they appeared upon the balcony; for no other
decorations in all that vast piazza were so fine as those in which
Giovanni had shown so much skill, and surely no other ladies were as
beautiful. There was no appearance of heartache or disappointment on any
of the four faces which now looked out upon the crowd. We all, sooner or
later, learn to wear a mask before the world, and the interior life of
each one of us is often a sealed book to our nearest friends.

“Clara,” said Assunta, as they seated themselves after their survey, “you
seem to know more about the races than the rest of us. Please to enlighten
my ignorance.”

“I heard about them at the hotel last night,” replied Mrs. Grey; “so you
will find me very learned. Sienna is divided into seventeen wards; but
only ten take part in the race, and these are decided by lot. The victor
receives a prize and a sort of diminutive triumph, while the losers may
think themselves lucky if they only get a scolding from their respective
wards. The oracle has spoken, and further than this she is not informed.”

“The rest we shall now see for ourselves,” said Mr. Sinclair, “for I hear
the music which I suppose accompanies the procession.” And, as he spoke,
the band entered the piazza from a side street. Then followed, in turn,
the representatives of the different wards, each representation consisting
of two flags—the colors of the ward—a number of pages, the race‐horse led
by an esquire, and the man who was afterwards to ride the racer, on
horseback as a knight. The flag‐bearers, as well as all in each division,
wore exactly the colors of the flag of the ward, in costumes of the olden
time; and, as these flags were of entirely different combinations of
colors, and most of them very brilliant, the procession would have been
very effective without its peculiar charm. The flag‐bearers were men of
grace and skill, and from the moment of entering the square the flags were
in continual motion—waved above their heads, flung into the air, passed
under their arms and legs, and all without once touching the ground. It
was a very poetical combination of color and motion, and Mrs. Grey
impulsively clapped her hands with delight—a performance which her
dignified lover evidently looked upon as childish. After this part of the
procession came a large chariot drawn by four horses, with postilions, and
bearing the ten different flags tastefully arranged. This was the model of
the old Siennese battle‐car, which bore the standard, and was in
consequence the scene of the thickest of the fight. Upon it, in time of
battle, stood a priest, invoking by his prayers protection and success.
There also was the trumpeter, in readiness to give signals. A truly
mediæval picture was this chariot, with associations which carried one
back hundreds of years into the past. A band of music closed the
procession, which, after passing around the piazza, entered the court‐yard
of the Palazzo Pubblico. Here the knights exchanged their helmets and
plumes for jockey‐caps, and mounted their racers. As they emerged from
beneath the archway, and proceeded slowly towards the starting‐place,
across which a rope was drawn, Mr. Carlisle exclaimed, with a laugh in
which there was more sarcasm than merriment:

“Are you a judge of horses, Clara? If so, you, who yesterday announced
your jockey proclivities, must be greatly disappointed; for truly a set of
sorrier‐looking steeds I never beheld. The prize ought to be given to the
one that comes in last; for, where all are so slow, there would really be
no little exercise of skill in moving more slowly than a coach‐horse going
up‐hill, and yet moving at all.”

“I think, Severn,” replied his sister, “that your temper was not improved
by the fever. It is very disagreeable in you to inform me that the horses
are not Arabian chargers, for I never should have been the wiser.”

“Most men are disagreeable,” he retorted.

“George, you hear that, and do not resent it?” said Mrs. Grey indignantly.

“I leave that for you to do when you can, from experience of the contrary,
deny the charge. But the horses are starting on their three times round.”
And Mr. Sinclair leaned over the balcony with an air of interest.

“Why do the men carry those short sticks in their hands?” asked Assunta.

“I believe,” said Mr. Sinclair—for Mr. Carlisle became strangely
inattentive—“that the riders are allowed by rule to do all the damage they
can with the sticks, which are short, so as to limit somewhat their power;
for their aim is to knock each other off the horses.”

“The barbarians!” exclaimed Clara. “Oh! look, see how many are falling
back on the third round. It rests with the two now. I bet on the sorrel.”

“And he has won, Clara,” said Assunta.

The whole piazza was now in motion. Shouts greeted the victor, and the
defeated retired into obscurity.

“The modern Olympics are finished,” said Mr. Carlisle. “Shall we go?”

As they drove towards home in the red glow of the setting sun, Mr.
Carlisle said abruptly:

“Clara, when did you tell me that you and Sinclair intend to make each
other miserable?”

“I will not answer such a question, Severn. You are a perfect dog in the
manger. You will not marry yourself or let any one else.”

“If you wish to know,” said Mr. Sinclair, “when your sister intends to
make me the happiest of men, she has permitted me to hope that the end of
September will be the term of my most impatient waiting.”

“Then,” continued Mr. Carlisle in the same abrupt tone, “we had better be
on our way to Paris. We might start day after to‐morrow, I think.”

Mrs. Grey gave a little scream.

“Severn, you must be out of your mind. I thought you wished never to leave
Sienna.”

“I am weary to death of it; but that is not all. I have business matters
to arrange, and the preparation of your _trousseau_ will no doubt occupy
weeks.”

“But it will be so warm in Paris,” persisted Mrs. Grey.

“Do people whose hearts are filled with love and their minds with coming
matrimony think of weather, then? I thought such sublunary interests were
left to those whose hearts were still unthawed. However, there are fans
and ices enough in Paris to cool you off. I will write to‐night to engage
rooms.” And then Mr. Carlisle relapsed into silence and abstraction.

Assunta understood well enough the cause of this change in the plans; but
she was powerless to act, and could only submit. It, indeed, made little
difference to her.

“George,” said Clara to her lover, as they were strolling down the avenue
in the moonlight, “can you imagine what is the matter with Severn? I never
saw him in such a mood.”

“Disappointed in love, I should judge from appearances,” he replied
indifferently.

“Nonsense! He does not know the meaning of the word,” was the not very
intelligent reply of the lady.

To Be Continued.




Swinburne And De Vere.


The dramas _Bothwell_(94) and _Alexander the Great_,(95) which have so
recently come into the world side by side to challenge the attention of
that portion of it that speaks, or is supposed to speak, the language of
Shakespeare, offer all the contrasts that might be expected from their
subjects, as well as from the known thought, tone, and tendency of their
respective authors. One writer has taken for his chief character a great
Christian woman whose story, look at it as we may, is at least of the
saddest that was ever told; the other has chosen for his subject the
wonder of pagan history, the exemplar of pagan greatness, whose short
career is the condensation of all earthly glory and triumph.

It will be at once manifest that to a modern writer, as far as the
materials for the construction of an historical drama go, the life of
Mary, Queen of Scots, is beyond measure richer than that of Alexander. Her
story is religiously and politically one of the day. She is still on
trial, no longer before the narrow circles of York and Fotheringay, but
before Christendom. The question of her innocence or guilt, and the
consequent justice or injustice of her sentence, is debated as fiercely
to‐day as when alone she faced the sleuth‐hounds of Elizabeth in defence
of her honor and her life.

The final judgment of Christendom may be said already to be a foregone
conclusion in her favor, so fast is the long‐withheld evidence of her
innocence accumulating. But her life‐blood stains a nation and a religion,
or what called itself such, and the verdict that declares her “not guilty”
lays a terrible and indelible blot on them. Hence every nook and cranny of
history is searched, every historical cobweb disentangled, with an
eagerness and minuteness so thorough and complete that the reader is
better acquainted often with the history of Mary Stuart than with that of
the century in which he lives.

For a dramatist a most important point is thus at once secured. His
audience is interested in advance; and there is no further care for him
than to make a judicious use of the wealth of material at his disposal.

And surely to one with a soul in his body never did a more fitting subject
for a tragedy offer itself than Mary, Queen of Scots. The only difficulty
would seem to be a right selection from a great abundance. The scenes and
characters, the very speeches often, are ready made. Time, place,
circumstance, are ripe with interest. The march of events is terribly
rapid. The scene is ever shifting, and with it the fortunes of the queen.
All the passions are there at strife. Plot and counterplot, tragedy within
tragedy, love and hate, jealousy and wrath, hope and fear, the basest
betrayal and the loftiest devotion, surge and make war around this one
woman, and are borne along with her in a frenzied whirl to the terrible
end, when the curtain drops silently on that last dread scene that stands,
as it will for ever stand, in startling relief, far out from the dim
background of history.

The name of Alexander the Great calls up no such interest as this. His
life would seem the least likely of subjects for a modern dramatist. Great
captains, such as the first Napoleon, may look to him as at once their
model and their envy; but happily such great men are few and far between.
Alexander might indeed have formed an admirable theme for one of the
lesser lights of the English Augustan era to celebrate in those sonorous
heroics whose drowsy hum might serve at need as an admirable soporific.
But he and those who lived and moved about him are out of our world; and
whether he conquered ten empires or fifty, whether he defeated Darius or
Darius him, whether he sighed for more or fewer worlds to conquer, is now
all one to us. The sands of the desert have buried or wiped out his empire
ages ago; the sands of time have settled down on his memory and half
obliterated it; and the mighty Alexander serves to‐day for little more
than to point a moral.

On the other hand, every scene and incident in which Mary, Queen of Scots,
figured is intense with dramatic force. She entered on her reign at what
might be called the dawn of modern history—a lurid dawn presaging the
storm that was to come and is not yet over. The Reformation was convulsing
Europe. It had just entered Scotland before her, and the raven that
croaked its fatal entrance was John Knox. In the person of this girl were
centred the hopes of the Catholic party for Scotland and England. Mingled
with the strife of creeds around her was the conflict of the great
Scottish families, whose miserable contentions rent and wrecked the
kingdom. Any chieftain who chose and thought himself strong enough drew
the sword when and for what purpose pleased him. More than half of
them—those of any note, at least—were in Elizabeth’s pay. Treason
constituted much of the political life of those days, while under and over
and among the fierce strife of political parties rang and resounded the
clangor and wrangle of the delirious sects that had just apostatized from
Rome. Such was the period when the helm of the most distracted state in
distracted Christendom was set in the hand of a gentle girl, who stood
there alone to guide it over unknown seas. All the tempest gathered
together its fury and broke over her head. This is the figure chosen by
the author of _Bothwell_ for the centre of his tragedy. It was a time and
a scene and a tragedy worthy the philosophic mind of a Shakespeare and the
terrible power of an Æschylus. Mr. Swinburne’s work scarcely gives
evidence of the combination of these qualities.

A subject of this kind, when attempted at all, suggests painful
reflections if failure, emphatic failure, is the result. A goose essaying
an eagle’s flight would scarcely present a more absurd figure. Mr.
Swinburne has fallen immeasurably below the level of a subject whose level
is greatness. Not because he has chosen to paint Mary, Queen of Scots, as
a fiend, is this judgment passed on his work. Milton has proved that Satan
can be converted by genius into the most powerful dramatic villain that
ever trod the stage. Lady Macbeth may thrill us with horror, but she never
causes us to yawn. The author of _Bothwell_ was at liberty, by the license
allowed to poets, to make his heroine wicked enough even to satisfy his
fastidious taste, and still have given us a drama that of its own force
and brilliancy and coherence would have extorted the admiration of the
unfortunate queen’s most ardent defenders. But even her heartiest haters
could not resist the tendency to nod over the cumbrous wickedness, the
very heavy villany, of _Bothwell_, which is simply a dilution of Froude
with a tincture of Swinburne, well watered and administered in the largest
possible doses, or, in plain English, a few scenes of the history of the
period stitched loosely together and set to measured lines of blank verse.

Five hundred and thirty‐two pages, with thirty lines to the page, in five
acts and sixty scenes, make a tragedy indeed. Such is _Bothwell_. Yet,
notwithstanding its alarming proportions, it only extends from the death
of Rizzio to the battle of Langside, thus omitting the scene that of all
others is the most thrilling and effective—Mary’s execution. This may have
been done with a purpose; for even malevolence falters there. Such an end,
preceded by her long captivity, so patiently borne, were she even as
wicked as Mr. Swinburne would make her, might almost expiate any crime, as
it sanctifies her innocence.

The entire first act, entitled “David Rizzio,” is absorbed by the murder
of the character after which it is named. As far as its necessary
connection with the drama goes, it might have been entirely and very
profitably omitted. It serves, indeed, to introduce many of the
characters, but to no special purpose that might not have been
accomplished in any of the other acts. The author forgets that he is not
writing history, but a drama. We do not want the minutiæ, everything that
everybody said at any time, in any place, and under any circumstances
while Mary, Queen of Scots, was living, which Mr. Swinburne seems to think
he was bound to give us, and in blank verse too, in _Bothwell_. We want
the situations, the great facts. What led up to them may be told or hinted
at in a few lines. Mr. Swinburne does not seem to have realized this, and,
as a consequence, his drama is crowded with scenes, incidents, and
personages that not only hinder, but are utterly irrelevant to, the main
action of the piece, if indeed the piece can be truly said to possess any
main action. Thus it takes the entire first act, consisting of five scenes
and _eighty‐nine_ pages, to kill Rizzio. At last he is happily despatched,
to the relief, it must be said, of the reader, who, already wearied, finds
the second act entirely devoted to a similar sanguinary operation,
performed on Darnley this time. With a nice sense, notwithstanding his
pronounced communistic sympathies, of what is due even to second‐hand
royalty of the Darnley order, Mr. Swinburne, regardless of the liberal
allowance of space allotted to the stabbing of Rizzio, feels it incumbent
on him to devote one hundred and forty‐seven pages and twenty‐one scenes
to the blowing up of Mary’s husband. Thus, although two hundred and forty
pages in all are given over mainly to the killing of these two characters,
the tragedy can be scarcely said to have begun, there being still three
dreary acts to face.

The question naturally suggests itself here, What in the name of common
sense, if not of tragedy, has Mr. Swinburne been doing with his space?
Perhaps we have reason to congratulate ourselves after all that he did not
pursue his unhappy victim into England, and insist upon murdering her
also; for it is impossible, in the contemplation of such an event, to form
even a wild conception of when and where Mr. Swinburne’s tragedy was
likely to terminate. The truth is, he is no dramatist at all; he is a
writer of speeches, good, bad, or indifferent, as may be, but no more.
Livy or Sallust have almost as just a title to be styled dramatists as Mr.
Swinburne; Homer far more so. Speeches form perhaps the least, certainly
the easiest, portion of a drama; and the speeches in _Bothwell_ are more
or less ready made. Mr. Swinburne cannot grasp a situation; he can only
write _about_ it. He cannot picture it to us in a few telling lines. He
cannot hint a future; he must foretell it in full, or wait until it comes.
He cannot content himself with leaving well alone. The Earl of Leicester’s
historic “nod” that meant so much is of course a very amusing caricature;
but the point of a caricature lies in the kernel of truth which it covers.
Perhaps the most necessary of dramatic faculties is the capability of
saying much in a little; and that faculty Mr. Swinburne does not possess
in the slightest degree. If anything, his special tendency lies in an
opposite direction; he says remarkably little in a very great deal.
Instead of mastering his material, he has become hopelessly embarrassed by
it, and, like the miser in the story, perishes from want in the midst of
the treasures piled up around him. His characters, instead of being moved
at his will, move him at theirs. When one, no matter of how great or how
little importance, opens his or her mouth, not even Mr. Swinburne himself
can say when it will close. Speeches pages in length are thrown into
anybody’s mouth on the slightest provocation, and all pitched more or less
in the same key. If Mary curses—for Mr. Swinburne is more liberal than
discreet in his distribution of strong language—she is not content with
one good, round, blasphemous oath once in a while, but must indulge in
half a dozen or so offhand. If Knox argues or preaches, he does so at as
great length almost as when in the flesh. One of his speeches fills
thirteen pages without a break. If the inevitable “first, second, and
third citizen” enter—who, for the manner of their speeches or the matter
of them, might with equal propriety be dubbed “first citizen” or “fifty‐
second citizen,” or anything else—they talk and talk and talk until they
talk themselves off, as they would beyond all doubt talk an audience out
of their seats. Almost two‐thirds of the play is to the reader simply
wearisome jabber, whose sense, like Gratiano’s “infinite deal of nothing,”
is as “two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff.”

The drama is so interminable that we can only call attention to the chief
character, which is not Bothwell, as the title would seem to imply, but
Mary, whose alleged amours with Bothwell form the groundwork of the piece.
As this article does not pretend to enter into an historical
investigation, this is not the place to advance reasons for disagreeing
with Mr. Swinburne’s estimate of Mary. One or two words, however, may be
permitted.

The story that forms the foundation of this play has been torn to shreds
by writers of every shade of opinion. Its truth, based mainly on the
“casket letters,” was never accepted even at the English court. Elizabeth
herself was compelled to acquit her cousin of all such scandalous charges.
Yet on this Mr. Swinburne, with the chivalry of a poet and the honesty of
a man who must have read history, builds his nauseous drama. Again, Mary
was, by all concession, a lady. High and royal spirit she had indeed, of
which in some notable instances she gave ample proof; but she has never
been accused of indulging in language unworthy the royal woman she was, or
savoring in any sense of coarseness. She was also a consistent and
practical Catholic, who knew her religion and how to hold it, even against
that fierce Calvinistic wolf, John Knox, to whom it were a happiness had
his insulted sovereign only meted out the measure he persistently
advocated for all Catholics. But she was too gentle‐natured to adopt means
of enforcing silence and obedience more congenial to the spirit of her
English cousin, who had a very summary manner of dealing with theological
difficulties. This much being premised, let us now look at the Mary of Mr.
Swinburne.

Here we have her in the very first scene of the first act. Rizzio is
pleading with her the recall of Murray:


    QUEEN. “What name is his who shall so strengthen me?”

    RIZZIO. “Your father gave him half a brother’s name.”

    QUEEN. “I have no brother; a bloodless traitor he is,

    Who was my father’s bastard‐born. By heaven!
    I had rather have his head loose at my foot
    Than his tongue’s counsel rounded in mine ear.”


This is only her fourth speech in the play. It does not seem to have
impressed Rizzio sufficiently; for, turning a page, we find her still
railing at the subject of her wrath in this vigorous style:


                ... “By my hand,
    Too little and light to hold up his dead head,
    It was my hope to dip it in his life
    Made me ride iron‐mailed and soldieress.”


With occasional spurts of this nature the queen enlivens her somewhat
tedious colloquy of thirteen pages with Rizzio concerning Murray. She is
candid enough to say in one place of her half‐brother, whom the Mary of
history really believed in too long and too blindly for her own happiness:


    “I am gay of heart, light as a spring south wind,
    To feed my soul with his foretasted death....”


And again:


    “Oh! I feel dancing motions in my feet
    And laughter moving merrily at my lips,
    Only to think him dead, or hearsed, or hanged—That
    were the better. I could dance down his life.
    Sing my steps through, treading on his dead neck,
    For love of his dead body and cast‐out soul.”


Verily, a real Highland fling! And lest there should be any possible doubt
as to the meaning of “cast‐out soul,” this gentle lady pursues it to its
place, and gloats over its eternal torments in this Christian fashion:


    “He shall talk of me to the worm of hell,
    Prate in death’s ear and with a speechless tongue
    Of my dead doings in days gone out....”


It is surely punishment enough to be condemned to carry on a conversation
of any kind with the worm of hell and in the ear of death; but to compel
even a cast‐out soul to perform this unpleasant duty “with a _speechless_
tongue” is punishment that passes ordinary comprehension. Doubtless,
however, matters are or will be altered for Mr. Swinburne’s special
convenience in the lower regions. Abandoning the wretched Murray to his
destiny, we look for other revelations of Mary’s character, although
something of her mettle may be gathered from the passages already given,
which have been taken almost at random from the first twenty‐eight pages
of the five hundred and thirty‐two. They are by no means the liveliest
specimens to be found.

It would display a lamentable lack of knowledge of nature supposed to be
human to imagine for a moment that the woman—if the expression is
allowable—revealed in these passages is likely to be at all squeamish or
foolishly coy about the profession of what Mr. Swinburne would probably
call her love for Bothwell. The insignificant facts that her own husband,
Darnley, and Bothwell’s wife, Jane Gordon, were still living, would
naturally weigh lightly as feathers in the balance against her desire.
Most of the scenes between the queen and Bothwell might be shortly
described as “linked foulness long drawn out.” Were they even word for
word true, it would still be a wonder and a shame to honest manhood that
they could be dwelt upon and gloated over by any writer at all. Horace
boasted of belonging to the “Epicurean herd.” Were he living now, he
would, we honestly believe, feel conscientious scruples at admitting Mr.
Swinburne into the company. Only such passages are quoted here as are
presentable and necessary to endorse our judgment of this drama.

Without even an attempt at disguise, Mary and Bothwell discuss the best
means of getting rid of Darnley. As a wife, expecting soon to be a mother,
and as a Christian woman, it is only natural that she should urge on the
not unwilling Bothwell in this style:


              “_Would I were God!_
    Time should be quicker to lend help and hand
    To men that wait on him. . . . Were I a man,
    I had been by this a free man.”


In the course of the second act she falls sick, as she believes, to death.
She makes her dying confession to the Bishop of Ross, who, it is to be
presumed, knew his religion. That being the case, it was somewhat rash in
Mr. Swinburne to put into his mouth a gross error. He assures the dying
queen that


    “The man that keeps faith sealed upon his soul
    Shall through the blood‐shedding of Christ be clean.
    And in this time of cursing and flawed faith
    Have you kept faith unflawed.
    Have no fear, therefore, but your sins of life

    Shall fall from off you as a vesture changed.
    And leave your soul for whiteness as a child’s.”


Of course there is a sense in which this may be taken as correct. The man
that really keeps his “faith sealed upon his soul” and “unflawed,” acts up
to his faith and lives its life. But this is not what Mr. Swinburne means.
In several passages he is at pains to show that it is not. His meaning
simply is that because Mary held to the profession of the Catholic faith
the bishop assured her that her sins would be remitted. That faith alone
was sufficient for salvation was the heresy of Luther. We do not know
whether those useful little compendiums of Christian doctrine commonly
known as catechisms were much in vogue at the time. Had they been, Mary
would have found in hers the following question and answer, which would
have shamed the Bishop of Ross: “Will faith alone save us?” “No; it will
not without good works.”

It must be remembered, however, that Mr. Swinburne, and not the bishop, is
the real father confessor to his own penitent, and a very indulgent one he
makes. The queen says:


    “I would have absolution ere I die,
    But of what sins I have not strength to say
    Nor hardly to remember.”


After all that has gone before, that reads remarkably like a wilful lie,
as Mr. Swinburne’s bishop might have hinted, particularly as she has
memory enough left to enumerate her virtues, which conclude with this:


    “I have held mine own faith fast, and with my lips
    Have borne him [God] witness if my heart were whole.”


Whereupon the worthy bishop takes occasion to repeat his blunder. Glossing
beautifully over her sins in a graceful sentence or two, the queen
proceeds to “remit all faults against her done,” and ends in this edifying
strain:


            “I will not take death’s hand
    With any soil of hate or wrath or wrong
    About me, but, being friends with this past world,
    Pass from it in the general peace of love.”


Just at this happy moment, by what would doubtless be considered “a stroke
of genius,” Murray is made to enter and announce the arrival of Darnley,
the unfortunate individual whose crime it is to persist in being Mary’s
lawful husband when she is in love with one who, by her own command, was
somebody else’s lawful husband. As may be supposed from what we know of
her already, the contrite queen greets the announcement as contrite queens
in similar situations are wont to do, thus:


    “By heaven! I had rather death had leave than he.
    What comes he for? To vex me quick or dead
    With his lewd eyes and sodden, sidelong face,
    That I may die with loathing of him?
    By God, as God shall look upon my soul,
    I will not see him.”


After this there is clearly nothing left for the bishop to do but
administer the last sacraments and bid the Christian soul depart in peace.
Luckily, however, at this critical juncture, and by another “stroke of
genius,” the well‐known tramp of Bothwell’s heel falls on the ear of the
dying queen, who immediately feels better, and bids her attendants “bring
him in.”

One more passage, and we have done with Mr. Swinburne’s Mary. Darnley is
not yet murdered; Bothwell is not yet divorced from Jane Gordon; he who
became James I. of England is about to be born; the queen has in the
preceding scene made the “confession” noticed above; the time, therefore,
was ripe for her to make the following declaration to Bothwell:


    “I purge me now and perfect my desire,
    Which is to be no more your lover—no,
    But even yourself, yea, more than body and soul,
    One and not twain, one utter life, one fire,
    One will, one doom, one deed, one spirit, _one God:_
    _For we twain grown and molten each in each,_
    _Surely shall be as God is, and no man_.”


Were there such a thing as love in _delirium tremens_, surely this would
be an instance; only that Mary is perfectly cool and collected in making
so plain and definite a statement. And Bothwell is just the kind of man to
understand and appreciate the pleasant prospect held out for them both. He
responds cheerily, hopefully, and prayerfully withal:


    “God speed us, then, till we grow up to God!”


The reader has probably seen enough of Mr. Swinburne’s Mary Stuart. It
will be clear to any impartial mind that beheading was far too easy a fate
for such a character.

In one thing at least has the author succeeded. He set out to paint a
monster, and a monster indeed he has painted in Mary. The question for the
reader to determine is whether his very full‐armed Minerva be an emanation
from the brain of this modern Jove or one who was a real, living woman. A
woman ravenous for blood, lost to all shame, hating even her unborn
offspring, blasphemous as Satan, cruel and pitiless as hell, brawling as a
drunkard, full of oaths and coarse expressions as a trooper—if this be a
true picture of Mary, Queen of Scots, of the woman who in her day drew, as
she still continues to draw, the hearts of all true men and honest women
to her side, then has the author done his work well and literature a
service. But if she be the opposite of all this—a woman cruelly murdered
and systematically wronged, at mention of whose name the heart of that
chivalry which is never dead, and will never die while Christian manhood
lives, leaps up—one is at a loss to father the writer’s monster on any
other than himself. Viewed in this light, it can only be looked upon as
the product of an imagination diseased, an intellect debauched, and a mind
distorted—the work of a man whose moral nature has gone astray, and to
whom consequently all that is true, pure, womanly, manly, godly, has lost
its significance and value.

From the Christian heroine to the pagan hero we turn with a feeling of
relief. The very title of Mr. de Vere’s drama challenges criticism. To
write about Alexander the Great is one thing; to make Alexander speak for
himself is another. The world, fashionable as it is to abuse its taste, is
discriminating in the conferring of titles that are universal. Local
magnates of greater or less magnitude are common enough; but men whom all
civilized nations in all ages have agreed to crown with _greatness_ are
very few and very far between. From the number of these the son of Philip
of Macedon probably stands out pre‐eminent In his brief career he
accomplished more than any human conqueror ever accomplished, and he
succeeded in leaving more after him. So complete and marvellous was his
success, and so gigantic his projects, while his means were
proportionately limited, that, beyond all possibility of doubt, the man,
young as he was, must have been a marvellous genius. Being so, he must not
only have done great deeds, but thought great thoughts. He must have been
fitted in every way to be a leader of men. This, perhaps the most
marvellous character in human history, is the one of all others whom Mr.
de Vere, with a courage which, if not justified by the result, can only be
looked upon as either rashness or folly, has undertaken to set living and
real before us, speaking the speech, thinking the thoughts, scheming the
schemes, dreaming the dreams of Alexander. Greatness thus becomes one of
the necessary standards by which we must judge Mr. de Vere’s work. If his
chief character is not great in thought and word, as we know him to have
been in deed, he is not Alexander, and this work can only be regarded as a
more pretentious failure than the other. If he is great in thought and
speech, where are the elements of his greatness to be found? In the brain
of the author, in the conception of the poet—nowhere else. For in this
case the speeches are not, as they were in the other, ready made and to
hand. The record of Alexander’s deeds we have; but Alexander we must
imagine for ourselves. What manner of man, then, is this that Mr. de Vere
has given us? is the first and most natural question to be asked.

Friend and foe alike are busy about him. At the opening of the play
Parmenio, the testy but honest‐hearted veteran of Philip, before Alexander
has yet made his appearance, in words where the admiration of the soldier
and the irritability and jealousy of old age are admirably blended, says:


            “A realm his father owed me,
    And knew it well. The son is reverent too,
    But with a difference, sir. In Philip’s time
    My voice was Delphic on the battle‐field.
    This young man taps the springs of my experience,
    As though with water to allay his wine
    Of keener inspirations. ‘Speak thy thought,
    Parmenio!’ Ere my words are half‐way out
    He nods approval or he smiles dissent.
    Still, there is like him none! I marvell’d oft
    To see him breast that tempest from the north,
    Drowning revolt in the Danubian wave.
    The foe in sight, instant he knew their numbers;
    If distant, guess’d their whereabout—how lay
    The intermediate tract—if fordable
    The streams—the vales accessible to horse:
    ’Twas like the craft of beasts remote from man.”


Antisthenes, the rhetorician, describes the man of action as a rhetorician
might:


    “This king is valued past his worth:
    He nothing says that’s sage, like Ptolemy,
    Or keen‐edged, like Craterus. This I grant him:
    _Sagacity supreme in observation_;
    He sees with eye inspired. Seeing with him
    Is Act and Thought, not sense.”


Arsinoë, the daughter of Darius, thinks that “he neither loves nor hates.”
He is royal‐faced, “albeit too eager‐eyed.” And Hephestion, the strong
friend on whom alone of all men Alexander leans, tells her of him:


    “He loves not many, and himself the least:
    _His purposes to him are wife and child_.”


“Free him from that conceit,” says Parmenio later on, “that he’s a god,”


              “The man of men were he:
    None like him we have had since Marathon.”

    PHILOTAS. “I grant his greatness were his god‐ship sane,
    But note his brow: ’tis Thought’s least earthly temple
    Then mark, beneath, that round, not human eye,
    Still glowing like a panther’s! In his body
    No passion dwells; _but all his mind is passion,_
    _Wild, intellectual appetite, and instinct_
    _That works without a law_.”

    PARMENIO. “But half you know him.
    There is a zigzag lightning in his brain
    That flies in random flashes, yet not errs.
    Chances his victories seem; but link those chances,
    And under them a science you shall find,
    Though unauthentic, contraband, illicit,
    Yes, contumelious oft to laws of war.
    Fortune, that as a mistress smiles on others,
    Serves him as duty‐bound; her blood is he,
    Born in the purple of her royalties.”


And so they go on describing him, each in his own way; for, with
felicitous art, the presence of Alexander is made to permeate the drama,
yet so unobtrusively and unconsciously to all seeming that the mind of the
reader, though held fast on the chief character throughout, never wearies
of him. The extracts given, culled from here and there, point all in one
direction. They are consistent, however they may vary in expression, about
the man they describe. He is not like other men; he towers above them; he
stands alone. But even this only tells us what men say of him. It may mean
no more than any young‐lady novelist’s description of her hero, whose
biting sarcasm and brilliant wit are gifts that it was thought were buried
with Sheridan. All which we are willing to concede, only that by some
untoward accident the brilliant wit and biting sarcasm never appear on the
surface. How does Alexander speak for himself?

In literature, as in life, very much depends on the impression a man makes
on his introduction. Alexander’s introduction is happy and suggestive. He
meets us first at Troy when setting out on his expedition. Around him rise
the temples of the memorable dead who died in the Ten Years’ War. He is in
search of the fane of Achilles, his ancestor, as he claims. Aphrodite and
Helen have no attractions for him, upon whose mind “the wise Stagirite”
had impressed the high code of pagan morals, that the passions were “a
yoke which Action’s strenuous sons should scorn to bear.” He stands on
ground where heroes fought and strove for ten long years together, and the
question comes at once to his earnest mind,


    “That ten years’ war, what fruit thereof remains?
    What empire lives, its witness and its crown?
    What shall we say? That those were common men
    Made large by mists of Time? Or shall we rather
    Conclude them real, and our age a fraud?”


His friend Hephestion is reminded by the fanes around, not of the
greatness, but of the littleness, of man and of the common ashes to which
we come at last. In what, had he the ear to hear it, had been for his
leader a solemn warning, he cries out:


    “Alas! how small an urn
    Suffices for the earth‐o’erstriding dust
    Which one time shook the world!”


But Alexander cannot contemplate the end of men and things in this calm
fashion. To him, as to Achilles, death is “malign and intercepting.” It
bears no thought of peace or rest. He describes it as “that frustrate,
stagnant, ineffectual bourn where substance melts to shadow.” Far away in
“the dimness of the dolorous realm” he sees, though sad, “the
unvanquishable youth” of Achilles surviving and lamenting—


    “Despite the embalm’d, purpureal airs and gleam
    Immeasurable of amaranthine meads,
    The keen, reviving, strenuous airs of earth,
    And blasts from battle‐fields”—


that is the very breath of his nostrils—earth, life, action, with a
purpose in it, and the keen intoxication of occasional “blasts from
battle‐fields.”

But he is not a mere genius errant, a Don Quixote of conquerors, wasting
himself on windmills and flocks of sheep. He has a clear, resolute purpose
before his mind, to which he shapes all things. It is to make the world
one empire, which Grecian intellect should rule. The Governor of Sardis,
when the Granicus is won, he bids:


    “Tell those realms
    Betwixt the Euxine and Pamphylian Seas,
    That Grecian galaxy of Lesser Asia,
    That Argive choir in eastern exile sad,
    That Doric garland on base Persia’s brow,
    We came not here to crush them, but exalt;
    This hand shall lift them to their first estate,
    And lodge them mid the skyey heights of Greece.”


Such is his plan; and whatever crosses him must break before or bend to
that. Kings, empires, mighty cities, religion, customs and traditions,
commerce, all must yield before his indomitable will. Nothing is sacred to
Alexander, save what is sacred to Alexander’s plan. All things were
fashioned to his purpose, and existed only to be made subservient to him.
He gazes from the sea‐shore on Tyre of the ships, with its wealth, its
energies, its possibilities, and the little it has done with them, and
bursts forth:


    “Wings without body! such—no more—is commerce
    Which rests not upon empire! Commerce, ruling,
    Disperses man’s chief energies, _but, ruled_
    _By spirit heroic_, increase yields of thoughts
    That give to greatness wider basis. Tyre!
    How soon thy golden feathers forth shall fly
    Upon the storm of War!”


Lacking the “spirit heroic,” Tyre’s opportunities and life have hitherto
been thrown away, as were thrown away the letters that Phœnicia gave,
useless to the inventors. He goes on:


    “Men stumble thus on glories not for them,
    The rightful appanage of the capable.
    The empire I shall found shall tread the earth,
    Yet over it go flying. From its vans
    The twin‐born beams of Grecian Song and Science
    Shall send perpetual dawn.”


Mr. de Vere’s verse is tempting to quote; but we must hasten on. Some idea
of his Alexander may be gathered from the passages given; but, as we said,
he permeates the book, and we must leave it to the reader himself to trace
the slow growth and development of this singularly‐rounded yet most
difficult conception. We do not believe that the author in this instance
has fallen below the level of his subject, high and remote as that level
was. A strong, resolute, far‐seeing character, possessed with the very
passion of empire, speaks to us in every line of _Alexander_. Many of his
sayings have almost the wisdom and the brevity of proverbs. “Time takes
still the conqueror’s side,” he tells Hephestion; and when that great‐
souled character puts the deep and solemn question, “_Is there forgiveness
for conquerors?_”—his answer is:


    “Aye; but for half‐conquerors, none.”


Here is his policy told in a line:


    “Strong hand makes empire; hand that heals retains it.”


When, in a light moment, he asks his generals, were gods their slaves,
what fortunes would they choose, and all cry out, “A kingdom!” he says
aside:


              “Note this, Hephestion:
    Imagination is economist,
    And vastest ends move less the appetite
    Than small things near and easier of access.”


Here is a truth for conquerors to ponder. In the height of his conquest he
is convinced that


    “The vanquish’d must connive, or victory’s self
    Its own grave digs in the end.”


All the littleness of greatness, all those surroundings that to small
minds stamp, if they do not constitute, greatness, are for him emptiness.


    “To breathe applauses is to breathe that air
    By breath of men defiled: I stand, and stood,
    On the mountain‐tops, breathing the breath of gods.”


There is another aspect to his character at which we must glance. We have
called attention at the beginning to his jealous hatred of death. Life and
death are to him constant enigmas, to which he sees no solution. The only,
or at least the great, obstacle that he sees in the way of accomplishing
his dream and passion of empire is death. No human foe he fears; but the
fates. Time, he passionately says, is no friend of his. He has to build
his empire in few years. He is running a constant race with time, and
something seems to whisper to him ever that his years are few. In this,
too, lies an humbling fact. He, like others, is human and subject to
death. This inward struggle and rebellion against his humanity is
constantly going on. The thought, What am I? What do I? Who am I? Whence
come I? Where go I?—all these things for ever trouble him. He would be a
god; but he finds his loftiest aspirations bounded by a wall of flesh, and
beyond that—a blank.

With keen dramatic instinct and happy thought the author gives him the
opportunity of answering for himself these questionings. He visits the
temple at Jerusalem, and converses with the high‐priest. The truth is
unfolded to him, and the true God made known. He hesitates, and finally
rejects the truth. It clashes with his purpose.


    “O’er all the earth my empire shall be just,
    Godlike my rule,”


he promises the high‐priest; whose answer is the solemn rebuke:


              “Young man, beware! God’s prophet
    Awards thee Persia’s crown, but not the world’s:
    He who wears that should be the Prince of Peace.
    Thy portion lies in bounds. Limit and Term
    Govern the world.”


This revelation tells on his character throughout the rest of the play. He
has no longer that blind confidence in himself, though his mind like a
vise holds to its resolution of founding the empire he was warned he could
not found. His iron will and indomitable energy overcome all obstacles;
but time is creeping on, and he feels it. To unite Persian and Greek
together, in order to win the Persian, he must be proclaimed a god; and a
god he is proclaimed. But the emptiness and mockery of the title are shown
with intense force in the workings of the king’s mind up to this madness.
He strives to argue himself up to godhead only by arguing godhead down to
him:


                “A race of gods hath fallen:
    Then Zeus in turn may fall. I find for gods
    No thrones secure; _to man’s advance no limit_;
    No certain truth amid contending rites;
    No base for faith.”


He remembers the warning about limit and term, only to say scornfully,


                    “That’s for others:
    To grasp a world for me is feasible;
    To keep a half‐world, not.”


He turns further and further away from faith of any kind; his creed
resembles that of more modern conquerors:


            “The man that empire founds
    Must measure all things by the needs of empire.”


And the final outcome of his thoughts is this:


                  “This only know we—
    We walk upon a world not knowable,
    Save in those things which knowledge least deserve,
    Yet capable, not less, of task heroic.
    My trust is in my work: on that I fling me,
    Trampling all questionings down.”


And yet the next moment he cries out:


                        “I sometimes think
    That I am less a person than a power.
    Some engine in the right hand of the gods,
    Some fateful wheel that, round in darkness rolling,
    Knows this—its work, but not that work’s far scope.
    Hephestion, what is life? My life, since boyhood,
    Hath been an agony of means to ends;
    An ultimate end I find not. For that cause,
    On‐reeling in the oppression of a void,
    At times I welcome what I once scarce brook’d—
    _The opprobrium of blank sleep_.”


There are many scenes of strong dramatic power in this drama—the death of
Darius, the quarrel with Parmenio, the rebellion of the Greeks, the last
scene with Philotas, and others; but the power and intensity deepen at the
close, when death at last creeps into the veins of the conqueror. He has
lost Hephestion earlier in the drama, and this loss rends his heart. There
is much truth in his singular, almost selfish love for his great‐souled
friend, who stood to Alexander as a wife would stand to another man. But
he to whom “his purposes were wife and child” could not lean on a woman.
It must be a man, strong, brave, keen‐eyed as himself, but calmer, larger
hearted, humbler, greater souled. Such was Hephestion, and his strong yet
sweet character is not only admirably drawn, but affords an excellent foil
throughout to the eager, impetuous, fiery nature and fiery words of the
king.

Omens thicken around him, and the end comes at Babylon. The fever that
burns at his heart seizes on his body while sailing on the Lake of
Pallacopas. As the royal barge passes, a strain rises up from the waters:


    “We sate beside the Babylonian river:
      Within the conqueror’s bound, weeping we sate:
    We hung our harps upon the trees that quiver
      Above the rushing waters desolate.

    “If I forget thee, Salem, in thy sadness,
      May this right hand forget the harper’s art!
    If I forget thee, Salem, in my gladness,
      My tongue dry up and wither, like my heart!”


It is a relic of the Babylonian captivity. The song forces from Alexander
the sad confession, significant to all conquerors:


                  “The ages pass, like winds;
    The old wrong remains, rooted like tombs, and moves not:
    All may be done through Time; yet Time does naught.
    Let kings look well to that.”


The end is on him. Though “maimed, and tamed, and shamed,” he is resolute
still, but impotent, and the empire lacks completion, he confesses, while


                  “The years, the months,
    The hours, like ravening wolves that hunt a stag,
    Come up upon my haunches.”


Fighting time to the last, he succumbs; but he will not even die as other
men. In his half‐delirium he tells Ptolemy:


    “I have a secret—one for thee alone:
    ’Twas not the mists from that morass disastrous
    Nor death of him that died, nor adverse gods,
    Nor the Fates themselves; ’twas something mightier yet,
    And secreter in the great night, that slew me.”


And thus, surrounded by his warriors and his generals, with success within
his grasp, but that grasp nerveless, his last moments troubled with awful
visions and ill dreams, resentful to the last against what slew him, in
doubt and in fear, in youth and glory and empire, in the fatality of
success, staring with strained eyes into the dread void beyond that no ray
of faith illumines, he whose nod was life or death to nations, Alexander,
_the god_, passes away and dies—of a little slow fever that has entered
and claimed for its own the clay of which he was made.

Mr. de Vere has written at once a magnificent poem and a powerful drama.
We have devoted our attention in both instances to the chief characters,
and thus many scenes and personages in _Alexander the Great_ on which in
reading we have dwelt with much pleasure and admiration must pass
unnoticed. The author, if we may say so, has surprised us by the strength
and finish of this work. The action of the piece is rapid; the characters,
small and great, rounded and full; the scenes most varied and dramatically
set. The clew to the play we take to be that old whisper which first
allured our parents from their allegiance, and tempts forever the race of
man: _Ye shall be as gods_. The whisper runs through the piece from the
first line to the last, and lends to it a purpose and a plan of its own.
The dramatist has taken the man who in human history came the nearest to
exemplifying its truth to prove its utter and miserable falsehood, and to
read with a new force the old and eternal command that alone can order the
life of man wisely and well: “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God, and him
only shalt thou serve.”

When he died, Alexander was nearly thirty‐three. With him really, though
remnants lingered after him, his scheme and his empire passed away; and
when to‐day we look for what is left of the world’s conqueror, of
Alexander the god, we must search in musty tomes and grope in desert
sands. Nothing is left of him, save some words and histories; and even
were they lost also, and his very memory blotted out with them, the world
to‐day would in reality be little or none the loser.

Some centuries later there died Another at the age of thirty‐three. He
came into life silently; he went out of life ignominiously. He led no
army; he had no following of any note; he was the son of a carpenter, and
born of a despised race. He was born, he lived, he died, in poverty,
sorrow, and suffering, a social outcast even from his own people. The last
three years of his life he spent in preaching in and about Jerusalem. His
doctrines were strange and startling. They were utterly subversive of all
human glory and greatness. Like Alexander, he proclaimed himself divine,
and claimed to be the Son of God. Like Alexander, he too died, but a death
of ignominy. Before his name had spread far beyond Jerusalem, men rose up,
Jew and Gentile, king and priest, church and state, together hanged him on
a tree, nailed him there, tortured and slew him, and when he was dead
sealed up the tomb in which he was buried. And there, humanly speaking,
was an end to him and his.

To the world what had he left? A memory—nothing more. Men said that he had
wrought wonders, that virtues flowed out of him, that his hands rained
mercies, that the blind saw, the lame walked, the lepers were cleansed,
the very dead rose again. Idle rumors! like that other of his bursting the
tomb and rising again, walking in the flesh and ascending into the heaven
from which he said he had come. And this was “the Expected of the
nations,” “the Prince of Peace,” who was to accomplish what the high‐
priest warned Alexander was not for him, with all his power, to
accomplish—to unite all the nations under one yoke. A likely prospect with
the material he had left!

He left behind him no empire, no record, not a line of writing. He left a
few words, a few maxims, a few rules of life, a few prayers, a few
promises, a few men who timidly believed in him, a few commands. The
world, its belief and non‐belief alike, its customs, maxims, tendencies,
he condemned as wrong. He commanded it to remodel itself according to the
few rules he had left—rules singularly comprehensive, simple, and clear:
to believe in him, to obey him as the son of God and God, to believe and
obey those, and those only, whom he sent forth in his name, armed with the
powers he gave them, fighting with the weapon of the cross. And what is
the result? Who is the conqueror of the world now? Jesus Christ, in whose
name every knee shall bow, or Alexander the Great? Here is a mystery
surely that men should ponder. What shall explain the victory over the
world, over sin, and over death, of Him whom they nailed to the tree
nineteen centuries ago? Nothing but the words of Peter—“Thou art Christ,
the Son of the living God.” Thou art he that was to come, and we look for
no other. “And he was clothed with a garment sprinkled with blood: and his
name is called _The Word of God_. And he hath on his garment and on his
thigh written King of kings and Lord of lords.”




Requies Mea.


Keep me, sweet love! Thy keeping is my rest.
  Not safer feels the eaglet from beneath
The wings that roof the inaccessible nest,
Than I when thou art with me, dearest, best,
  Whose love my life is, yea, my very breath!
  Thy Son to Egypt fled to prove our faith.
Not Herod’s men had snatched him from thy breast,
  Or changed his thronèd slumber into death.
How wonderful thy keeping, mighty Queen!
  So close, so tender; and as if thine eyes
Had only me to watch, thine arm to screen;
  And this inconstant heart were such a prize!
  And thou the while, in beatific skies,
    Art reigning imperturbably serene!




Ontologism And Psychologism.


Our readers sometimes complain that the philosophical articles of THE
CATHOLIC WORLD are too hard to be understood. Yet some of these very
readers make a great effort to read these articles, and ask questions
about metaphysical subjects—among others, about the very topic of the
present article—showing a great desire to gain some knowledge about them.
We are going to try to make this article intelligible to these readers,
even to those who are yet quite young persons, in whose laudable efforts
to improve their minds and acquire knowledge we are greatly interested.

We shall begin, therefore, by explaining some terms which need to be well
understood before they can be used in a satisfactory manner, and
especially the two which make up the title of this article. Ontology is
the name given to one branch of metaphysics, which is also called general
metaphysics, in distinction from the two other principal branches of that
science—to wit, logic and special metaphysics. It is derived from two
Greek words—that is, the first two syllables from a word which means
being, and the last two from one which means reasoning. It is therefore a
reasoning about being, or the scientific exposition of the object of the
idea of real being, of metaphysical truth, good and evil, beauty,
substance, accident, quantity, causality, the finite and the infinite, the
contingent and the necessary, etc. Psychology is also a Greek derivative
signifying a scientific exposition of the rational soul of man, its powers
and operations, which is a sub‐division of special metaphysics. Therefore
every philosopher must be an ontologist and a psychologist, in the proper
sense of those terms. Yet, there is a difference between ontology and
ontologism, psychology and psychologism. Ontologism and psychologism are
names denoting opposite philosophical systems which diverge in opposite
directions from the scholastic philosophy, or that philosophy commonly
taught in the Catholic schools after the method and principles of the
Angelic Doctor, S. Thomas Aquinas. Of the authority which this philosophy
possesses in the church we cannot now treat at length. We will, however,
cite here the latest utterance of the Sovereign Pontiff which has come to
our knowledge, as a sample of a great number of similar official
expressions of approbation from the Holy See. In a letter to Dr.
Travaligni, founder of the Philosophico‐Medical Society of S. Thomas
Aquinas, dated July 23, 1874, Pius IX. says: “With still greater pleasure
we perceive that, faithful to your purpose, you have determined to admit
only such members to your society as hold and will defend the doctrines
propounded by the sacred councils and this Holy See, and in particular the
principles of the Angelic Doctor concerning the union of the intellective
soul with the human body, and concerning substantial form and primary
matter (_materia prima_).” We shall take for granted at present that in
all its essential parts, as well as in those specified in the above
quotation, the philosophy of S. Thomas has the highest sanction and
authority in the church which any system of philosophy can have, and that
it is the only true and sound philosophy. The system of ontologism differs
from it by proposing a totally different ontology, which is made the basis
of an essentially different philosophy. The advocates of that system call
themselves ontologists, as claiming to be the only philosophers who
understand rightly real being and the relation of intelligence to it as
the object of its intuition and knowledge. They are also called by that
name by their antagonists for the sake of convenience and courtesy, as
those who believe in God, but not in revelation, are called theists,
although neither party has an exclusive right to the appellation given to
it by usage. Psychologism is a system which makes the basis and starting‐
point of philosophy to lie exclusively in the individual soul and its
modifications, like Des Cartes, whose first principle is, “I think,
therefore I am.” The opponents of the scholastic philosophy who pretend to
be ontologists give it the nickname of psychologism, because they either
misunderstand or misinterpret its ontological and psychological doctrine.
The scholastic philosophy is also frequently called Aristotelian, because
S. Thomas derived a great part of his metaphysics from the great
philosopher of Greece; and Peripatetic, which was the name given to the
school of Aristotle, because the teachers and pupils used to walk up and
down during their lectures and discussions. Those who diverge from the
philosophy of S. Thomas in the same direction with the ontologists are
also frequently called Platonists, because they follow, or are supposed to
follow, Plato, in regard to certain opinions differing from those
maintained by Aristotle.

The philosophical disputes which have been lately carried on with so much
vehemence about questions of ontology are by no means of recent origin.
They have been waged both within and without the limits of the Catholic
Church. Des Cartes, the great modern master of psychologism, always
professed to be a loyal son of the church, and had many disciples among
Catholics. Malebranche, the author of modern ontologism, was a devout
priest of the French Oratory; and Cardinal Gerdil, who began as an earnest
advocate of the same doctrine, but gradually approached toward the
scholastic philosophy in his maturer years, was really the second man to
the Pope for a long time in authority and influence, as well as a most
illustrious model of virtue and learning. More recently, the principal
advocates of ontologism have been very devoted Catholics. The Louvain
professors, Hugonin, Branchereau; for anything we know to the contrary,
Fabre, and many others, have been most zealous and devoted Catholics. Only
Gioberti, who was, however, the prince among them all, and one of the most
gifted men of the century, among the well‐known leaders of that school,
was a disloyal Catholic. We have heard on very good authority that
Gioberti continued to receive the sacraments up to the time of his death,
and was buried with Catholic rites. Nevertheless, as a number of priests
were still in the external communion of the church at the time Gioberti
was living in Paris, who were really heretics and have since apostatized,
this fact alone does not count for much as a proof that he died in the
Catholic faith. All his works were long before on the Index; he was at
least suspended, if not _ipso facto_ excommunicated, as a contumacious
rebel against the Pope. Dr. Brownson calls him “that Italian priest of
marvellous genius, and, we were about to write, Satanic power.” And again
he says: “Gioberti died, we believe, excommunicated, and his last book,
published before his death, contains a scurrilous attack on Pius IX., and
bears not a trace of the Catholic believer, far less of the Catholic
priest.”(96) For a long time the Church did not directly interfere with
the philosophical discussions which went on among her children in regard
to ontology. Neither Des Cartes(97) nor Malebranche was condemned, nor
were any specific propositions in the works of Gioberti censured. The Holy
See has never been in the habit of using its supreme magisterial authority
in deciding scientific controversies considered merely as scientific.
Science is left to itself, to make its own way and fight its own battles,
unless the interests of the faith become involved with those of science.
When these interests demand the interference of the supreme authority, it
utters its disciplinary edicts or its doctrinal decisions, as in its
wisdom it deems opportune and necessary. For a considerable period of time
philosophy was left in the enjoyment of the largest liberty, so long as
the doctrines of the church were respected and maintained. But when
professed Catholics, especially in Germany, began to frame systems of
philosophy manifestly dangerous to sound theology and subversive of it,
the Holy See began to exercise a more special vigilance over the teaching
of philosophy in Catholic schools. Gregory XVI. and Pius IX. have
condemned a number of works, of systems, or of distinct propositions in
which philosophical errors were contained, because these were directly or
indirectly subversive of the Catholic faith. Among other errors condemned,
ontologism holds a prominent position. After various means more mild and
indirect of correcting the evils which the teaching of this system
threatened to produce had failed, the Holy See pronounced (Sept. 18, 1861)
its condemnation of seven propositions embracing the fundamental tenets
common to the so‐called ontologists, and some particular tenets advanced
by individual professors or writers of the same school. The professors of
the Catholic University of Louvain were required to make a formal act of
submission to this decision of Rome, which they did in the most exemplary
manner.

The Abbé Hugonin, when nominated to an episcopal see in France, was also
required to make a formal renunciation of ontologism, which he had taught
in his writings, as a condition of receiving the confirmation of the pope,
and complied without hesitation. The Abbé Branchereau, a distinguished
French Sulpitian and professor of philosophy, voluntarily submitted a
statement of the doctrine contained in his _Prelections_ to the
examination and judgment of the Holy See, and, when the judgment
condemning his system was made known to him, promptly submitted and
suppressed his work. In fact, there has been everywhere a most ready and
edifying submission given to the judgment of Rome on a system which was
rapidly spreading and gaining ground, and toward which a great number of
the finest minds among Catholic scholars felt the strongest attraction.
The reason of this may be found in the fact that those who had embraced
this system or were inclined toward it were generally good Catholics,
holding sound theological principles, and imbued with the love of truth
and the love of the church, loyal to conscience, and well grounded in
Christian humility and obedience. Consequently, ontologism, as a system,
prevailing among Catholics and in Catholic schools, is dead, and rapidly
passing into oblivion—a great gain for science, as well as for religion,
since it removes a great obstacle in the way of the revival of the genuine
and sound philosophy which alone contains the real and solid wisdom of the
Grecian sages, the fathers of the church, and the gigantic masters of the
mediæval schools, combined, harmonized, and reduced to method.

It is time now to explain in what the essence of ontologism consists. In
the words of M. Fabre, a professor at the Sorbonne, “Ontologism is a
system in which, after having proved the objective reality of general
ideas, we establish that these ideas are not forms or modifications of our
soul; that they are not anything created; that they are necessary,
unchangeable, eternal, absolute objects; that they are concentrated in the
being to which this name belongs in its simple signification (_l’être
simplement dit_), and that this infinite Being is the first idea
apprehended by our mind, the first intelligible, the light in which we see
all the eternal, universal, and absolute truths. Ontologists say, then,
that these eternal truths cannot have any reality outside of the eternal
essence, whence they conclude that they do not subsist except as united to
the divine substance, and consequently that it can only be in this
substance that we see them.”(98)

We will now give the first two, the fourth, and the fifth of the
propositions condemned at Rome, and which, with the other three, were
taken from the prelections of a professor in a French seminary, never
published, but extensively circulated in lithograph or MSS., and which,
the reader will see, express the identical doctrine summarized so
concisely and ably by M. Fabre:

I. The immediate cognition of God, at least habitual, is essential to the
human intellect, so that without this it cannot know anything, since it is
the intellectual light itself.

II. That being which we intellectively perceive in all things, and without
which we perceive nothing intellectively (_quod in omnibus et sine quo
nihil intelligimus_), is the divine being.

IV. The congenital knowledge of God as simply being (_ens simpliciter_)
involves every other cognition in an eminent manner, so that by it we have
implicit knowledge of every being, under whatever respect it is knowable.

V. All other ideas are only modifications of the idea in which God is
intellectively perceived (_intelligitur_) as simply being (_ens
simpliciter_).

Similar propositions to these are found in the fifteen submitted by M.
Branchereau to the judgment of the Holy See, viz.:

1. In the act of thought two things are to be essentially
distinguished—the subject thinking and the object thought.

2. Again, the object thought is distinguished into two things—that which
is being simply, and that which is being in a certain respect.

3. By that which is being simply we understand real being, concrete and
infinitely perfect; ... in a word, that which is being simply is God.

12. From the first instant of existence the mind enjoys ideal perception,
not indeed reflexively, but directly.

13. Among the intelligible truths, which we apprehend ideally, God
occupies the first place, the intellective perception of whom, although
essentially distinct from the intuition of the beatified, is terminated,
not at a representative image, but at God himself.

The reader will now, we trust, understand without difficulty what is the
fundamental idea of ontologism—namely, that God is the _immediate object_
of the intellect, the ideal object which faces it from its creation, is
present to it as its light and its luminous, intelligible term of vision,
in which all ideal, necessary, self‐evident, eternal ideas, verities,
realities, are concentrated, beheld, made luminous; lighting up all
objects whatsoever which exist and are perceived by sense and intellect,
so that the things that are made are clearly seen by the invisible things
of God, even his eternal power and Godhead; as Malebranche expressed it,
“in Deo,” and Gioberti, “in Deo et per Deum”—in God, and by or through
him, as clouds in a luminiferous ether. For an explanation of the
scholastic doctrine of the origin of universal ideas we refer the reader
to a former article on Dr. Stöckl’s Philosophy. In brief, it is the
reverse of the one just delineated, viz., the universal and transcendental
ideas are derived by abstraction from created things, and the knowledge of
God is obtained by a discursive act of reasoning, by which we ascend from
the knowledge of creatures to the knowledge of the Creator, whose
invisible essence and attributes are understood by the things that are
made. That is, God is known by a mediate and not an immediate
apprehension, resulting in an intellectual judgment that he is. The mind
terminates at a representative and inadequate image of God, and not at God
himself or that which is God, real, concrete, necessary, infinite being,
which is the remote and reflected object of the intellect.

We are now prepared to answer the question, What is the harm and danger of
ontologism on account of which it has been condemned? It has not been
condemned as heretical, for it does not formally, directly, and explicitly
contradict any doctrine of faith. The Holy See has simply decided that it
cannot be safely taught—that is, that it cannot be taught with a safe
conscience, without danger to the faith, and consequently without grievous
sin. It must therefore contain in it an error which cannot be extensively
held and taught in Catholic schools without a serious danger of indirectly
subverting Catholic faith and doctrine, especially in the minds of the
young and inconsiderate. While this danger was only remote or not yet
apparent, the error might be tolerated, and left to be opposed and refuted
by argument. Moreover, it might be held and advocated in good faith and
without sin by intelligent and pious men, who are liable to error when
left to their own reasonings about abstruse matters in theology and
philosophy. But when the danger was apparent and proximate, it was
necessary to appeal to the supreme authority of the Roman Church, that the
whole matter might be thoroughly examined and adjudicated; and, the
judgment being once rendered, the cause is finished for all good
Catholics. Thenceforth all that remains to be done is to study the import
of the decision, and to search into the reasons by which the condemned
errors may be proved false by philosophical and theological arguments, and
the opposite truths brought out into a clearer light for the advancement
of sound and solid science and the protection of the faith.

That part of Catholic doctrine which was endangered and indirectly
subverted by ontologism is the one which relates to the distinction
between nature and grace, the rational knowledge of God attainable by man
in this life, and the immediate intuition of God enjoyed by the blessed in
heaven. Ontologism destroys the real distinction between the natural and
the supernatural orders, between the abstractive vision of God by reason
and faith, and the intuitive vision of God without any medium, and face to
face. It is true that ontologists have never taught that man has, or can
have, a clear vision of the divine essence, like that of the blessed, by
his unaided natural powers. This is a heresy condemned by the General
Council of Vienne. Moreover, it would be too absurd for any sane person to
maintain that such a vision is congenital and possessed by all men from
the first instant of creation. Nor would any one who maintains that the
idea of God is impressed on the soul at its creation be so extravagant as
to assert that the clear and distinct conception of God which can be
obtained by reason and faith is present to the minds of all men from their
birth. Ontologists are careful to state that there is a difference between
the immediate cognition of God in this life and that of the life to come.
And all who maintain any kind of ideal cognition which is congenital or
innate, understand by this something which exists unconsciously in the
soul until its powers are developed. The object is there, facing the
intellect, but the intellect has its eyes closed, and cannot perceive it.
When it perceives it, it is first obscurely, then clearly, then more or
less distinctly. Its congenital cognition is an unconscious, undeveloped
act. But all the principles of conscious, developed cognition are in that
act, and are only evolved by the operation of the senses and the
intellectual faculties. The error condemned is the assertion that this
cognition has God in his intelligibility as real and necessary being as
its _immediate_ object. And though it is not formally a heresy, since it
does not assert that the immediate cognition of God is identical with the
beatific vision, or deny the necessity of the light of glory to make the
soul capable of the beatific vision, it is erroneous, inasmuch as it
removes that which really makes the essential difference of the vision of
the blessed, as distinct from the natural cognition of any created
intelligence. This difference is defined by Benedict XIV., in the Const.
_Benedictus Deus_, to be that the blessed see God “without the mediation
of anything created which presents itself as the object seen”—_nulla
mediante creaturâ in ratione objecti visi se habente_. Every other
cognition of God must therefore have some created object of intellectual
vision as an intermediary between the intellect and God—that is, must be
mediate and not immediate cognition. An immediate cognition, however
obscure and imperfect, must therefore be essentially the same with the
clear, beatific intuition of the essence of God, and capable of being
expanded, extended, developed, increased, made more penetrating or
powerful, without being essentially changed, until it equals or surpasses
the intuition of the highest angel in heaven. The light of faith or the
light of glory can be therefore only aids to the improvement of the human
intellect in its own natural capacity and activity—as if one should see
the stars more plainly by a telescope, and afterwards receive a more
perfect body with a visual organ superior to any telescope that was ever
made.

A more elaborate similitude will make the difference of immediate and
mediate cognition of God more plain. Let us suppose a barbarian lying
asleep on the shore of his lonely island in the Pacific, while a large
ship, the first which has ever approached it, has just come within the
most distant range of vision. There is an object, then on his horizon,
which he has the power to see, but does not perceive until he awakes. He
perceives it at first as a very small and dimly‐seen object—as
_something_, he knows not what. It may be a cloud, a bird, a wave
sparkling in the sun, a canoe. It is a large man‐of‐war which is the real
object perceived, but he does not know that it is a ship, or know its
contents, or even know what a ship is. This is an obscure perception. By‐
and‐by he can see that it is not a cloud, or bird, or canoe, but a large,
moving structure, whose principal parts are visible to him. This is a
clear perception. When it has anchored, he has been taken on board, has
seen its crew and armament, its cabins and hold, and has learned what is
its purpose and the utility of its principal parts, he has a distinct
conception. After he has learned the language of the sailors, and has been
instructed to a greater or less extent, he acquires a more adequate and
perfect knowledge, like that which the sailors themselves possess; he
joins the crew, and becomes an expert seaman, and finds himself to have
become much superior in knowledge and happiness to what he was before the
ship came to his island.

Let us also suppose that a bottle is washed ashore at another island, and
picked up by a native. When he opens it, he finds in it a drawing
representing a large ship, and a paper containing particular information
about the ship and its crew. This bottle had been thrown overboard after
the ship had sprung a leak in mid‐ocean, and was about to founder. After
the bottle has been found by the native, Europeans arrive at the island,
by whom the papers are examined, and their contents explained to the
native, who learns also from the explanation of the drawing to understand
what the ship is, its use, construction, parts, etc. He thus gains
substantially the same knowledge of that ship and its crew with that which
the other native gained about the other ship, though in a different way,
without ever seeing the ship itself, but only an image of it. One has
immediate, the other mediate cognition. One sees the object in itself, the
other sees it in something else. In the first case the native saw
something which was a ship, but while it was distant it was not visible as
a ship, only as an object. Afterwards it was visible in its outward shape
and appearance as a ship, in clear, unmistakable contrast with every
different object, but not distinctly understood or closely inspected, or
made the principal object of the occupation, the attachment, the
enjoyment, of the native—in a word, the home and centre of his chief
earthly good. When he first saw something in the distance, he really saw
the ship, and in that vision was virtually contained all that he
afterwards discovered in respect to it; whereas, the other native never
saw the other ship, and never could see it by means of drawings or verbal
descriptions, although he could learn that it was a ship, and what ship it
was, where it sailed from, who sailed it, and when and where it foundered.

The above comparison is not perfect, since every comparison must limp at
least a little; but we think it is sufficient as an illustration of the
process by which the human intellect attains to the knowledge of God and
the beatific vision of God, according to ontologism as differing from the
doctrine of sound Catholic theology. According to ontologism, God presents
himself to the intellect, when he creates it, as its immediate Object,
objective Idea, or intelligible Term. So soon as it is capable of
apprehending eternal verities, it apprehends that which is God, although
not yet knowing explicitly that what it apprehends is God—that is, the
one, living, most perfect Being who is the creator and sovereign lord of
all things. By another step it acquires a clear conception of God, and
makes the judgment that God is, and that he is eternal, infinite,
omniscient, omnipotent. This judgment is an evolution from that cognition
which existed at the beginning as a habit into an explicit act, as the
explicit act of faith is deduced from the habit of faith given to the
infant by baptism. That God is, is known by what he is—that is, by his
essence, which is seen in the eternal verities or divine ideas as they are
in reality, not distinguishable from the divine substance. Faith gives an
obscure perception of the interior mysteries of the divine substance which
are beyond the ken of the intellect unaided by revelation, or, in other
words, are superintelligible verities; and the light of glory increases
the power of intellectual vision so that it sees clearly and distinctly
the interior essence of God, which completes the beatification of the
soul.

In this place we may cite the third of the seven condemned propositions,
which expresses the afore‐mentioned theory, as taken in connection with
the fifth. This third proposition is: “Universals, objectively considered,
_a parte rei_, are not really distinguishable from God”; and the fifth:
“All other ideas are only modifications of the idea in which God is
intellectively perceived as simply being—_tamquam ens simpliciter
intelligitur_.” Universals are general ideas, each one of which is capable
of being predicated of a multitude of subjects. The logical universals are
five—genus, species, differentia, attribute, accident. The ten categories
of Aristotle include all the supreme genera, though some maintain that a
better division may be made. The transcendental ideas are those which
transcend all generic classification, because they may be predicated of
every genus and all its inferiors. They are the ideas of being, unity, the
good, the true, the beautiful. They belong, therefore, to the universals,
although predicated in analogous and not identical senses of the diverse
genera and their inferior subjects. Take the supreme genus substance, as
an instance, and follow it down to man—substance, corporeal substance,
organized substance, animal, rational animal, _i.e._, man. His proximate
genus is animal, his differentia rationality, which constitute the species
man. The concrete reality of the universals, substance, etc., terminating
in the species which is rational animal is found only in individual men.
The direct universals, genus, species, differentia, exist, _a parte rei_,
in each individual of the human species. Each man is a substance,
corporeal, organized, animal, rational, and these universals can be
predicated of him as their subject. The transcendental predicates, also,
are connected with individual men as their subject. Individual men have
being, unity, verity, goodness, beauty. But these may be predicated in
senses which are only analogous to each other of the composite essence, of
its distinct parts, soul and body, of the attributes or essential
qualities of man, and of the accidents of individual men. For instance,
the human essence is essentially good; the soul and body are good each in
its own order; rationality is good; learning, valor, amiability, moral
virtue, sanctity, are good; but there is analogy only, not identity, in
these various kinds of good. The same is true of being. It is absurd,
therefore, to speak, as Plato does, of a universal good, true, beautiful,
or to speak of any universal idea, such as being, or a modification of
being, as having any objective reality as a universal, except as a concept
of the mind with a foundation in that which is or may be an actually
existing thing. They are metaphysical essences, with their generic,
specific, qualifying, and transcendental predicates. All the categories or
supreme genera together make up what is called the nature of things,
considered metaphysically; considered in their physical being in the sum
of all concrete existences, they make up universal nature. The
metaphysical essences are necessary, immutable, eternal, and potentially
infinite. They are the eternal verities, the necessary truths, which copy
the divine ideas upon nature or the universe, where God has impressed
them, and are abstracted from the works of the Creator by the intellect of
man. They are distinguishable from God, therefore they are not in the
essence of God, or the divine ideas subsisting in the divine substance,
and are not there seen by the intellect. This was long ago proved by
philosophers and theologians. It is now declared by authority that it is
unsafe thus to identify them with God, and thereby make him the immediate
object of the intellect. The reason why it is unsafe is that it destroys
the differentia which makes our rational cognition of God specifically
distinct from the intuitive cognition of the blessed. There are also other
dangers to faith and sound theology involved in the doctrines or
tendencies of ontologism, which we have not space to notice.

Neither the absurdity nor the heterodoxy of ontologism is avoided by the
system of Gioberti. The objection of Giobertians to pure ontologism, that
it furnishes no dialectic principle uniting natural theology with other
branches of special metaphysics and with ontology, is, indeed, well taken.
But this only shows that pure ontologism is absurd and incoherent. It does
not remove the absurdity of that which is common to pure ontologism and
the ontologism of Gioberti. Neither does it remove its heterodoxy. Saying
that we have immediate cognition of something which is not God does not
make it more orthodox to say that we have immediate cognition of God.
Moreover, Gioberti’s doctrine, as taught by himself, and understood by his
European disciples and admirers, as well as by his acutest and most
orthodox opponents, is far more heterodox than that of any other
ontologist who is also a Catholic. Evidence has been furnished which has
never been rebutted that Gioberti was a pantheist even before he published
his _Introduction to Philosophy_. In a letter to Mazzini, written before
that date, but only afterwards published from a motive of pique against
him, he says explicitly that he is a pantheist after the manner of
Giordano Bruno, though a Christian pantheist. What does this mean, unless
it means that he had conceived a plan of combining pantheistic philosophy
with the Catholic dogmas, as a part of his grand scheme of reconciling
paganism with Christianity, and the European revolution with the Papacy?
On this supposition he must either have acted the part of a deliberate
liar and hypocrite—a baseness of which we believe him to have been
incapable—or he must have intended, and in a subtile manner insinuated
pantheism in the guise of his famous ideal formula, _Ens creat
existentias_. In this case whatever may bear a pantheistic interpretation
or seem to point to a pantheistic conclusion must be pantheistically
interpreted, so far as the sense of the author is concerned. It is not
strange, however, that many have understood him in a sense not directly
heretical, or even, perhaps, quite compatible with Catholic faith. For his
works are filled with passages which, taken in a Catholic sense, are gems
of the purest and most precious sort. If the formula _Being creates
existences_ be taken in the orthodox sense, as equivalent to _God creates
the world_, it is obviously a directly contrary proposition to any one
expressing pantheism. To make it bear a pantheistic sense, definitions of
being, create, and existences must be sub‐introduced which vitiate its
orthodox meaning. But, leaving aside this question, we have already proved
that a Catholic must hold that the human intellect cannot have an
immediate cognition of the first extreme of the formula, viz., that real
and necessary Being which is God. Without this he cannot have an immediate
cognition of the creative act, as the act of God, or of created things in
their ideas, considered as the divine ideas themselves in the divine mind,
and really identical with the divine essence. It is certain that the Holy
See did not intend to condemn pantheism in the decree respecting the seven
propositions, for it would never have affixed such a mild censure if it
had so intended. Ontologism, whether couched in Gioberti’s formula or not,
is condemned in that sense which is not pantheistic, and under every
formula which includes an affirmation of the immediate cognition of God by
the human intellect, as defined by M. Fabre in the passage quoted at the
beginning of this article.

Before concluding we are obliged reluctantly to add a few words about a
personal controversy with Dr. Brownson, with whom we always regret to have
a difference respecting any matter which belongs to Catholic doctrine. We
desire to explain, therefore, that we made no statement to the effect that
the ontologism condemned by the Holy See had ever been formally and
explicitly taught in philosophical articles, whether written by himself or
any one else, in this magazine. Moreover, in the passage where his name is
mentioned there is no direct statement that “_his own_ ontologism” falls
under ecclesiastical censure. The utmost implied or asserted is that some
educated men might think that some of his statements are “unsound,”
philosophically or theologically, and demand a certain benignity of
interpretation in order to escape the censure which a professed theologian
would justly incur if he made such statements in a book written for
school‐boys or young pupils. Dr. Brownson’s own defence of his doctrine,
as based on his definition of intuition: “Intuition is the act of the
object, not of the subject,” was cited as the precise distinction between
his own doctrine and the one condemned, upon which the question of the
theological soundness of his peculiar ontologism turns. We called it “a
newly‐invented distinction between ideal intuition and perception or
cognition,” and qualified the definition above quoted as an “assumption,”
which we think is quite correct. It is new in Catholic philosophy, and has
not been proved. We think, therefore, that the phraseology of Dr. Brownson
makes his doctrine liable to an interpretation, even by educated men,
which makes it similar to that of the condemned ontologism. That it is
sound and safe we are not prepared to say. Neither do we say positively
that it is not. If it is, we think Dr. Brownson can place it in a clearer
light than he has yet done, and we shall heartily rejoice to see him
distinctly enunciate and vindicate his fundamental doctrine, whether it
does or does not accord with that which is held by the disciples of S.
Thomas. Of his loyal intention to conform his doctrine to the decisions of
the supreme authority in the church there can be no doubt. That he has so
far succeeded in doing so, at least by an exact and explicit expression of
it, we cannot help doubting. We cannot see that the distinction between
ideal intuition and cognition, so far as we apprehend it, suffices.

We understand him to define ideal intuition as an act of God presenting
himself to the intellect as its object, and to call the act of the
intellect apprehending this ideal object empirical intuition. We
understand him also to identify the immediate object on which the active
intellect exercises its discursive operations with real, necessary
being—_i.e._ God—although it does not make the judgment that eternal
verities are real being, and that real being is God, immediately, but by
means of reflection and reasoning. Now, we cannot see any essential
difference between this doctrine and that of M. Branchereau and other
ontologists. We do not think it possible to escape the ecclesiastical
censure on the doctrine of the immediate cognition of God, unless
something is placed, _ratione objecti visi_, between God and the
intellect, making the cognition mediate. Moreover, we consider that the
term cognition in the Roman decree covers intuition and simple
apprehension, even in their confused state, as well as distinct
conceptions and judgments. Dr. Brownson’s peculiar terminology and
informal method of arguing make it, however, more difficult to understand
his real doctrine and compare it with that of standard authors than if it
were expressed in the usual style and method.

Dr. Brownson has also further charged the author of _Problems of the Age_
with having actually taught in the opening chapters of that essay, as
first published in this magazine, the very ontologism condemned in the
seven propositions. That there are ambiguous expressions and passages
which taken apart from the whole tenor of the argument are liable to such
an interpretation, we do not deny. But in reality, it was the doctrine of
Gerdil which was intended, and expressed with sufficient distinctness for
a careful and critical reader. This doctrine is expressed by the
illustrious cardinal in these words: “God, who contains eminently the
ideas of all things, impresses their intellectual similitudes in us by his
action, which constitute the immediate object of our perceptions.” Upon
which Liberatore remarks: “In these words Gerdil did not modify the
ontologism which he professed in his youth, but retracted it. And indeed,
how can even the shadow of ontologism be said to remain, when the
immediate object of our perceptions is no longer said to be God, or ideas
existing in God, but only their similitudes, which are impressed by the
divine action upon our minds.”(99) A few quotations from the _Problems of
the Age_ will prove the truth of our assertion that it proposed a theory
similar to the theory of Gerdil.

“It is evident that we have no direct intellectual vision or beholding of
God. The soul is separated from him by an infinite and impassable
abyss.”(100) “God affirms himself originally to the reason by the creative
act, which is first _apprehended by the reason_(101)_through the medium of
the sensible_.... Thus we know God by creation, and creation comes into
the most immediate contact with us on its sensible side.”(102) “The
knowledge of God is limited to that which he expresses by the similitude
of himself exhibited in the creation.”(103) “It is of the essence of a
created spirit that its active intuition or intellective vision is limited
to finite objects as its immediate terminus, commensurate to its finite,
visual power. _It sees God only mediately_, as his being and attributes
are reflected and imaged in finite things, and therefore its highest
contemplation of God is _merely abstractive_.”(104)

More passages might be quoted, but these may suffice. The form of
expression is frequently Giobertian, especially in the early chapters. But
the author understood Gioberti in an orthodox sense. In our opinion Dr.
Brownson, as well as ourselves, failed to a very great extent to
understand his artfully‐expressed meaning. We used language similar to
that of ontologism, but the sense in which we asserted the intuition of
God was that of an infused idea of necessary and eternal truths; having
their foundation and _eminent_, but not _entitative_ existence in God, as
Father Kleutgen teaches; by virtue of which the mind can rise by
discursive reasoning through the creation to an explicit conception of
_what_ God is, and make the judgment _that_ he is. All that introductory
part of his work which treats of ontology was, however, suppressed by the
author when the _Problems of the Age_ was published in book‐form,
precisely on account of the tincture of ideas and phraselogy, which too
nearly resembled those of ontologists, and were too obscure and ambiguous.

We do not suppose that the ideology of those Catholic philosophers whom we
may call Platonisers, for want of a more specific term, has been
condemned; or the Peripatetic ideology enjoined as the only one which can
safely be taught in the schools; by any positive precept of the Holy See.
Nevertheless, we think the former ideology, in all its various shapes, has
received a back‐handed blow, by the condemnation of ontologism, which must
prove fatal to it. We see no logical alternative for those who reject
psychologism, except between ontologism and the ideology of S. Thomas. The
objective term of intellective conceptions must be, if it has real
existence, either in God, in created things outside the mind, or in the
mind itself. If it is the latter, a vague idealism which carries
philosophy into an abstract world, separated by a chasm from the real,
seems unavoidable. There is no real, concrete being, except in God and
that which God has created. Unless the universals are mere conceptions or
ideas, and unless ideas are, not that _by which_ the intellect perceives,
but that _which_ it perceives—and this is psychologism—they must have
their entitative existence in the essence of God, and be indistinguishable
from it; or they must have it in created objects. The former cannot be
safely held and taught. Therefore we must take the latter side of the
alternative, or fall into psychologism. There is no solid rational basis,
except that of scholastic philosophy, on which we can stand. The master in
this school is the Angelic Doctor. Our interpretation, or that of any
greater disciple of S. Thomas, has no authority, except that which is
intrinsic to the evidence it furnishes that it is really his doctrine. The
evidence is clear enough, however, to any competent person who examines
it, that we have stated his doctrine correctly, and that all the
criticisms upon the ideology we vindicate fall upon S. Thomas, and not
upon us. Any one who will read the great works of Kleutgen and Liberatore
can see this proved in the amplest manner from the writings of S. Thomas
and in his own distinct statements. And any person of ordinary common
sense will conclude that a man of the acute intelligence,
conscientiousness, and patient application which characterize Father
Liberatore, in a lifelong study of the clearest and most lucid author who
ever wrote, cannot have failed to understand his philosophical system.
Liberatore avowedly confines himself to an exposition of the philosophy of
S. Thomas pure and simple. And in his great work, _Della Conoscenza
Intellettuale_, he has given the most ample and lucid exposition of that
particular part of it, with a solid refutation of the other principal
theories. Kleutgen is more original, and not less erudite, though perhaps
not equal to Liberatore in the thorough mastery of the writings of the
Angelic Doctor; and he has given a most extensive and complete exposition
of scholastic philosophy, accompanied by an exhaustive appreciation of
modern systems, in his _Philosophie der Vorzeit_. It is very well for
those who can do so to study S. Thomas for themselves, though even they
cannot neglect his commentators. But it is idle to recommend this study to
the generality of students in philosophy and theology, as a substitute for
the study of the minor approved authors. Dogmatic and moral theology and
philosophy are real sciences, as they are taught in the Catholic schools,
and they can be and must be learned from text‐books and the oral
instruction of professors. The presumption is in favor of the books and
teachers approved by ecclesiastical authority, that they teach sound
doctrine. There cannot be anything more injurious to the interests of
ecclesiastical or secular education than to depreciate and undermine their
legitimate authority, and thus awaken distrust in the minds of those who
must receive their instruction from them, or else undertake the task of
instructing themselves. Such an undertaking usually results in a failure
which may have disastrous consequences. The greater number follow self‐
chosen and dangerous guides. The few of superior intelligence and activity
of mind; who throw off respect for all authority except that which they
recognize as absolutely infallible, or submit to through the worship which
they pay to genius and to ideas which have captivated their intellect and
imagination; are apt to indulge the futile and dangerous dream of
remodelling philosophy and theology. Such have been the leaders of
dissension, of heresy, and of apostasy. De Lamennais, St. Cyran, Gioberti,
and Döllinger are examples. They began to deviate by breaking away from
the common and present sense of the great body of authors in actual use
and living teachers of theology. Every one knows where they ended. Similar
tendencies and proclivities can be effectually suppressed only by a sound
theology and a sound philosophy, together with that spirit called the
_piety of faith_, which goes much beyond a mere submission to absolute and
categorical decrees in regard to faith and morals. In conclusion, we
venture very earnestly to advise all converts who have finished a liberal
education before entering the church, not to study theology without also
going through a careful course of philosophy, beginning with text‐books
such as those of Father Hill and Liberatore.




Reminiscences Of A Tile‐Field.


Once upon a time there lived a king and a queen in a grand old group of
Gothic towers that was called the Louvre. Nowadays we should call their
house a palace, but in those good old times kings built houses to fight in
as well as to live in, and their abodes had to do duty at once as palace,
fortress, and prison. At the time we speak of this mass of straggling
roofs and gables resembled a citadel mounting guard over Paris from the
western side, as the Bastile did from the east; but when Francis I. came
on the scene, he denounced the barbaric‐looking stronghold as a place too
like a dungeon for a king to live in, though it did well enough for a
hunting‐lodge. It was too venerable to be thrown down, and too stern in
its original character to bend to any architectural modifications, so he
decided to leave it as it was, and build a palace after his own fancy by
the side it. He began, accordingly, the florid Italian edifice which now
forms the western side of the old Louvre. He did not live to see the work
completed; but it was continued by his son, who died soon after it was
finished, and left his widow, Catherine de Médicis, in enjoyment of it.
But the wily queen, looking to the future, saw that her son would one of
these days be reigning in the Louvre, and that it might not suit her to
remain his guest; so she set about building a palace for herself, where in
due time she might plot and scheme, distil poisons, and light civil wars
unmolested by the king’s presence or the prying eyes of his court. West of
the Louvre, and in the then open country, was a tile‐field, which, from
the fact of _tuiles_ being manufactured there, was called _Les Tuileries_.
The Médicean sorceress touched the tiles with her wand, and up rose under
that magic stroke the stately palace which was to be the centre of so many
high and wonderful destinies, and which continued to bear through all
changes and vicissitudes its first homely title of Les Tuileries. One life
could not suffice for the completion of such a monument, however, and
Catherine left it to her three king sons, successively to finish. But
already in her own time the tile‐field was baptized in blood. From one of
its Gothic windows the mother pulled the trigger in the trembling hand of
the son which gave the signal for the massacre of S. Bartholomew. Thus in
its very cradle did the Tuileries sign itself Haceldama, a field where
blood should flow, where princes should sell and be sold, where a king
should wrestle with the powers of darkness, and be dragged forth in
ignominy to death. The two palaces, hitherto distinct and separate, were
united by Charles IX., who erected the long gallery by the river’s side.
It was not entirely finished when he died, leaving his brothers to make it
ready for Henry IV., who is represented as traversing the gallery, leaning
on De Guise, the day before Ravaillac’s dagger cut short the Béarnais’
career.

The idea of turning it into a museum was first suggested by Louis XVI.,
who reverted to the plan frequently, but was compelled by financial
difficulties to leave the glory of its execution to Bonaparte. Those who
have seen the beautiful old palace recently, before its partial
destruction, would hardly recognize it as the same which fifteen years ago
was choked up to its very windows by the rubbish of the encroaching town;
the space now cleared away between the two palaces, the Louvre proper and
the Tuileries, was filled with mean houses, for the most part shops. Even
the façade of the Tuileries was cumbered and disfigured by a variety of
shabby buildings, barracks, stables, and domestic offices, these latter
being necessary for the convenience of its inmates—since royalty must
dine—the original plan of the palace having made no provision for those
vulgar essentials for the carrying on of daily life. It was an unsafe
abode for royalty when safety needed to be thought of and the hearts of
the people had ceased to be the king’s best stronghold; but when the
Médicis reared the noble, picturesque old pile, they were troubled with no
such considerations. The ghosts of constitutionalism and _sans‐culottism_
were slumbering quietly unsuspected in the womb of the future, and no
provision was made for slaying or defying them. For nearly a century the
Tuileries had been uninhabited, when, on the wrathful day of the 6th of
October, the mob surged from Paris to Versailles, and dragged Louis Seize
and Marie Antoinette from their beds, and installed them within its empty,
neglected walls.

“Buildings, like builders, have their destiny.” Ever since the memorable
morning when insurrection reared its hydra‐head under the windows of the
Queen of France, and battered in the chamber door with clubs and tricolor‐
bedizened pikes, and sent her flying in terrified _déshabillé_ through
secret corridors and trap‐tapestries into the king’s room for safety; ever
since “rascality looked in the king’s face, and did not die,” but seized
royalty by the beard, and led it, amidst hootings of triumph, to lodge
where the people willed, the grand château of Versailles has stood vacant
of kings and queens, its polished floors reflecting the dead monarchs on
the walls, a great hush filling its broad galleries, grass growing in its
courts, the silence of the past brooding everywhere. Noisy demagogues may
scream and howl in the theatre where the Grand Monarch applauded the
verses of Corneille and Racine, and their nimble heels may tread down some
of the grass between the paving‐stones of the Cour du Roi, but they are
but jackdaws chattering in the deserted temple. Versailles has lived its
day, and outlived its generation.

Neglected and uncomfortable as the Tuileries was, the royal family had no
choice but to go there. The Louvre was partly dilapidated and quite
unfurnished, while the sister palace, though so long uninhabited, was
still furnished, and needed comparatively little to make it, even in this
sudden emergency, a suitable domestic residence. The discomforts of the
first few days were great, but the royal captives were absorbed in graver
cares, and bestowed no idle regrets on such small matters as personal
accommodation. Louis was satisfied with his truckle‐bed, hurriedly
provided by the nation in the tapestried room. “Where will your majesty
please to sleep?” inquired an obsequious municipal, entering the presence;
and majesty, with head bowed over his knees, answers, without deigning to
look around and choose, “I am well enough here; let each lodge as he may.”
So the truckle‐bed is got ready. Strange days followed this strange
beginning. Paris for a week was drunk with joy. The mob had got the king
in their possession. Loyal subjects looked on, not knowing whether to weep
or to rejoice. The Orleanist faction chuckled boldly over the degradation
of the crown, and over the fact that the persons of the king and, above
all, of the queen were safe in a gilded prison.

The queen was far too wise and keen‐eyed to be deceived by the pale
glimmer of popularity which, during the early days of their abode in
Paris, shone upon them. Louis took pleasure in the scanty _vivats_ that
greeted him when he sauntered out for a walk on the terrace—his only place
of exercise now—and within doors amused himself with carpentry and lock‐
making. The Dauphin played at soldiering, dressed in military uniform, and
gave the word of command to his men, a regiment of warriors from five to
eight years old. Marie Antoinette had her library brought from Versailles,
and sought refuge from thought in reading. Mme. Elizabeth, meanwhile,
watches the signs of the coming storm, prays, loves, and hopes.

The Assembly had followed the king to Paris, and installed itself in the
Salle de Manège, formerly the riding‐school of the Tuileries, and situated
within sight of the palace on the north terrace. This proximity, whether
accidental or designed, was a source of danger and humiliation to the
king. The members could see the royal prison‐house from the windows of the
Manège, and the prospect served to point many an insolent period in the
tribune. Mirabeau used it with fine effect. “I see,” he cried, “the window
whence a king of France, under the influence of execrable advisers, fired
the shot which gave the signal of the massacre of S. Bartholomew!”

But the Assembly did not content itself with pointing the arrows of its
rhetoric at the doomed Louis; it sought to give him more practical proofs
of disrespect. The riding‐school being situated on the Terrace des
Feuillants, the members declared that this terrace belonged to them, and
not to the king; it was therefore thrown open as a public thoroughfare,
the palace being thus exposed to the coming and going of the populace, who
availed themselves of the opportunity of flaunting their disloyalty under
the very windows of the sovereign. There was no longer any barrier on the
north side, and, the external posts being all sentinelled by National
Guards, the royal family had no control over either the courts or the
gardens. This scandalous violation of his privacy roused even Louis to
utter a mild protest to the Assembly, but it was met by one of the
Girondists retorting that “the people lodged Louis in the Tuileries, but
it nowise followed that they gave up to him the exclusive use of the
gardens.” The unhappy king had no resource henceforth but in dignified
patience, fed by the hope of escaping to the freedom and seclusion of St.
Cloud at Easter. We know how, just as he had entered his carriage to start
for that suburban castle, it was surrounded by the mob, and he himself
only rescued from personal violence by Lafayette and his troop, who were,
however, unable to effect his release. Louis re‐entered the Tuileries
crushed and humbled, but inwardly resolved on some desperate attempt to
escape from the insupportable bondage of his position. The abortive
attempt to leave the Tuileries, even for his usual summer residence,
roused a bitter feeling of suspicion against him, and more especially
against the queen, which was soon manifested by the increasing insolence
of the mob. They dared no longer show themselves in public, and even their
afternoon walk on the terrace by the river’s side became impossible. They
tried to avoid the humiliation and annoyance it provoked by rising at
daybreak, and taking an hour’s exercise in the early dawn; but this soon
became known, and had also to be abandoned. At last the queen complained
that she “could not even open her windows on these hot summer evenings
without being subjected to the grossest invectives and threats.”

When things came to this point, the king was forced to lend an ear to the
proposals which had up to this time met with a dogged and somewhat
contemptuous refusal. There was but one way of remedying the miseries of
their position, and that was by flight. It was no longer a question of
flying from humiliation, but from absolute and imminent danger. The most
sanguine or the most obtuse observer could not but see that things were
hastening to a fearful crisis, which, terminate how it may, must work ruin
to the royal family.

Many schemes were arranged, but for one reason or another they fell
through. Finally, it was settled that the sovereign should escape with his
wife and children and sister to Montmédy. This was the utmost that could
be wrung from Louis, even in this extremity. No arguments could induce him
to consent to leave France, or even to cross the frontier with the purpose
of re‐entering France the next day, though by so doing he would have
shortened the journey and lessened its dangers. If even then he had
consented to fly speedily, separately, instead of losing the precious days
and weeks in preparations that only awoke suspicion and proved hindrances
instead of helps! But in the race of destiny, who wins? Not he who flies,
but he who waits. Louis waited too long, or not long enough; fled too
late, if he should have fled at all.

The story of the flight to Varennes has been written by historians of all
shades and camps, but it is generally tainted with such vehement
partisanship that the simple, underlying facts become obscured, almost
obliterated, by hysterical reproaches of this one and that; whereas the
cause of the failure of that memorable expedition is to be sought rather
in the attitude of the entire population, the atmosphere of the times, or,
let us say at once, the mysterious leadings of the First Great Cause which
overrules human events, even while it leaves the human instruments free to
decide the issue. It is easy for one historian(105) to lay the blame on
Marie Antoinette, who “could not travel without new clothes,” showing us
how “Dame Campan whisks assiduous to this mantua‐maker and to that; and
there is clipping of frocks and gowns, upper clothes and under, great and
small—such clipping and sewing as might be dispensed with. Moreover,
majesty cannot go a step anywhere without her _nécessaire_, dear
_nécessaire_, of inlaid ivory and rosewood, cunningly devised, which holds
perfumes, toilet implements, infinite small, queenlike furniture necessary
to terrestrial life.” Poor Marie Antoinette! her grand, queenlike soul was
lifted far above such silly “terrestrial life” by this time, and it is not
likely that, when such tremendous stakes were impending, her care dwelt
with new clothes or perfume bottles—so misleading does prejudice make the
clearest mind, the most intentionally sincere witness. The plain truth is
that the difficulty of the new clothes existed, but from a very different
motive from that suggested by Mr. Carlyle. It was necessary that the queen
and the royal children should be disguised, and for this purpose new
clothes were essential, and it required all the ingenuity of Mme. De
Tourzel, and Mme. Campan, and every one connected with the affair to get
them made so as to fit the royal fugitives, and then conveyed into the
palace without exciting the keen lynx‐eyes that were fixed on every
incomer and outgoer passing through the queen’s apartments. As to the
_nécessaire_ over which the Scotch philosopher breaks the vials of his
scorn so loftily, it was wanted. Some box was wanted to hold the money,
jewels, and certain indispensable papers that were to be taken on the
journey, and the queen suggested that her dressing‐case should be used,
adding at the same time that she was loath to leave it behind her, as it
was almost the first present she had received from her husband—no great
subject for philosophical sneers, as far as we can see. Nor did either
_nécessaire_ or new clothes—though the obtaining and smuggling in of the
latter caused much delay—give rise to any of the accidents which worked
the failure of the scheme.

Then there was the new berlin to be provided—a lamentable mistake, but not
one that deserves Mr. Carlyle’s withering sarcasms any more than the
_nécessaire_. “Miserable new berlin!” he cries. “Why could not royalty go
in an old berlin similar to that of other men? Flying for life, one does
not stickle about one’s vehicle.” It was not for the newness or dignity of
the vehicle that the queen stickled, but for its capability of carrying
“all her treasures with her.” She positively refused to fly at all, unless
it could be so contrived that she was not separated for an hour of the way
from her husband, her children, and her beloved sister‐in‐law, the
Princess Elizabeth. She insisted, moreover, that the few faithful friends
who were to share her flight should be with them also, and not exposed to
solitary risks in a separate conveyance. This was characteristic enough of
the queen’s loyal heart towards those she loved, but it was unlike her
practical sense and intelligence. M. de Fersen, who was taken into
confidence from the first, declared that no travelling‐coach was to be
found large enough to answer these requirements, and that one must be
built on purpose. It so happened that the previous year he had ordered a
berlin, of just such form and dimensions as was now wanted, for a friend
of his in Russia; he therefore went to the coach‐maker, and desired him
with all possible speed to build another on the same model for a certain
Baronne de Korff, a cousin of his, who was about to return to St.
Petersburg with her family and suite. The berlin was built, and, to baffle
suspicion more effectually, was driven through some of the most public
streets in Paris, in order to try it. The result was most satisfactory,
and M. de Fersen talked aloud to his friends of the perfect coach he had
ordered and partly designed for his cousin, Mme. de Korff.

The journey was fixed for the 19th of June. Everything was ready, every
precaution had been taken, every possible obstacle anticipated. The
Marquis de Bouillé, almost the only general whose devotion the king could
trust to the death, was in command of the army of the Meuse, and Montmédy,
a small but well‐fortified town, was situated in the midst of it. Here the
royal family were sure of a safe and loyal asylum. The minor military
arrangements were entrusted to M. de Goguelat, an officer of engineers,
who was on Bouillé’s staff, and personally devoted to the king and queen.
The Duc de Choiseul, under De Goguelat’s orders, was to furnish local
detachments from his regiment of Royal Dragoons along the road, and to
precede the royal departure by a few hours, so as to ensure all being in
order at the various stations. M. de Goguelat made two experimental
journeys to Montmédy himself, to ascertain the exact hour of arrival at
each place. Unluckily, he forgot to calculate the difference between a
light post‐chaise and a heavily‐built, heavily‐laden “new berlin.” Relays
of horses were provided at each stage, and a detachment of cavalry from De
Bouillé’s army was to be there also, and, after a short interval, to
follow the new berlin, picking up each detachment successively, and thus
swelling the force at every stage. The utmost secrecy was observed with
all except the leaders of the expedition; the pretext alleged to the
troops for all this marching being that a treasure was on its way to the
north for payment of the army. All was waiting, when, at the last moment,
owing to some difficulty about getting Mme. de Tourzel into the berlin,
the king sent a counter‐order for the departure, saying it must take
place, not on the 19th, but on the 20th. It was a woful delay. But at
last, on the night of the 20th, behold the travellers under way. Mme.
Royale’s _Mémoires_ give us the most authentic account of the mode of
starting: “At half‐past ten, on the 20th of June, 1791, my brother was
wakened up by my mother. Mme. de Tourzel brought him down to my mother’s
apartment, where I also came. There we found one of the _gardes‐du‐corps_,
M. de Malden, who was to assist our departure. My mother came in and out
several times to see us. They dressed my brother as a little girl. He
looked beautiful, but he was so sleepy that he could not stand, and did
not know what we were all about. I asked him what he thought we were going
to do. He answered: ‘I suppose to act a play, since we have all got these
odd dresses.’ At half‐past ten we were ready. My mother herself conducted
us to the carriage in the middle of the court, which was exposing herself
to great risk.”

The _rôles_ were distributed as follows: Mme. de Tourzel, governess of the
children of France, was Baronne de Korff; Mme. Royale and the Dauphin, her
daughters. The queen was their governess, Mme. Rocher. The Princess
Elizabeth was _dame‐de‐compagnie_, under the name of Rosalie. The king was
Durand, the _valet‐de‐chambre_. The officers of the disbanded _gardes‐du‐
corps_ went as couriers and servants. This was a grievous mistake amidst
so many others. These gentlemen were totally inexperienced in their
assumed characters, and, by their personal appearance and ignorance of the
duties they undertook, proved a fatal addition to the party. The
preparations were altogether too cumbrous and elaborate, but it is
difficult to accuse any special portion of them as superfluous in a time
when the public spirit was strained to such a pitch of suspicion and
hatred; though prudence might have hinted that this heavy paraphernalia
was far more calculated to awake the jealous mistrust of the people than
to baffle or allay it.

All being now ready, the fugitives furtively left the Tuileries, and
proceeded to enter the hackney‐coach that stood in wait for them outside
the palace. “Mme. de Tourzel, my brother, and I got into the coach first,”
says Mme. Royale. “M. de Fersen was coachman. To deceive any one who might
follow us we drove about several streets. At last we returned to the Petit
Carrousel, which is close to the Tuileries. My brother was fast asleep in
the bottom of the carriage.”

And now another traveller steals softly out of the palace, her face
shrouded by a gypsy‐hat. As she steps on the pavement a carriage, escorted
by torch‐bearers, dashes past. An unaccountable impulse moves her to touch
the wheel with the end of her parasol. The occupant of the carriage is
Lafayette, on his way to the king’s _couchée_. He is late, having been
delayed by urgent matters. They tell him the king has already retired for
the night. Meantime the lady in the gypsy‐hat, leaning on M. de Malden,
one of the amateur couriers, loses her way in the dark street, and keeps
the occupants and driver of the hackney‐coach half an hour waiting in an
agony of suspense. At last, after crossing and recrossing the river, they
make their way to the coach, and start. Another presently follows them. So
they jog on through the dark night to the spot where the new berlin is
waiting; but, lo! they arrive, and no berlin is there. The king himself
alights, and prowls about in search of it. M. de Fersen at last finds it,
overturns the hackney‐coach into a ditch, mounts the berlin, and drives on
to Bondy. There the travellers find a relay waiting in a wood. The
chivalrous Swede stands bareheaded in the dewy dawn‐light, and bows his
loyal farewell to the king and Marie Antoinette. They press hands in
silent thanks, and the chevalier goes his way—to Stockholm, where that
same day, nineteen years hence, he will meet a more brutal end than that
which awaits the royal pair he has befriended—beaten to death with sticks
by a savage mob, who, on the impulse of the moment, accuse him of having
been accessory to the death of Prince Charles Augustus. But now he
breathes with a glad sense of victory and security, and stands with
bright, moistened eye watching the huge berlin lurching on its way, the
only thing that broke the stillness of the wood, sleeping yet under the
fading stars.

All went smoothly as far as Châlons‐sur‐Marne, about a hundred miles
beyond Bondy, and here the programme as arranged by the queen and De
Fersen ceased, to be taken up by the Duc de Choiseul and M. de Bouillé’s
detachments. The berlin rumbled on through Châlons at four in the
afternoon, and reached the next stage, Pont de Somme‐Velle at six, where
M. de Goguelat’s escort was to meet it. But no escort was to be seen. M.
de Choiseul had been there at the appointed time, but owing to the slow
pace of the berlin and the time lost in the early stages—one accident to a
wheel causing two hours’ delay—they were four hours behind time, and M. de
Choiseul, taking for granted something had occurred to change the plan
altogether, drew off his dragoons, without leaving even a _vedette_ to say
where he was going. Everywhere these unlucky troops turned out a hindrance
and a danger. The soldiers accepted without _arrière pensée_ the plausible
story of their being on duty to protect the transport of pay for the army
of the Meuse; but the municipal authorities looked on them with suspicion,
and, long before the idea of the real cause of their presence got wind,
the soldiers were eyed askance in the towns they passed through. At this
very place, Somme‐Velle, one detachment caused a panic. It so fell out, by
one of those disastrous coincidences which pursued the berlin on its
adventurous way, that some few days before there had been an affray
amongst the peasants of a neighboring estate, they having refused to pay
certain rates, in consequence of which the tax‐gatherers had threatened to
enforce payment by bringing down the troops. When therefore the population
beheld De Choiseul and his cavalry they fancied they had been summoned for
the above purpose, and a spirit of angry defiance was roused against them.
The municipality sent the _gendarmerie_ to parley with the troops and
compel them to withdraw; but they failed in this overture, and words began
to run dangerously high on all sides. Meanwhile De Choiseul was straining
eyes and ears for the approach of the berlin, in mortal dread of seeing it
arrive in the midst of the popular excitement. When, however, four hours
passed, and there was no sign of it, he said to an officer, loud enough to
be heard by those near, “I will draw off my men; the treasure I expected
must have already passed.”

The accounts of this particular hitch in the itinerary of the flight are
so conflicting—some envenomed by bitter reproach, others equally hot with
recrimination from the accused—that it is difficult to see who really was
in fault. The time lost in the first instance appears to be the main cause
of all the mishaps. Goguelat is blamed for not having taken better
measures for ensuring the relays being found at once at every stage; but
he throws the blame on De Choiseul, under whose orders he was, and who was
at any rate guilty of strange thoughtlessness in drawing off from the
point of rendezvous without leaving word where he could be found.

Little time, however, was lost at Somme‐Velle when the berlin at last
arrived there. It changed horses at once, and away to Sainte‐Ménéhould,
which it reached at half‐past seven. But here the incapacity of the _soi‐
disant_ couriers caused fresh delay and danger. M. de Valory, one of them,
not knowing where the post‐house was, went about inquiring for it,
exciting curiosity and some suspicion by his manner and uncourier‐like
appearance. He was still looking for it when a special escort of troops
rode up—a circumstance which was very unfortunate, as the angry feeling
excited in the neighboring village by De Choiseul’s huzzars the day before
had not yet subsided. The captain of the detachment, the Marquis
d’Andoins, sees the berlin, and tries to telegraph by glances to Goguelat
which way lies the post‐house; but Goguelat cannot read the signals, and
goes up to him and asks in words, keeping up the sham of his yellow livery
by touching his hat respectfully to the aristocrat officer. The king,
impatient and nervous, puts his head out of the carriage‐window, and calls
to Valory for explanations; the marquis advances and tenders them
respectfully, but with seeming indifference, as to ordinary travellers
asking information on their way. Unlucky Louis! Imprudent M. d’Andoins!
Patriots’ eyes are sharp, and there are hundreds of them fixed on your two
faces now. These sharp eyes are suggesting some vague memory, a likeness
to some forgotten and yet dimly‐remembered features. Whose can they be?
And the lady with the gypsy‐hat who bends forward to thank the gracious
gentleman, bowing in silence, but with a grace of majesty unmistakable, a
something in her air and carriage that startles even these heavy‐souled
provincials into wondering “who can she be?” The lady falls back in an
instant, and is hidden from further gaze; but that fat _valet‐de‐chambre_
keeps his head protruded for several minutes. The post‐house is found at
last, and the horses are coming. The postmaster and his son are busy at
their service. The son has lately been to Paris, and has seen that head
somewhere. He whispers suspicion to his father, old Drouet, one of Condé’s
dragoons in by‐gone days, and the two come closer, and steal a long,
sharp, look. Yes, it is the same as the head on the coins and the
assignats; there is no mistaking it. What is Drouet to do? He is a staunch
patriot; is he to connive at the king’s treachery to the nation, and let
him fly to the foreigner unimpeded? Never was the ready wit of patriotism
more severely tested. No need now to wonder at all this marching and
countermarching, this flying of pickets to and fro, this moving of troops
along the road to the frontier. Treasure to be transported! Ay, truly, a
greater treasure than gold or silver. But what was to be done? How was it
to be stopped? There were the soldiers and chivalrous aristocrat officers,
ready to cut all the patriot postmasters in France to pieces, and then be
cut to pieces themselves, rather than let a hair of one of those royal
heads be touched. A word, and the village would be in a blaze; but only so
long as it would take those glittering swords to quench the flame in
patriot blood. Drouet is a prudent man. He holds his tongue until the new
berlin is fairly on its way, with the village gaping after it, the
military escort lounging about yet a little longer in careless
indifference. M. de Damas was in command of the troops. Presently, after
the appointed interval, he orders them to move on in the wake of the
berlin. But short as the time was, it had sufficed to stir up the town to
terrified and resolute opposition. The people had flocked into the streets
in angry excitement, and would not suffer the cavalry to advance. M. de
Damas at first took a high tone of command, but it was of no use; his
weapon broke in his hand. The troops turned round on him and joined the
mob, and after a desperate struggle he was obliged to escape for his life,
unconscious, even at this crisis, of the danger that threatened his
master. Drouet, meanwhile, was flying after his prey to Clermont, the next
stage to St. Ménéhould, and which by a fatal chance he never reached; if
he had, the final catastrophe would, in human probability, have been
averted. On the road there he met his own postilions coming back, and they
informed him that the berlin had not gone on to Verdon—the next stage
beyond Clermont; that they had overheard the courier on the seat say to
the fresh postilions, “A Varennes!” Drouet, who knew every stone of the
roads, saw at once what a chance this gave him. He turned off the main
road, and started by a short cut across the country to Varennes. Varennes
was a small town, a village rather, where there was no post‐house, but
where M. de Bouillé had a relay waiting for the travellers, who, having
arrived before Drouet, and without any suspicion that he was pursuing
them, might have congratulated themselves on being at last safe over the
Rubicon. Yet it was here that danger was to overtake and overwhelm them.
In this secluded little dell, near midnight, when every one was asleep,
hushed by the lullaby of the river hurrying on its way beneath the silent
stars, no prying eyes to peer at them, no patriots to take offence or
fright, with fresh horses waiting in the quiet wood, and young De Bouillé,
the general’s loyal son, to superintend the relays, with a guard of sixty
staunch huzzars lodged in an old convent of the upper town, at hand in
case of now seemingly impossible accident—it was here that the thunderbolt
fell, and, as the king expressed it, “the earth opened to swallow him.”
Valory, the clumsy courier in the gaudy gold livery, has been blamed for
it all; but let us remember at least that a man who has ridden one hundred
and fifty miles without breathing‐space in twenty‐three hours is entitled
to mercy if, at the end of the ride, his mind wanders and his thoughts
become confused. It was past eleven when he reached Varennes, and went
looking about for the relays, where he had been told he should find them,
at the entrance of the faubourg; but no relays were to be seen. He pushed
on through the faubourg to the town, which had gone to bed, and could find
no sign of the missing horses. After wandering about for nearly an hour,
he hears a sound of rumbling of wheels coming along the Paris road. Can it
be the berlin? And where, oh! where are the fresh horses? He hurries back
in the direction of the sound, and finds the fugitives at the entrance of
the suburb, looking about for the relays. There was nothing for it but to
wake up the village and make enquiries. The king and queen themselves got
out, and went, with the couriers, knocking at doors, and calling to the
inhabitants to know if they had seen horses waiting in the neighborhood.
Drouet, meantime, was not asleep; he was up with his game now, and flashed
past the berlin, like a man riding, not for life, but against life for
death, just as the king alighted. He shouted something as he passed, but
Louis did not hear it. It was an order to the postilions not to stir from
the spot. The relays all this time were ready waiting not at the entrance
of the suburb on the Paris side, as had been specified to the king in M.
de Goguelat’s programme, but at the entrance of the faubourg _beyond_ the
town—a safer and to all appearances more advantageous position, as the
change of horses would be sure to attract less notice out of the town than
within it. The grievous mistake on De Goguelat’s part was in not having
told the courier the exact place where the relays were to be found. But
where were the officers commanding the sixty huzzars all this time? Fast
asleep, it is said, though it is almost impossible to believe it. Certain
it is that they and their huzzars, as well as the detachment of dragoons
which, under command of M. Rohrig, was told off to keep watch over “the
treasure,” kept out of the way while all this commotion was going on, and
never appeared until the entire village was on foot, lights gleaming in
every window, and the streets filled with the inhabitants, lately snoring
in their beds. Drouet had managed his mission with a coolness and
cleverness worthy of a nobler cause. He made no row, but went quietly to
the houses of some half‐dozen good patriots, told them what was abroad,
and directed them how to act. Their first move was to hurry off to the
bridge, and throw up a loose barricade which would prevent the berlin
passing; they then flew to the other end of the town, and overturned some
carts that happened to be close by, and thus barricaded the exit by the
road. They were but “eight patriots of good‐will,” Drouet proudly asserts,
in these momentous preliminaries, so sagaciously and quickly executed.

The mob were by this time thoroughly roused. They surrounded the carriage,
and forced the travellers to alight. Mme. Royale thus describes the scene:
“After a great deal of trouble the postilions were persuaded that the
horses were waiting at the castle (at the other side of the town and
river), and they proceeded that way, but slowly. When we got into the
village, we heard alarming shouts of Stop! stop! The postilions were
seized, and in a moment the carriage was surrounded by a great crowd, some
with arms and some with lights. They asked who we were; we answered, ‘Mme.
de Korff and her family.’ They thrust lights into the carriage, close to
my father’s face, and insisted upon our alighting. We answered that we
would not; that we were common travellers, and had a right to go on. They
repeated their orders to alight on pain of being put to death, and at that
moment all their guns were levelled. We then alighted, and, in crossing
the street, six mounted dragoons passed us, but unfortunately they had no
officer with them; if there had been, six resolute men would have
intimidated them all, and might have saved the king. There were sixty
close at hand, but the two officers who commanded them were asleep; and
when at last the noise of the riot awoke them, they coolly rode away to
tell the Marquis de Bouillé that the king had been stopped, and all was
over; while M. Rohrig, who commanded the treasure escort, rode off
likewise, leaving his men under a disaffected non‐commissioned officer.”
M. de Raigecourt, in his account of this eventful “Night of Spurs,” tells
us how he and his brother officer, De Bouillé, “at half‐past eleven
returned to their bed‐rooms,” after strolling about the town, in hopes of
seeing the travellers arrive. “We extinguished our lights,” he says, “but
opened our windows and kept a profound silence. About twelve we heard many
persons passing and repassing, but without tumult; some even stopped under
our windows, but we could not distinguish what they were saying.” They
remained quietly in their rooms, “wondering what was the matter,” until
about half‐past twelve, when they were enlightened by signals which even
their unsuspicious minds could not mistake. The tocsin was rung, the drum
beat to arms, the tumult became very great. _Terror_ seemed to prevail. I
believe that at that moment ten, or even fewer, determined men would have
routed that scared populace. A general cry informed us that the king was
in Varennes, betrayed and a prisoner. Instead of now, at least, hastening
to call out their men (who, we said, were lodged above the town in an old
abbey), the two officers “took for granted that the huzzars had laid down
their arms, as otherwise they would have come to the rescue and liberated
the king,” and so they simply rode away to report the lamentable issue to
De Bouillé. It was about a quarter to one when they left Varennes.

At this juncture M. de Damas, who had escaped with a few faithful men from
the fray at Clermont, reached Varennes—not with the idea of succoring the
travellers, but of rejoining them. He believed that the uproar which so
suddenly exploded at Clermont had been merely against the troops, and that
the royal fugitives were now in security, past all further dangers or
hindrances. His consternation was therefore great when, on approaching the
village of Varennes, he beheld a barricade across the high‐road, held by a
band of peasants, who made an attempt to stop him. M. de Damas, however,
leaped the barricade, and dashed past them into the town. But the
chivalrous soldier was no war‐god descending on fire‐wings to save the
royal prisoners. He saw the huzzars walking about the streets, and in
answer to his question, “What were they doing?” they replied, “Nothing; we
have no orders.” Those who should have given the orders had fled. M. de
Choiseul was there with his drawn sword at the head of forty men; and
there was a detachment just arrived from another direction under M.
Deslons. There was therefore, even at this point of the disaster, no lack
of armed force to clear the way, if there had been but one vigorous will
to use it. But everybody seemed too bewildered to act. No one had the
courage or the presence of mind to take the initiative. As to Louis
himself, he was like one paralyzed; not with personal cowardice—that
odious charge his subsequent conduct amply disproved—but with a sort of
dazed, mental stupor. When Deslons went the length of asking him for
orders, he replied, “I am a prisoner, and have no orders to give!” Deslons
might have taken the hint, and acted without orders; but the two officers
present were his superiors, and he lacked the genius or the desperation to
seize the opportunity at the cost of a breach of military discipline. Even
the queen’s imperial spirit seems to have abandoned her in this critical
extremity, and she sat passive and dumb in Sausse the grocer’s bed‐room,
clasping her children to her heart, and taking with silent, humble thanks
the sympathy of Mme. Sausse, who forgets the queen in her pity for the
mother, and stands over the group weeping womanly, unavailing tears. Tears
even of “warlike men” cannot help now, for the soldiers have fraternized
with the mob, as their wont is in France; and even if Louis could be
electrified by the shock of despair to arise and assert himself,
remembering that he is a king, it is too late.

The journey so wisely planned, so deeply thought over, dreaded, and at
last attempted, had come to an end, and stopped at the first stage along
the road whose goal was the scaffold. The return to Paris resembled the
capture of a runaway malefactor. Every species of insult was poured out on
the unhappy victims of the popular fury. The brave men who stood by them
in their hour of humiliation, MM. de Choiseul, de Damas, and de Goguelat,
were disarmed and sent to prison; the three _gardes‐du‐corps_, who
faithfully but clumsily played their part as servants to the last, were
bound with ropes on the front seat of the berlin, and hooted at in their
glaring yellow liveries by the mob; the National Guard of Varennes claimed
the glory of escorting the fugitives back to the capital, and the National
Guard of all the towns the berlin had passed through on its ill‐starred
journey fell in with the _cortége_ one after another, swelling it to ten
thousand strong as it advanced. As these men were on foot, the journey
homewards lasted four days. When the king arrived at Sainte‐Ménéhould, M.
de Dampierre came out to salute him, and paid for the loyal act by being
massacred on the spot. A little further on the prisoners were met by
Barnave, Petion, and Latour‐Maubourg, members of the Assembly sent by
Lafayette to conduct them back to Paris. Barnave and Petion entered the
berlin, Mme. de Tourzel leaving to make room for them, and following in
another carriage. From this strange meeting grew the quasi‐friendship of
Barnave and the queen, which led to his honorable though futile efforts to
save her and all of them. At first the proud Austrian lady sat in sullen
silence, turned to stone, deaf to Petion’s coarse sneers, as he sat
opposite in ill‐suppressed jocularity of triumph; but Barnave’s
interference to save a priest from being butchered, like loyal Dampierre,
for saluting the king, moved her to speech, and soon to confidence in the
young representative of the nation. Barnave was surprised beyond measure
to discover in Marie Antoinette’s conversation such clear and strong
intelligence, and so thorough a comprehension of the existing state of
things. He was captivated by her grace, as well as impressed by the
serenity and courage that stamped her whole demeanor throughout that
terrible journey; while his prejudices received nearly an equal blow in
the person of the king. There was no approaching Louis XVI. without being
convinced of his single‐minded honesty and good sense.

In this sorry guise did the new berlin re‐enter Paris. It had departed on
Monday night, and behold it returning on Saturday towards sundown, a huge,
jolting, captured whale whom no miracle will compel to disgorge its prey.
In order to prolong the people’s jubilee and the king’s shame, it was
brought a league out of its direct way, so as to make an entry down the
Champs Elysées, and bear its occupants back to their gilded prison with
due pomp and emphasis by the front gate of the Tuileries gardens. So with
serried ranks of bayonets pointed at it on every side, it reappears in
Paris, and jogs on to deposit its burden on the old Médicean tile‐field,
an ignominious procession, royalty degraded and fettered, a spectacle of
joy to the king‐hating citizens. The royal family enter the Tuileries, now
a prison in the most cruel and literal sense. The queen and Mme. Elizabeth
are henceforth watched, even in their chambers—so watched that, as it is
recorded, the queen being one night unable to sleep, the National Guard on
duty at her open door offered to come in and converse with her majesty
awhile, conversation being sometimes conducive to sleep.

Even at this distance, when we read the history of the flight to Varennes,
it has the exciting effect of a fresh tale. We hold our breath, and fancy
that still at the last some deliverer will arrive just as all is lost;
some accident will prevent Drouet from reaching the scene in time; the
fugitives will clear the bridge, and the mob be prevented by the soldiers
from pursuing them. Never, even in the history of those most unfortunate
of princes, the Stuarts, was there a series of mishaps, blunders, and
accidents such as make up the chapter of the flight to Varennes. It is
idle to conjecture what would have happened if it had ended differently.
If, when the berlin was first surrounded and the travellers ordered to
alight, Louis had proudly defied the insolent command, and bade the
soldiers fire, how quickly the “pale paralysis” of baffled rage would have
seized Drouet and his eight patriots of good‐will; how the froth of
ruffianism they had evoked would have melted away before that imperial
word, and slunk out of sight, while the monarch fared on his way along the
high‐road, the troops sweeping back all possible pursuers, and landing the
destinies of France safe beyond the reach of regicidal hands! All this was
so much more likely to be than that which was! The reason why it was not
is so mysterious! Enough that it was not; that the bloody deed of January
the 20th was to consummate the outrages and sufferings of the Night of
Spurs; and that the fate of France was not shaped to a different issue, as
we, in our short‐sighted philosophy, fancy might so easily have been done.




The Ingenious Device.


“Doth no man condemn thee? And she answered, No man, Lord.”

“Woman! thou’rt over‐confident and sure
To answer thus the Infinitely Pure!
How knowest thou that He does not condemn,
And will not cast at thee th’ avenging stone?”
“The pure are merciful. His stratagem
Has left me to be judged by such alone.”




The Rigi.


The Golden Lion of Weggis can scarcely be said to resemble its now famed
namesake of Granpère. It shows neither coach‐house, stable, farmyard, nor
bustling village life around it, and yet there is the one point of a
certain homeliness in common which suggests that it too may have seen many
a simple romance acted out beneath its roof, and have had its share in
many a life’s heart‐story. It is difficult to imagine sentiment of any
kind in connection with the monster hotels, or rather caravansaries, of
modern Switzerland. But this is a true inn, in the olden acceptation of
the word; modest and sedate enough to feel elated at the arrival of new
guests, who are welcomed by the landlord himself, and instinctively made
to understand that he will personally see to their comfort and proper
attendance. At first sight it appears to be overshadowed by a new and
larger neighbor; but the Golden Lion does not care, for he enjoys the
advantage of mature age and well‐established fame, and justly prides
himself on his old customers, whose constancy is a good tribute to his
honesty and civility. Some who knew him in the quieter times of Rigi
history still come and spend two or three days here when going to, or
returning from, the mountain, and it was one of these faithful friends who
had recommended us to choose it in preference to the larger establishment
of more modern date. Truly, no spot seems more suitable for a romance.
Situated on the lake, surrounded by the most lovely views of land and
water, removed from the rush and bustle which somewhat jar on the
sentimental traveller at Vitznau, and even at Gersau, still with the
pleasant splash of the steamers as they halt alongside the shady pier,
only making just sufficient noise to remind him that, though not of the
world, he can still be in it whenever, or fly whithersoever, his fancy may
impel him. Yes; every steamer, backwards and forwards, stops at Weggis,
though generally merely to drop a stray traveller—a man with alpenstock
and knapsack, or two ladies with their waterproofs neatly strapped across
their shoulders, thereby betraying their recent arrival from “fatherland
beyond the Rhine.” And every one walks leisurely and with consequent
dignity on shore, as though life and plenty of time to enjoy it in were
still at their command. No feverish train is in the background; indeed, it
cannot be even seen on the mountain sky‐line from Weggis, so that
strangers may pause and dine at ease up‐stairs in the clean, airy _table‐
d’hôte_ room of the Golden Lion, sip their coffee on its wide balcony
facing the Uri‐Rothstock and Rigi‐Nasen, or lunch _à la carte_ in the
leafy arbor of the garden, which is more trim and inviting than its
counterpart at Granpère.

It was overpoweringly hot when we landed from the _Helvetia_, the sun
bearing down with that full force which so often follows a heavy shower;
and the leafy arbor in question irresistibly attracted us by its deep
shade and cool, refreshing shelter. Here we resolved to dine, in order to
strengthen the “inner being” and let the noonday hours of heat glide by
before attempting the ascent to Kaltbad, which promised to be a matter of
two and a half hours at the least. The landlord was loud in praise of his
horses and men—“well known before that Vitznau railway existed,” he said
in a tone rather contemptuous of such an upstart. “The price of each only
six francs to Kaltbad, fixed according to the tariff.” And here an
ejaculation in praise of this tariff system, penetrating even to the heart
of the mountain, may perhaps be allowed to us. None but those who have
benefited by it can understand the advantage of being able thus to
calculate beforehand the expense of every excursion, nor the unspeakable
comfort it brings when, on reaching the hotel at night, tired and sleepy,
you know that the guide cannot cheat you, and he feels you cannot cheat
him. No one thing contributes more to ensure peace or conduces to happy
wanderings. Nor does any man more surely “deserve well of his country”
than that Swiss, whoever he may have been, who first proposed this
arrangement; and after him we must be grateful to those authorities who
have so well carried it out. The dinner was the next matter for
consultation between Mr. C—— and mine host, which ultimately ended in the
latter promising to do his best, and to have it ready in three‐quarters of
an hour or thereabouts.

Besides the arbor, the Golden Lion boasts of a tea‐house and a swimming or
bath house projecting into the lake, and also many a well‐placed seat
inviting to a most enjoyable _dolce far niente_ close by the pellucid
waters, without sound to disturb poetic musings; bright coloring and full
foliage forming a framework to the exquisite landscape which extends
beyond. Nothing could be more romantic, rural, or tranquillizing to soul
and body; but before long, prompted by my “natural female curiosity,” as
Mr. C—— ungallantly styled it, I proposed a saunter through the village.
“There is nothing whatever to see,” he retorted. Still, with much good‐
nature, he immediately offered to accompany his wife and me in our
rambles. It certainly was true in the ordinary sense of the term. There
was nothing very remarkable to behold; still, the Swiss villages are
always pleasant to look at, especially in these forest cantons, and of
this class Weggis is an excellent specimen. It has probably seen its
palmiest days, and is at present thrust aside by the hitherto despised
sister, Vitznau, now in the spring‐tide of her charms, who seems to toss
her head at her elderly and _passée_ rival with the conceit of young life
and energy. Yet there no signs of decay. Far from it. It has a steady,
old‐fashioned _commune_ life of its own, quite independent of the tourist
element, which only comes in—very opportunely, no doubt—to help it on its
way. As at Gersau and many of these places, the population is much smaller
than appearances warrant, owing chiefly to the substantial size of the
houses and the straggling, independent manner in which they are placed.
Sometimes a dwelling stands endwise or sidewise to the road, just as the
whim of the ancestral great‐great‐grand‐father who built it centuries ago
dictated. The walls are now mantled with vines, bright blue eyes peep
through casements embosomed in leaves, gardens of glowing sun‐flowers and
fig‐trees laden with fruit surround the cottages, while here and there a
noble Spanish chestnut throws its deep shade on all around. The street‐
road was almost deserted as we passed along, on account of the strong sun;
but many buxom, pleasant‐faced matrons sat working at their doors, while
chubby children played beneath the trees hard by. Though innocent of
manufactories, and far more rural in its general aspect and atmosphere
than Gersau, the whole place breathes of prosperity and comfort. It gives
the impression, too, of greater space; for it is not shut in on all sides,
and the open slopes extend much further back before they reach the
precipitous mountain‐side.

And in accordance with this character is the church, which stands on a
slight eminence at the end of the village. The cemetery too, though large
and thoroughly well cared for, is more simple, and has none of those
pretty monuments that lend such poetry and beauty to the Camenzind‐Küttel
resting‐place. But, if not, it possesses a very handsome stone crucifix in
one angle—evidently a recent erection, and of which Weggis may well be
proud—with the following inscriptions on the base: “Praise be to Jesus
Christ in all eternity”; on the front facing the entrance: “See, is there
any sorrow like unto my sorrow?” and “In the cross is salvation and
benediction” on either side; whilst on the back, close to the Mortuary
Chapel, the words run thus: “Gentle Jesus, grant eternal rest to all
departed souls.” The children’s quarter, too, was remarkable for its fresh
flowers and superabundance of white ribbon; but not until quite near did
we notice a poor disconsolate mother decorating the grave of her child—her
little _engel_, or angel, as they are so often styled on the tiny
headstones or crosses. _She_ did not mind the sun, nor our presence
either, but went on with her work, while large tears rolled unchecked down
her cheeks. And this part is in a striking spot, right under the northern
angle of the Rigi, the straight rocks of which rise perpendicularly from a
green slope of pasture‐land behind the village church, covered with large
boulders and _débris_ that seem to corroborate all the stories of land‐
slips and stone‐rolling so common in this region. Standing here, it was
easy to understand the most noted of these events—the mud‐slide of 1795,
which threatened Weggis with destruction. Thirty‐one houses and eighty
acres of land were buried beneath the creeping mass. It occurred, like the
fall of the Rossberg, after a peculiarly rainy season. Though the story
says that the slide was preceded by ominous symptoms, the earth so much
resembles rich garden‐mould, and looks so loose and friable, that,
recollecting yesterday’s rain, it made me quite nervous to look at it. Had
I stayed gazing upwards much longer, I felt that I would certainly have
fancied it was beginning to move downwards. “What an idea!” exclaimed Mr.
C——, laughing—“the effect of nerves and sun combined! The church‐door is
open, and the sanctuary lamp burning; so it would be much wiser and better
for you to enter in!” Saying which, he preceded me into the sacred
building.

Large, clean, and simple, as a rural church should be, it had three
distinguishing points: first, an altar dedicated to S. Justus, one of the
patron saints of Weggis, who was an archbishop of Lyons in the first
centuries of its Christianity, thus affording, as in the case of S.
Leodegar, another proof of the early ecclesiastical connection between
Switzerland and the Frank Empire. Next, a large processional banner placed
near the altar, and composed simply of the national standard—the beautiful
white cross on the red ground—whose position in this spot it puzzled us to
explain. Lastly, the model of a boat suspended from the ceiling, with two
sailors rowing, whilst a bishop in full canonicals stood erect in the
stern, in the act of giving them his benediction. It looked like an _ex‐
voto_, but our communicative landlord later informed us that it was the
emblem of the Guild of S. Nicholas, “patron of all who navigate upon the
lake.” Every Weggis man who has anything to do with the water belongs to
the confraternity. Before steamers existed they numbered many hundreds,
and, though of late the village occupations have been turned into other
channels, the numbers are still numerous enough; for boats and smaller
craft are even now much used on the lake. The confraternity is still full
of life and vigor. The Feast of S. Nicholas is religiously kept in the
village. The members of the Guild often assemble, but on that day they go
in a body to church, accompanied by their wives and families, to offer
thanks for the past and implore protection for the coming year.

Who shall describe our charming little dinner in the deep‐shaded arbor,
with the glowing sun‐color lighting up the mountains, seen through its
leaf‐framed openings? Such a clean _Kellnerinn_ waited upon us, and the
_Gastherr_ himself all smiles and conversation! The beautiful trout too,
“fresh from the Muotta‐Thal, just brought by the steamer from Brunnen.”
The Muotta valley!

“But what’s in a name?” said Mrs. C——.

“A great deal more than we acknowledge,” I answered.

This one struck again the chord of Schwytz and the “Urschweiz” in our
minds, but perhaps much more that of Soovorof and the hard fighting on the
surrounding crags of the Muotta between his Russians and the French. Mr.
C—— knew the locality, and waxed eloquent on the subject, until
interrupted by an army of—wasps! attracted by some delicious cream with
which our landlord wound up the dinner. It became a regular battle, and a
doubtful one at first, waged in self‐defence. “Never had there been such a
year for wasps,” said our host, slaying a couple so dexterously with his
napkin that it betrayed considerable practice in the art. “But it had
altogether been a prosperous season”—two more knocked down by Mrs. C——.
“So no one had a right to complain”—three or four more timidly but
effectually killed by Mrs. C—— and myself. “The villagers had made a great
deal of money by their fruit and flowers carried up the mountain by their
children,” he continued; until at last, counting our victims by tens and
twenties during this running dialogue, we were left in peaceful possession
of the scene, and ready to hear wonderful reports of Weggis prosperity.
The Golden Lion evidently would have been pleased to keep us longer, but
the horses were waiting and the afternoon advancing; so, despite the
attractions—minus the wasps—we were obliged to depart.

Our path led at first up behind the hotel, through lanes, and meadows
enamelled with wild flowers, and dotted here and there with picturesque
cottages under magnificent chestnuts and walnut‐trees. The whole of this
portion is on the site of the former land‐slip, now the richest and most
highly‐cultivated district of the mountain. On every side the views were
enchanting; Mount Pilatus standing forth in all his grandeur just
opposite, displaying folds and tracts of pasture‐ground we had not
attributed to his rugged form. Lost in admiration, we rode on in
comparative silence, until we halted, to refresh the men and horses, at a
_café_ under a splendid tree, and soon after reached a chapel sheltered by
a rock, called in our hand‐book the Heiligenkreuz, or Church of the Holy
Cross. “The beginning of the Stations to Kaltbad,” said my guide, a dark‐
eyed, refined‐looking man, who had spoken but little hitherto. “Stations
to the _Wallfahrtort_, or place of pilgrimage at Kaltbad,” he repeated,
noticing my perplexed countenance. “Kaltbad is a _Gnadenort_, or ‘place of
grace,’ to us, madam,” he continued, “although you perhaps only know it as
a _Curort_.” And such was the sober truth. I had never heard it spoken of
as anything but a huge hotel with salubrious air. So now I entered into
conversation with my guide, and found that he constantly made the
Stations, in common with all the Weggis population, up this rugged ascent,
until they reach the church at Kaltbad. “Would I not go to see the
church?” he asked. “It was indeed a _Gnadenort_. But the feast of the year
I could not see, for it takes place in the middle of May, just before the
flocks are sent up to the summer pastures. Then there is a procession up
the mountain, with the banner we had noticed in the parish church—the
white cross on the red ground.”

So here was the explanation of its place of honor inside the sanctuary—one
more reason why the Weggis folks should hold it dear and we strangers
regard it with reverence. Nay more: should we not love and cherish a flag
which not only symbolizes, but is practically used by, a modern free
people in connection with their highest and noblest feelings? “In this
procession, headed by the priest,” my informant continued, “we, the
people, make the Stations with hymns and prayers as we go up, and, after
first visiting the Kaltbad church, all ends by the priest blessing the
pastures on all sides before the cattle are permitted to be brought up to
them for the summer season.” The higher we ascended, the steeper became
the road under a straight face of rock, and we could readily fancy how
picturesque, even from an artist’s point of view, such a procession must
be, headed by the red flag, winding its way up this rugged mountain‐road;
but, combined with the spirit and faith which animate it, it is impossible
to conceive anything more beautiful.

This peasant was a native of Weggis, and soon grew communicative. “Oh!
yes, he had often been to Einsiedeln; every one in that country had many,
many times made the pilgrimage there.” And in fervent language he
described the place to me. He had also been to Tell’s Chapel often, but
not yet to Tell’s Platform. That was the great object of his ambition,
what he most wished to accomplish, with a visit to Sachslen to see “Bruder
Klaus,” as so many of his neighbors had done; but another year should not
pass without his carrying out his intentions. Amidst conversation of this
kind we climbed up the straight wall of rock, which seemed to have no
issue, until suddenly we reached a curious group called the Felsenthor,
composed of large fragments fallen from above exactly in the semblance of
a “rocky gate,” as the name implies, and whence the view is magnificent.

The afternoon was lovely. At each turn one snowy peak after another had
been coming into view. The air, though warm, was fresher and brisker than
at Weggis, while the vegetation had sensibly changed from the luxuriant
chestnuts to the pines and fir‐trees of the Alpine heights. Nothing could
be more poetic and tranquil than our half‐hour’s repose at this beautiful
point, noticing the approach of sunset‐tints on the mountain‐wall just
opposite which overhangs Vitznau; watching the pretty steamers looking
like dragon‐flies hovering over the lake two thousand feet below; and then
reflecting on the faith and piety of our humble attendants, which shed a
vivifying atmosphere over the whole scene. Our minds were still full of
these thoughts as we set forth again for our last ascent to Kaltbad, about
three‐quarters of an hour distant, through a pretty dell of fallen rocks
and fresh verdure. We had quite forgotten the existence of the railway or
its feverish life, when all at once a turn in the road gave a rude shock
to our peaceful meditations. There were the trains laboring up a barren,
steep hill beside us—one that would be too steep for any horse without
three or four zigzag turns and windings. Three separate trains were coming
up at certain distances in succession, the engines puffing and snorting,
panting and laboring, in the effort to push the one carriage before each,
as though the struggle were too much for their fast‐failing strength. It
made one tremble to watch them, and it seemed impossible to comprehend how
the passengers looked so quiet and unconcerned. How Mrs. C—— and I
congratulated ourselves on having kept old‐fashioned ways and despised
“progress,” at least for once in our travels! And when I also thought of
the varied charms of our ride, and all that I had seen of the population
and their ways, I felt that no one who rushes through a country at high‐
pressure railway speed can ever hope to understand its people half as well
as those who come into closer contact with them.

Before we had time to recover from the impressions of the railway, Kaltbad
itself appeared in sight, high above our heads, like a green‐jalousied
monster of some German watering‐place lifted bodily up from the depths
below. Anything more unpoetic than its first view is not to be found;
though it must at once be admitted that first impressions are not to be
trusted in this particular case. It was a cruel shock, however, to our
visions of pious pilgrimages and processions; a return to the prose of
life we had never contemplated at four thousand four hundred and thirty‐
nine feet above the level of the sea.

Our young friends were anxiously awaiting us on the long terrace in front
of the hotel with such sensational accounts of their railway journey as
might well have obliterated all remembrance of the _Wallfahrtort_, or
“place of pilgrimage,” but for the parting reminder of my guide, that “the
church was behind the house, and he hoped I would be sure to see it.” But
the C——s’ only thought now was of the sunset about to take place, and they
hurried us off, without a moment’s delay, to a beautiful spot, called the
Käuzli, ten minutes’ distance from the hotel. Certainly no view could be
more glorious! Before us spread half the northern portion of
Switzerland—Mount Pilatus right opposite, Lucerne at our feet, Sempach,
the great lake, just beyond, bathed in a flood of crimson, as though in
harmony with its memories, and bringing back to our minds at one glance
Arnold von Winkelried and all the grand history related to us so recently
by Herr H——. The seven great peaks of the Oberland, including the
Wetterhorn, Monk, and Eiger, towered above the clouds to our right, while
the summits on the south, half facing the sunset, were lit up by the same
kaleidoscopic coloring that we had witnessed on the first evening of our
arrival at Lucerne. Spell‐bound by this fairy‐like scene, we lingered here
till nearly dark, and it seemingly became too late to seek out the little
church. But young C—— had discovered it that afternoon, and led me by an
intricate back pathway to its very door. Even at that late hour it was
open, the lamp burning before the altar, and many figures could be
distinguished devoutly praying in the twilight. These, as I afterwards
learned, were servants of the hotel—the laundresses, bath‐women, and
porters, who came to pay their visit to the Blessed Sacrament before
retiring to rest after their busy day’s work. Mass was celebrated every
morning at half‐past seven o’clock, they said. My own devotions over, I
was again led back to the hotel, where the brilliantly‐lighted rooms and
crowd of fashionably‐dressed ladies—although the material comforts are by
no means to be despised—were still in harsh discord with our ideas of
mountain life.

Next morning, as if we had been in the plain, the church‐bell tolled at
the stated hour, and found us ready to sally forth in answer to its call.
In the hotel all was bustle and clatter; but what wonder? Three hundred
guests and upwards have, on an average, to be provided for daily during
the season. In the middle of July four hundred and twenty were at one time
under this roof, but, happily for us, the numbers had now sensibly
decreased. No church, however, was visible, and it was only on inquiry
that I found a pathway in the rear of the house leading behind two rocks—a
true _Felsenthor_, or “rocky gate,” they made—hiding away their little
treasure. Once past them, there stood the church, with the sun shining on
its roof, small and simple, but perfect in all its proportions, nestling
amongst the encircling crags and overhanging trees, from amidst which,
opposite the door, trickled a stream of the clearest water. Mass had just
commenced at the centre altar, over which stood a statue of the Blessed
Virgin and Child, surrounded by a garland of flowers, and two bouquets
were laid, evidently as a pious offering, on the two side altars, which
were also adorned by excellent paintings. A handsome silver lamp hung in
the sanctuary, and there was a confessional, besides benches capable of
accommodating a couple of hundred people, all neatly painted and very
clean. To‐day the congregation was small, for the servants could not be
spared, we were told, at that hour from their work, and there were few
Catholic visitors in the house; but we noticed that the clerk rang the
church‐bell at the Gospel and the Elevation, so that the shepherds and
others scattered about on the mountain might join their intention with the
priest at the altar. Nothing could exceed the quiet of the spot. It might
have been miles away from the noisy world hard by, no sound audible but
the trickling of the stream outside, heard through the open door, and
enhancing the deep tranquillity of the scene. A most perfect haven of rest
it made for weary souls or pious pilgrims, and a worthy aim, with the
constant presence of the Blessed Sacrament, for any procession toiling up
the precipitous mountain‐side. When Mass was over, we lingered awhile,
and, looking round, a large, illuminated tablet caught our attention. What
was our delight to find it gave the whole history of the place in the
following words:

“KALTBAD ON THE RIGI.


    “Amongst the venerated spots which the goodness of God seems to
    have especially chosen for the distribution of rich spiritual and
    temporal gifts, Kaltbad on the Rigi has for centuries enjoyed a
    well‐founded reputation. The natural operation of the remarkably
    cold water has in itself given life and health to thousands. But
    far more effect has been produced by trustful prayers, joined with
    the contrite and devout reception of the holy sacraments, and
    aided by the powerful intercession of the pure Virgin‐Mother of
    God and of other saints. Remarkable and often perfectly miraculous
    cures of countless Christians, in the most different circumstances
    of body and soul, have here taken place, which have partly been
    recorded in writing, and partly live on in grateful remembrance.

    “In former times this place was called the ‘Schwesterborn,’ or
    ‘Spring of the Sisters’; for the legend relates that in the reign
    of the Emperor Albert of Austria—in the beginning of the XIVth
    century—three pious sisters retired to this wilderness in order to
    escape from powerful governors, or _Vogts_, and here led holy and
    saintly lives. The first miraculous cure on record is that of a
    devout _Landsassen_ of Weggis, named Balthasar Tolen, in the year
    1540. From year to year the reputation of this spring increased.
    In the year 1585, on the 20th of May, the first small chapel was
    consecrated in honor of God, of the holy Archangel Michael and the
    other angels, and of the holy shepherd Wendelin, by Balthasar,
    Bishop of Ascalon. It proved, however, insufficient for the number
    of Alpine inhabitants and pilgrims. Even after those belonging to
    the canton Schwytz built themselves a chapel, a hundred years
    later, at Mary in the Snow, or ‘Maria zum Schnee,’ the want of a
    larger church was still felt. The present one, with three altars,
    the middle one of which possesses the image of the ever Blessed
    Mother of God, and the two side ones the pictures of the holy
    martyr S. Lawrence and the father of the church, S. Jerome, was
    built in the year 1779, and considerably renovated in the year
    1861, when the two new side altars and their paintings by Theodore
    von Deschwanden were added.

    “On the 20th of July, 1782, His Holiness Pius VI. granted a
    plenary indulgence to all the faithful, on any day whatsoever, on
    the condition that after approaching the holy sacraments of
    Confession and Communion, with contrite and worthy dispositions,
    they here devoutly pray for the union of all Christian princes,
    the extirpation of heresy, and the increase of the Holy Catholic
    Church—an indulgence which can be applied to the souls in
    purgatory.

    “In order to afford the opportunity of assisting at divine service
    on Sundays and holidays to the shepherds as well as to the
    pilgrims, and also of approaching the holy sacraments, a special
    priest is here appointed during the whole summer season.”


So here again, even here, the Austrians and imperial _Vogts_ were at the
root of all things—in this instance, however, and unconsciously, the
source of good to many poor sufferers; for numberless _ex‐votos_ filling
the end of the little church eloquently told that it had proved to them a
true “place of grace,” as my guide of yesterday had so beautifully called
it. And the little stream outside was the real “Kaltbad,” whose wonder‐
working effects had first given the place its name. Quaint and rude were
all the paintings, but full of life and feeling, mostly from the
neighborhood—from Weggis, Vitznau, and Gersau. Yes, there was a man in a
boat in danger on the lake, just as we had seen from the Gersau hotel two
evenings ago; but this one is praying fervently with clasped hands, and we
longed to know if those who were saved the other day had done likewise.

Then here is a family of boys and girls kneeling in rows, the father and
mother behind, all with their pink, and blue, and green rosaries twined
round their hands, in the selfsame manner that the Gersau children had
theirs during Mass! Above, a child of two years old, kneeling beside its
mother, has a rosary hanging on its arm; quaint little things in caps like
those of their elders, or infants tied on pillows with quantities of red
bows. Red was so much the prevailing color that it seemed as if it must
have some reference to their beloved national flag. And then there were
small waxen hearts, and ears, and a wooden hand with a fearful gash, the
offering, no doubt, of a grateful wood‐cutter. Some of these are upwards
of a hundred or a hundred and fifty years old, with inscriptions in the
native dialect, full of pathos and local color. But most striking of all
is a large painting of the very wall of rock up which we had climbed from
Weggis yesterday, bearing the following simple‐worded inscription:

“Be it known to all, that by the breaking up of the dangerous Rigirocks on
the Weggis mountain some of the inhabitants were threatened with the
complete destruction of all their possessions. In this extremity and
distress they turned to heaven, and, with firm confidence in the gracious
Mother of all the angels, they here sought and found help; for instantly
the loosening of the rocks ceased, and all became quiet again. Therefore,
as a perpetual memorial of praise and thanksgiving to God and the Mother
of Mercy, they have consecrated and hung up this tablet, _anno_ 1753.”

This was clearly forty‐two years before the fatal mud‐slide which
destroyed so much, and it would be most interesting to know whether the
later victims turned hitherward for succor; but of this no record exists
in the church. In the above painting the Blessed Mother, holding the
divine Infant in her arms, is represented standing in the centre of the
rock‐wall, with S. Michael on one side and S. Lawrence on the other, just
as if they had been visible. Had we only beheld this tablet before, with
what different eyes should we have looked at this face of rock yesterday
from the cemetery below, as also during our ascent! And what proof such a
picture and inscription give of the strong faith of the Weggis population
in the unseen world under whose blessed protection they live in peace and
confidence! Whilst we tarried, peasant after peasant came in. One, an old
woman, took out her rosary, and told her beads leisurely; another, younger
and busier, laid down her basket, prayed for a few minutes with
recollection, and then went on to her work; but what most struck us was a
little girl of about twelve, who also had her basket, full of fruit and
flowers, and had been there before we arrived for Mass. She waited until
we left, and then evidently thought that we had finally departed.
Unexpectedly, however, I returned to look at the tablet again, and I
beheld the little maiden in the act of dropping some money into the poor
box, blushing modestly when her eyes caught mine. I asked, and found that
she was a Weggis child—one of the number that climb the mountain like
antelopes up to this hotel daily to sell their “fresh figs,” “peaches,”
and “flowers”—for they offer them in good English—the majority of whom
first pay their visit to the Blessed Sacrament in this church, and leave
some little offering for themselves or their parents. She was a blue‐eyed,
intelligent girl—one who had made her first communion two years
previously, and approached the Holy Sacrament _manchmal_—many times, she
said, during the course of the year.

As time went on, experience taught us that the children of the Rigi are
one of its most distinctive characteristics. Intelligent, bright‐
countenanced, and yet modest, they are the most attractive race of
juveniles to be met with in Switzerland, and, as yet, are unspoiled by
contact with the stranger crowd. They form the most remarkable contrast to
those of the Bernese Oberland, where the grandeur of Grindelwald and other
spots is so much marred by the swarms of sickly beggar‐children that there
flock round one from all quarters. Here, on the contrary, they are brimful
of health and intelligence, and never once during all our wanderings in
the forest cantons did a beggar, old or young, ever cross our path. So
much for the popular fallacy, or rather calumny, which says that
prosperity, comfort, and thrift are alone to be found in the Protestant
cantons, and that beggary, want, and uncleanliness mark the entrance into
the Catholic districts. Like many such sayings, it does not bear
investigation; but when even the most just‐minded start on their travels
with prejudiced minds, it is astonishing how readily they accept the
opinions of men whose want of observation they despise at home. Above all,
should the question be anything concerning Catholicity, their wilful
blindness surpasses all belief. Some exceptions to this rule there
certainly are, increasing, too, each year, like the celebrated Dr. Arnold,
for instance, who frankly admitted that he had found nothing in
Switzerland to justify such a verdict being passed on its Catholic
population, and was generous enough to acknowledge this.

Nor are the children who cover the Rigi, selling fruit and flowers, idlers
in any way. The law requires their attendance at school up to the age of
eight all the year round, but from eight to twelve only during the winter
months. This arrangement has been made in order that they may accompany
their parents to the upland _châlets_, or, as often happens, mind the
cattle alone on the higher pastures. A most interesting class they are,
and one must ardently pray that nothing may ever change or modernize them,
according to the present ideas of so‐called “civilization”!

For several days we took up our abode at Kaltbad, and never had cause for
one moment’s regret. The hotel is in itself a marvel of material comfort
and luxury at such an altitude; the air brisk, invigorating, and yet
balmy, and the views simply lovely. Who can forget the terrace facing the
Uri‐Rothstock, Tittlis, and many another peak and pass, and overhanging
Vitznau, whence we could even distinguish my favorite red standard
floating over its hotel, as the steamers came and went to Lucerne or
Fluelen, and the light smoke of the engines told that the trains were
creeping up towards us? Sometimes, it is true, the lake and all below were
hidden by the clouds that settled in thick masses over the water or
floated beneath us in light, vapory forms, while the heights and summits
opposite shone, like Kaltbad, in brilliant sunlight; making us more fully
realize the great elevation we were inhabiting in such tranquillity.

Then, the mornings spent in the “Wilderness,” which is represented
_nowadays_ by fir‐trees, descendants of those the three sisters knew, but
at present embedded in velvety turf on the hillside, with seats and tables
carefully placed at the best points of view! And the dear little church to
turn into at all times and hours, with the lamp ever burning, and never
quite empty! The afternoons we devoted to longer excursions, ascents and
descents in all directions. That to the _Kulm_, or Summit, was made by
rail, despite its terrors and perils. The young people insisted on our
making the experiment, but they could not succeed in persuading us elders
to return, except on foot! The Kaltbad world seems to go through the
ordeal unconcernedly; but nervous and uncomfortable work it must always
be, no matter how custom may familiarize them with it. One spot especially
is most alarming, where the precipice seems to go straight down from the
railroad to the plain many thousand feet below. As a matter of course, the
sunset at the _Kulm_ is the great _event_ on the Rigi—one, however, which
altogether depends upon the weather. We were most fortunate in catching a
clear atmosphere, and consequently distinct horizon. Then, sleeping at the
large hotel at the top, we included the famed sunrise in the same
excursion. Oh! for the pen of poet to describe either of these sights
properly. They are among those grand scenes which nature holds so
completely in her own keeping that no rush of commonplace humanity can
ever lower or vulgarize them. Crowds from all countries were present, yet
we saw nothing save the glorious panorama before us—the sun sinking
grandly behind the Jura Mountains in the west, or rising majestically from
behind the Sentis far away in Appenzell, after having first heralded his
approach by coloring with the light touch of “rosy‐fingered morn” the
Finster‐Aarhorn, Wetterhorn, Monk, and Jungfrau, as they stand in gradual
succession, facing the east, in the Bernese Oberland.

Here, too, were all the scenes of that famous Swiss history which we had
been studying within the last few days—the town of Schwytz in the
Urschweiz, bright and cheerful on its fresh, green meadows; Lomerz, where
Stauffacher commenced the great revolution; the small lake of Egeri, the
site of the battle of Morgarten; Kappel, on this side of the Zurich line
of hills—the Albis—with its monument to Zwingle, who was killed here in
battle against the Schwytzers; Königsfelden, further north, the scene of
Albrecht’s murder, and, later, the site of the sanguinary Agnes’ convent;
Küssnacht at our feet, with Tell’s Chapel close by, the object of my
guide’s pilgrimages, and where the fatal arrow is said to have entered
Gessler’s heart; the Lake of Sempach, and Lucerne towards the
northwest—every spot, in short, hallowed by some memory sacred to Swiss
patriotism or piety.

A circumference of three hundred miles is said to be included in this
panorama, dotted here and there with thirteen lakes, distinguishable in
clear weather. But it needs a mountaineer’s eye to detect this number,
for, though they certainly do exist, as proved by the map, even the
youthful sight of George C—— and his sister failed to count more than
eleven. The other two had “to be taken on trust,” on the word of the
guides, who declared that particular gleams of sunlight rested on distant
waters. But it is not the number of lakes or the extent of view which
gives such renown to this favorite spot. It is the grand poetry of its
nature, the interest of its associations, and that great, indescribable
influence which the poet addresses as


    “Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate
    With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon.”


Amongst the pleasantest of many pleasant memories, that of Sunday at
Kaltbad stands forth pre‐eminent. The weather was brilliant, and high and
low appeared in corresponding costume. It cannot be said that in the hotel
proper the day was altogether sanctified or edifying; for, except the
Catholics, the English Protestants, and a rare few others, the foreigners
show little outward sign of remembering the day. Indeed, one lady
ingenuously confessed her surprise that we should be so careful about
attending church, considering that _she_ never thought of it whilst
“taking the waters,” as she liked to fancy she was doing at Kaltbad. “Who
did?” she asked; and certainly it looked as if the majority were of her
way of thinking. Not the peasants, however, and let us hope that their
example may yet influence the strangers. Alas! alas! how one trembles,
lest the reverse may be the result of this inroad of “civilized”
multitudes to their midst! But so far no harm seems to have come of the
contact. As the hour for Mass drew near, men and women were to be seen
coming from various points, and when we reached the church it was so full
that a large overflow of the congregation had taken up their position in
the little porch outside. It seemed as though the history of the past
century would repeat itself over again; that a new church would become
necessary, and another new tablet be put up, telling future generations
that the present one had “proved insufficient for the number of Alpine
inhabitants and pilgrims.” No sight could be prettier, considering the
locality, the bright sun, and all these people in their Sunday dress. In
the latter particular, however, one peculiarity had a singular effect,
namely, that on the Rigi “full dress” for the men seems to consist in the
absence of their outer coats, and the Sunday distinction is shown only by
the snow‐white linen of their shirt‐sleeves and collars. All had their
alpenstocks and their prayer‐books, which they read devoutly during the
whole time. Anna and I also remained outside, as there was no room within;
but we heard every word distinctly, and could see the altar through the
open door and windows. The service began by an oblation of the Mass and
the Acts of Faith, Hope, and Charity in German, in the very manner and
words used in so many other countries, but notably in all the churches of
Ireland. This was followed by a good sermon, in which the preacher chiefly
urged the necessity of “keeping holy the Sabbath day,” of living in peace
and concord, but likewise of holding fast to the principles of religion,
“like their forefathers of old,” of whose virtues and steadfastness he
spoke in glowing language. It was the first sermon we had had an
opportunity of listening to in these parts, and it was very curious to
hear, even in a small out‐of‐the‐way place of this kind, such allusions
thus brought in as a matter of course, and so thoroughly in accordance
with Herr H——’s predictions. At its termination we were surprised to see
half a dozen of the hotel guests rise and leave; but these, we later
learnt, were Lutherans, who, having no chaplain of their own, find no
difficulty in coming to the preliminary part of the Catholic service,
though they consider it their duty to leave before Mass commences. It was
a curious instance of liberalism, and of the little essential antagonism
German Protestants entertain towards the Catholic Church. At the end of
Mass a prayer was said in German in honor of the Five Sacred Wounds,
joined in by all, after which the congregation dispersed, some to the
front of the hotel, and others in various directions. On these days alone
a few picturesque costumes appear, but they are generally from other
parts, as the Rigi boasts of nothing special of this kind. To‐day two
women in bright bodices covered by silver buttons and crosses, and with
silvered head‐dresses, enlivened the group of women—relations of the clerk
coming, they said, to visit this spot from Bürglen, a long distance on the
other side of the lake, and beyond Sachslen, the sanctuary of “Bruder
Klaus.”

Not wishing to disturb our Anglican friends, who were singing hymns and
performing their service in one of the drawing‐rooms of the house, Anna
and I sauntered past the “Wilderness,” until we reached the Käuzli. The
atmosphere was most clear, and the landscape so enchanting that a rest
here seemed a fitting and heavenly portion of our morning worship. Weggis
lay below; its church and the children’s corner, where I had stood lately
gazing upwards in this direction, were at our feet, and Lucerne, with its
girdle of battlemented walls at the upper end of the lake, further north,
its houses and boats distinctly visible in the transparent atmosphere. The
peasants could be seen here and there returning to their gray‐roofed
_châlets_, but, save the tinkling bells of the light‐limbed cattle
browsing in our neighborhood, no sound broke the perfect stillness of the
scene. All at once the peal of Lucerne Cathedral came booming to us across
the waters! It was eleven o’clock, which in those cantons is the Angelus
hour, and in a moment the deep‐toned bell of Weggis sent its sound up to
our very resting‐place. Then swiftly the echo was caught up by the
churches of all the numberless pretty villages that here cover the land,
until the whole country seemed to sound as with but one note. A more
thrilling instance of faith and practice it were impossible to imagine,
and, looking down at such a moment at this fruitful, prosperous district,
one felt as if our Lord had already heard its prayers, and in his mercy
blessed it.

Our afternoon walk was this day directed to the other Rigi sanctuary,
“Maria zum Schnee,” or Mary of the Snow, the same mentioned in the Kaltbad
tablet, and which, from Wordsworth’s beautiful poem, has obtained a more
world‐wide name than its pretty neighbor; though in the locality itself no
difference in celebrity is admitted between the two. The only striking
distinction is that whilst Kaltbad has but the one simple appellation,
“Mary of the Snow” rejoices in a _pet_ name, by which it is more generally
known on the Rigi, where Klösterli, or “the little convent,” is its
familiar and every‐day title. It lies deep in a southern fold of the
mountain, unseen from Kaltbad, but only a couple of miles distant; so that
it is a favorite walk with those visitors whose strength is unequal to the
longer excursions. This year the charms of the mountain‐road have been
sadly interfered with by the blasting of rocks necessary to the making of
the railway branch to the Scheideck, and another line up from Arth to the
Staffel, besides the building of an additional hotel, all which modern
material improvements make one look forward with trepidation to their
future effect on the old inhabitants. In a few years more these heights
will be one vast mountain‐city—a new phase of life, which may have its own
poetic side, it is true, and bring health and advantage to humanity in
general, but which, during two or three months of the year, so completely
changes the old character of the beautiful mountain that its friends of
twenty and thirty years’ standing say they can no longer recognize its
former simplicity. Hence our musings were somewhat melancholy, as we
wandered on above the new railway‐line, until, from a bend in the hill, we
unexpectedly came in sight of a completely new scene, the curious _Mythen_
rocks rising above Schwytz, in the distance, and Klösterli itself lying
peacefully below us, as if sheltered from all harm in a dell beneath the
_Kulm!_ It seemed a spot exactly made for snow, and one could almost fancy
it buried at times under the soft embrace of some snow‐white drift.
Whether the name first came from this circumstance of its position, or
from its connection with the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore at Rome, we
had no opportunity of ascertaining; but, whatever the cause, the name and
connection seemed most appropriate. Certain it is that the painting which
is the chief ornament of S. Maria zum Schnee is a copy of the one at the
great basilica, and, moreover, that the church at Klösterli has been, as
is fitting, affiliated to the one in Rome. The festival is kept on the
same day, the 5th of August, and the Rigi church was consecrated by a
Papal Nuncio in 1700, and endowed since then with many privileges by Pope
Clement XII., so that the link in interest and connection has never been
wanting. Mr. C—— knew all the particulars, and as we descended the steep
pathway to Klösterli he recalled to us the beautiful tradition about the
foundation of Santa Maria Maggiore. He reminded us how a Roman senator and
his wife having been converted to Christianity, the latter had a dream
which made her believe they ought to build a church in honor of the
Blessed Virgin. Her husband, however, dismissed the idea as a fancy of her
brain, until, having had the same dream for three successive nights, his
wife on the last occasion understood that she ought to choose the site
which should be covered with snow on the following morning. Her husband,
still unwilling, accompanied her in the search, when, not far from the
house, they found the top of the Esquiline Mount completely covered with a
fine crust of snow! This occurred on the 5th of August, and, bringing
conviction to the husband’s mind, he at once consented to give up his
fortune for the purpose, and built on the spot the Basilica, which now
covers the extent of ground marked out by the fall of snow. Another
version states that it was the result of a vision which the pope, S.
Liberius, and John, the patrician, had on the same night, and which was
confirmed the following morning, the 5th of August, by a miraculous fall
of snow, which extended over the space the church was to occupy. Certain
it is that the fall of snow occurred, on this very spot too, and that the
recollection of this wonderful origin is still kept alive in Rome. On the
Feast of Santa Maria ad Nives, on the 5th of the hot month of August, a
shower of white leaves is made to fall on the congregation attending High
Mass at the great Basilica. What affiliation, therefore, could be more
fitting for a mountain chapel? With renewed interest we hurried to the
spot. The village consists entirely of a few inns, the convent—where live
the Capuchin fathers who have care of the church—and of the church itself,
much larger than that at Kaltbad, and which forms the centre of the whole
place. The old character is maintained up to the present time, these inns
being still most homely—very different from the luxurious abodes elsewhere
on the mountain—and the convent in reality an hospice for pilgrims, which
at once gives the impression of a higher aim than mere pleasure‐seeking.
The Capuchin fathers, who glide about with serious mien in their brown
habits, add to the solemnity, further increased by the depth of the valley
“making sunset,” as the sailors say, to the place long before it happens
on the surrounding heights. It has nothing cheerful or peculiarly
attractive to the general public, so one might hope that it would escape
the contagion of a worldly spirit. This year the gloom has been added to
by a dreadful accident connected with the unwelcome railway, and one heard
of little else on the spot. A young lady who was sitting with her father
outside the Sonne Hotel, writing at one of the small tables, was suddenly
struck by a large stone, thrown by the blasting of a rock close by, and
died in less than half an hour. She was to have gone away from Klösterli
on the previous day with the rest of her family, but had remained a while
longer merely to take care of him. His grief, consequently, was
overwhelming. It was a melancholy inauguration of the “iron road,” and for
the moment made a deep impression on all concerned. But it is much to be
dreaded that it will not be a lasting one. The father, to whom we spoke,
shook his head gravely, as he pointed to the railway works, expressing his
fears that from a place of pilgrimage they would soon convert his dearly‐
loved Klösterli into a simple _Curort_, or, in modern parlance, a
_Sanatorium_. He complained of its baneful influence already; for, though
the peasants are thoroughly good and pious, the immense influx of tourists
gives them little time for devotions during the summer season, especially
in the month of August, when the church festival occurs. They, the monks,
belong to the large Capuchin convent at Arth, from which two or three have
been sent here at the special request of the commune, ever since the
foundation, to take care of this church and attend to the wants of the
pilgrims. But the numbers of the latter are diminishing from the above
causes, and hospitality has this year been chiefly bestowed on invalid
priests, who here seek change of air for weeks at a time. The procession
similar to that from Weggis, which used to come up from Arth for the 5th
of August, making the Stations on the way, did not take place this time.
Nor had the people leisure, either, for their old games, which followed
the church services as a matter of course. Sad and melancholy, he seemed
fearful of this inroad of materialism and the many temptations to which
the poorer classes may be exposed. The tranquillity of the spot will
doubtless be ruined by the puffing engine and obtrusive railway, and we
could not but rejoice doubly that the “haven of rest” at Kaltbad lies
safely hidden away behind its rocks out of reach of such disturbance. But
so many have been the prayers answered and hearts cured within the last
two centuries by the intercession of holy “Mary of the Snow” that it is
hard to believe so favored a sanctuary, though this may perhaps be a
moment of transition, will be altogether swept away or lose its holy
influence on so essentially pious a population. The church is crowded with
_ex‐votos_, many of them the same seen by Wordsworth in 1820, when he sang
in the following strain of


    “Our Lady Of The Snow.

    “Meek Virgin Mother, more benign
    Than fairest star upon the height
    Of thy own mountain set to keep
    Lone vigils thro’ the hours of sleep,
    What eye can look upon thy shrine
    Untroubled at the sight?

    “These crowded offerings, as they hang
    In sign of misery relieved,
    Even these, without intent of theirs,
    Report of comfortless despairs,
    Of many a deep and cureless pang
    And confidence deceived.

    “To thee, in this aërial cleft.
    As to a common centre, tend
    All sufferings that no longer rest
    On mortal succor, all distrest
    That pine of human hope bereft,
    Nor wish for earthly friend.

    “And hence, O Virgin Mother mild!
    Though plenteous flowers around thee blow,
    Not only from the dreary strife
    Of winter, but the storms of life,
    Thee have thy votaries aptly styled
    Our Lady of the Snow.

    “Even for the man who stops not here,
    But down the irriguous valley hies,
    Thy very name, O Lady! flings,
    O’er blooming fields and gushing springs,
    A holy shadow soft and dear
    Of chastening sympathies!

    “Nor falls that intermingling shade
    To summer gladsomeness unkind;
    It chastens only to requite
    With gleams of fresher, purer light;
    While o’er the flower‐enamelled glade
    More sweetly breathes the wind.

    “But on!—a tempting downward way,
    A verdant path, before us lies;
    Clear shines the glorious sun above;
    Then give free course to joy and love,
    Deeming the evil of the day
    Sufficient for the wise.”


In our walk hither along the brow of the hill we had talked to some
pretty, bright‐eyed children running about to call in their father’s
cattle, asking their names and other questions; but, returning the same
way, all our thoughts and attention were given to the distant sound of
avalanches, which the C——s declared came to us across the mountain‐tops
from the region of the great Oberland range. Anything more sublime it were
difficult to conceive in the fading light and soft hues of the sunset
twilight. We had quite forgotten the children, but they had been thinking
of us, and, passing on by their _châlet_, little Aloysius (a fair‐haired
boy of three years old) was seen skipping down the green slope with a
paper in his hand. It was a mysterious proceeding, especially when he came
and eagerly presented it to me. But my surprise was greater on reading it
to find that it consisted of prayers printed at Einsiedeln: the first
teaching how to offer up one’s intention with the Masses that are being
said all over the world; another to be said when present during the
offertory of the Mass; and a third, when unable to attend in person, for
daily recital at home in union with the priest at the altar. The little
fellow evidently prized it, as taught by his mother, and it was fortunate
that I was able to promise him it should hold a place amongst my
treasures, and that I would say the beautiful prayers daily, which I have
never failed to do. But he could not altogether know how much happiness
his act caused me, chasing away the gloomy fears of the Capuchin father,
and giving bright hope that a true spirit of piety will grow up with the
rising generation.




Church Song.


    “And when they had said an hymn, they went forth to the Mount of
                Olives.”—S. MARK xiv. 26.
    “Hymnum cecinit, ut et nos similiter faciamus.”—S. CHRYSOSTOM.



The Disciple.


    A world I’d give to hear thee sing
          That song!
          Too long
    Is life until it bring
    The breaking of the bonds that cling
      About this deadly flesh.
      Sweet Lord, refresh
    My weary, longing soul;
    And this sad banishment condole
    With one faint echo of that strain
    Of melody divine, which must remain
    Yet murmuring through space
      Of all creation’s bound;
        And so controls
        The harmony that rolls
    In floods of majesty and grace
    Throughout thy dwelling‐place,
        From tuneful lyres
        Of angel choirs,
    From ceaseless rapturous songs
    Of shining saintly throngs,
      That every sound
    Heaven hears doth merely seem
    Made to accompany thy theme.
    Wondrous Singer, O my Lord and King!
    Tell me, who taught thee how to sing
        So sweet a strain?



The Master.


    I heard my Mother’s voice one morn,
    Whilst yet in womb unborn,
    Chanting the canticle of praise
    She still in heaven doth raise;
    And when a boy, oft at her knee,
    She did the tuneful mystery
      Unfold to me.
        Wouldst hear me sing?
        ’Tis no hard thing.
    Go, hearken to the singing of my Bride
    With whom my Presence ever doth abide;
    Who is a Mother unto thee,
    Like as the Virgin, full of grace, to me.
    Her voice, in melody her own,
    If thou wilt mark its heavenly tone,
        Hath cunning art
        To make thy heart
        Hear mine again.




A Discussion With An Infidel.



XVIII. Personal Continuance.


_Reader_. The next question you treat, doctor, regards the immortality of
the human soul, or, as you call it, “personal continuance.” In your
opinion the spirit and the body, the soul and the brain, are so intimately
and inseparably connected that a soul without a body, as “force without
matter,” can never exist. I remember having already answered some of the
grounds of this opinion; but as you make “personal continuance” the
subject of a special chapter, I presume that it is in this chapter that
you have condensed the strength and substance of all your arguments. How
do you, then, establish your position?

_Büchner_. “A spirit without a body is as unimaginable as electricity or
magnetism without metallic or other substances” (p. 196).

_Reader_. Unimaginable! Of course, a spiritual substance is not the object
of imagination. Perhaps you mean that it is unthinkable, inconceivable, or
unintelligible; which I deny.

_Büchner_. “Unprejudiced philosophy is compelled to reject the idea of an
individual immortality and of a personal continuance after death. With the
decay and dissolution of its material substratum, through which alone it
has acquired a conscious existence and become a person, and upon which it
was dependent, the spirit must cease to exist” (_ibid_.)

_Reader_. Beware of fallacies, doctor. You have not yet proved that the
human soul needs a material substratum. Again, you merely assume that it
is _through the body_ that the soul has acquired a conscious existence,
whilst the fact is that the soul _through itself_ is conscious of its own
existence in the body. Moreover, the soul does not become a person through
the body it informs, but, on the contrary, confers on the body the
privilege of being a part of the person. Lastly, the spirit is not
dependent upon the body, except for the sensitive operations; and you
cannot assume that the soul depends upon the body for its own being. Hence
your conclusion is yet unproved.

_Büchner._ “All the knowledge which this spirit has acquired relates to
earthly things; it has become conscious of itself in, with, and by these
things; it has become a person by its being opposed against earthly,
limited individualities. How can we imagine it to be possible that, torn
away from these necessary conditions, this being should continue to exist
with self‐consciousness and as the same person? It is not reflection, but
obstinacy, not science, but faith, which supports the idea of a personal
continuance” (pp. 196, 197).

_Reader._ I am rather amused than embarrassed at your identifying
reflection with science and obstinacy with faith, as I know that you are
absolutely incapable of accounting for such a nonsensical ranting. It is
not true that “all the knowledge acquired by our soul relates to earthly
things.” We have already discussed this point, and shown that our
knowledge of earthly things is only the alphabet of human knowledge. Nor
is it true that our soul “has become conscious of itself by such things.”
Consciousness is, even objectively, an immanent act, and the soul cannot
be conscious of its own self, except by looking upon itself. No one can
say _I perceive_ without a knowledge of the _I_; and therefore the soul
knows its own self independently of the perception of other earthly
things. But, as there are philosophers who account for self‐consciousness
by the primitive accidental sensations experienced by the child, I will
suppose with you that our soul becomes conscious of its own existence by
means of such sensations. Does it follow from this that the union with the
body is “a necessary condition” for the existence of the soul? Such a
conclusion would be absurd. For it latently assumes that the soul must
lose its consciousness of self by losing the instrument of its first
sensation. Now, to assume this is at least as absurd as to assume that by
losing any of your senses you lose all the knowledge already acquired
through them, or that by going out of Germany you cease to know everything
that is German.

But your greatest mistake regards the notion of personality. The spirit,
you say, “has become a person by its being opposed against earthly,
limited individualities.” What does this mean? First of all, the spirit
_does not become_ a person, but is itself the source of human personality.
Secondly, to be a person, there is no need of other earthly, limited
individualities, against which the spirit should be opposed. Any
intelligent being, left to itself, with the free disposal of its own self,
is a person. _Persona_, says Boethius, _est rationalis naturæ individua
substantia_; and this celebrated definition, adopted by all the
metaphysicians of the old school, is far from becoming obsolete. It would
seem, then, that you speak of personality without knowing in what it
consists. To prove that the soul cannot enjoy personal continuance in a
state of separation, you should prove that the soul separated from the
body _is not an intelligent being having a free use of its faculties_.
Whatever else you may prove, if you do not prove this, will amount to
nothing.

_Büchner._ “Physiology,” says Vogt, “decides definitely and categorically
against individual immortality, as against any special existence of the
soul” (p. 197).

_Reader._ Tell the physiologists to keep to their own business. The
question of the immortality of the soul is not one of those which can be
solved from the knowledge of our organs and their functions. All the
physiologist can do is to show the existence in the organs of a principle
which animates them, and which at death ceases to show its presence. What
becomes of it the physiologist, as such, has no means of deciding. Hence
your Vogt is supremely rash in affirming that “physiology decides
definitely and categorically against individual immortality.”

_Büchner._ “Experience and daily observation teach us that the spirit
perishes with its material substratum” (_ibid._).

_Reader._ Indeed? Let us hear how experience and daily observation teach
what you assert. It is extremely curious that mankind should be ignorant
of a fact which falls under daily observation.

_Büchner._ “There never has been, and never will be, a real apparition
which could make us believe or assume that the soul of a deceased
individual continues to exist; it is dead, never to return” (p. 198).

_Reader._ Allow me to remark, doctor, that you change the question. You
had to show that experience and daily observation teach that the spirit
perishes with the body. To say that there are no apparitions is not to
adduce experience and daily observation, but to argue from non‐experience
and non‐observation. Not to see a thing is not an argument against its
existence, especially if that thing be not the object of sight; and
therefore to infer the non‐existence of souls from their non‐apparition is
a logical blunder. But, secondly, is it true that “there never has been,
and never will be, a real apparition”?

_Büchner._ “That the soul of a deceased person,” says Burmeister, “does
not reappear after death, is not contested by rational people. Spirits and
ghosts are only seen by diseased or superstitious individuals” (_ibid._).

_Reader._ I do not say that souls, as a rule, reappear, or that we must
believe all the tales of old women about apparitions. Yet it is a fact
that Samuel’s ghost appeared to Saul and spoke to him; and it is a fact
that the witch of Endor, whom Saul had consulted, was already famous for
her power of conjuring up spirits, as it appears from the Bible, where we
are informed that there were many other persons in the kingdom of Israel
possessing a similar power, whom Saul himself had ordered to be slain. If
you happen to meet with Martinus Del Rio’s _Magic Disquisitions_, you will
learn that in all centuries there have been apparitions from the spiritual
world. Devils have often appeared, saints have appeared, and, to make the
reality of the apparitions incontrovertible, have left visible signs of
their presence, or done things which no mortal man has power to do. I need
not descend to particulars; yet I may remind you of the great recent
apparition of Lourdes, and of the numberless miracles by which it was
accompanied and followed, in the eyes of all classes of persons, including
infidels and Freemasons, who left no means untried to discredit the facts,
but they only succeeded in enhancing the value of the evidence on which
such facts had been previously admitted. Come, now, and tell us that all
the witnesses of such public facts are “diseased or superstitious
individuals”!

It is therefore proved, by experience and observation, that there are
apparitions, and that the human soul remains in existence after its
separation from the body. But, although this proof suffices to convince
all reasonable persons, philosophers furnish us with other excellent
proofs of the immortality of the soul. Are you able to show that all such
proofs are inconclusive?

_Büchner._ “There is something suspicious in the great zeal and the waste
arguments with which this question has at all times been defended, which
yet, for obvious reasons, has rarely experienced serious scientific
attacks. This zeal appears to show that the advocates of this theory are
rather anxious about their own conscience, since plain reason and daily
experience are but little in favor of an assumption which can only be
supported on theoretical grounds. It may also appear singular that at all
times those individuals were the most zealous for a personal continuance
after death whose souls were scarcely worthy of such a careful
preservation” (p. 198).

_Reader._ This is vile language, doctor. Our zeal in defending the
immortality of the soul arises from the moral importance of the point at
issue; and there is nothing “suspicious” about it. Our “waste of
arguments” is not yet certified; whereas your waste of words is already
fully demonstrated. The immortality of the soul “has _rarely_ experienced
serious scientific attacks,” or rather, it has _never_ experienced them,
because real science does not attack truth, and therefore all attacks
against the soul’s immortality have been, are, and will always be
unscientific in the highest degree. “Plain reason,” without the least need
of “daily experience,” convinces every thoughtful man that a truth based
on good “theoretical grounds” cannot be rejected as a gratuitous
“assumption,” especially when it is also supported by undeniable facts.
Your closing utterance deserves no answer. Every sensible man will qualify
it as downright insolence. Meanwhile, where are your proofs?

_Büchner._ “Attempts were made to deduce from the immortality of matter
the immortality of the soul” (_ibid._).

_Reader._ This is simply ridiculous. Who ever admitted the immortality of
matter?

_Büchner._ “There being, it was said, no absolute annihilation, it is
neither possible nor imaginable that the human soul, once existing, should
be annihilated; which would be opposed to reason” (p. 199).

_Reader._ Natural reason does not show the impossibility of annihilation;
and therefore it was impossible for philosophers to argue as you affirm
that they did. But, since you think that annihilation is quite impossible,
how can you evade the argument?

_Büchner._ “There is no analogy between the indestructibility of matter
and that of spirit. Whilst the visible and tangible matter sensually
exhibits its indestructibility, the same cannot be asserted of spirit or
soul, which is not matter, but merely an ideal product of a particular
combination of force‐endowed materials” (_ibid._).

_Reader._ You merely rehash the old blunder already refuted in one of our
past conversations. If the soul were nothing but a product of material
combinations, it would certainly perish when those combinations are
destroyed, and there would be no need of annihilation to make it vanish.
But if the soul is an active principle, as you must admit, it cannot be a
result of material combinations, and consequently it is a special
substance, and cannot perish except by annihilation, just in the same
manner as matter also cannot perish but by annihilation. Your ground for
denying the analogy between the destructibility of matter and that of the
spirit is therefore a false supposition. It is plain that there is not
only analogy, but absolute parity, and that, if matter were really
indestructible, the indestructibility of the soul would thereby be
sufficiently established. But we do not avail ourselves of such argument;
for we know that matter is destructible. You say that “the visible and
tangible matter sensually exhibits its indestructibility”; but a little
reflection would have sufficed to convince you that the possible and the
impossible are not objects of sensible perception, but of intellectual
intuition. Then you say that the soul is an “_ideal_ product of a
particular combination of force‐endowed materials”; which is the veriest
nonsense. For, were it true that a particular combination of materials
produces the soul, such a product would be _real_, not _ideal_. Thus you
have succeeded in condensing no less than three blunders into a few lines.
But let this pass. Have you anything to add in connection with this
pretended argument?

_Büchner._ “Experience teaches that the personal soul was, in spite of its
pretended indestructibility, annihilated; _i.e._, it was non‐existing
during an eternity. Were the spirit indestructible, like matter, it must
not only, like it, last for ever, but have ever existed. But where was the
soul before the body to which it belongs was formed? It was not; it gave
not the least sign of an existence; and to assume an existence is an
arbitrary hypothesis” (pp. 199, 200).

_Reader._ You grow eloquent, doctor, but without cause. We all admit that
the soul did not exist before the body was formed. And, pray, how could
the soul be annihilated if it did not exist? Are you doomed to utter
nothing but blunders?

_Büchner._ “It is in the very nature of things that all that arises should
necessarily perish” (p. 200).

_Reader._ By no means.

_Büchner._ “In the eternal cycle of matter and force nothing is
destructible; but this only applies to the whole, while its parts undergo
a constant change of birth and decay;” (_ibid._).

_Reader._ Try to be reasonable, dear doctor, and lay aside “the eternal
cycle,” which has no existence but in your imagination. You promised to
argue from experience and observation. Keep your promise.

_Büchner._ “I will. There is a state which might enable us to produce a
direct and empirical argument in favor of the annihilation of the
individual soul—the state of sleep. In consequence of corporeal changes,
the function of the organ of thought is suspended, and the soul, in a
certain sense, annihilated. The spiritual function is gone, and the body
exists or vegetates without consciousness in a state similar to that of
the animals in which Flourens had removed the hemispheres. On awakening,
the soul is exactly in the state it was before sleep. The interval of time
had no existence for the soul, which was spiritually dead. This peculiar
condition is so striking that sleep and death have been termed brothers”
(p. 200).

_Reader._ This “direct and empirical argument” may be turned against you.
For sleep is not real death; and the animal, when asleep, continues to be
animated. If, therefore, the soul remains in the body, even when the
organs are in a condition which excludes the possibility of their
concurrence to the work of the soul, does it not follow that the soul
enjoys an existence independent of the organs? It is true that, while the
organs are in such a condition, the soul cannot utilize them for any
special work; but it does not follow that “the soul is, in a certain
sense, annihilated,” nor that “the spiritual function is gone.” You
yourself admit that, “on awakening, the soul is exactly in the state it
was before sleep.” I do not care to examine whether the state of the soul
is _exactly_ the same; I rather incline to say that it is much better;
but, waiving this, it is still necessary to concede that the soul cannot
keep its state without preserving its existence, attributes, and
faculties, and a direct consciousness of its own being, which can be
recollected after sleep, when it has been accompanied, as in dreams, by a
certain degree of reflection.

_Büchner._ I expected, sir, that you would appeal to dreams; for “the
phenomena of dreaming have been used as arguments against the supposed
annihilation of the soul during sleep, by their proving that the soul is
also active in that state. This objection is founded upon error, it being
well known that dreaming does not constitute the state properly called
sleep, but that it is merely a transition between sleeping and waking” (p.
201).

_Reader._ I have not appealed to dreams. I simply mentioned the fact that
in certain dreams, where a certain degree of reflection accompanies the
acts of the soul, we have the possibility of remembering that we were
conscious of our own being. Take away all dreams; you will not thereby
lessen the certainty of our direct consciousness of our own being; you
will only suppress an experimental subsidiary proof, of which we are in no
special need. Moreover, remark, doctor, that “against the _supposed_
annihilation of the soul during sleep” we are by no means bound to bring
arguments. It is necessary only to say _Nego assumptum_, and it will be
your duty to prove your supposition. I observe, in the third place, that
you cannot consistently maintain that dreaming is a state intermediate
between sleeping and waking. For, as you affirm that the soul exists in
the latter state, and does not exist in the former, you are constrained to
affirm that in the middle state the soul cannot be said to exist, and
cannot be said not to exist, but partakes of existence and non‐existence
at the same time. Now, though you are so thoroughly accustomed to
blundering, I am confident that you cannot but shrink from the idea of a
non‐existent existence. And thus your definition of dreaming destroys your
supposed annihilation of the soul during sleep.

_Büchner._ “Certain morbid conditions are still more calculated to prove
the annihilation of our spirit. There are affections of the brain, _e.g._,
concussions, lesions, etc., which so much influence its functions that
consciousness is suspended. Such perfectly unconscious states may continue
for months together. On recovery, it is found that the patients have no
recollection whatever of the period which has passed, but connect their
mental life with the period when consciousness ceased. This whole time was
for them a deep sleep, sleep or a mental death; they in a sense died, and
were born again. Should death take place during that period, it is
perfectly immaterial to the individual, who, considered as a spiritual
being, was already dead at the moment when consciousness left him. Those
who believe in a personal immortality might find it somewhat difficult, or
rather impossible, to explain these processes, or to give some clue as to
the whereabouts of the soul during these periods” (p. 202).

_Reader._ It is neither impossible nor difficult to ascertain where the
soul is during such periods; for it is in the body all the while. Only the
actual conditions of its existence in the body preclude, by their
abnormity, the exercise of some faculties. The soul is, in such cases,
like the organist, who is unable to elicit the wonted sounds from the
organ so long as the pipes are not properly supplied with wind. The
patients you allude to are not corpses; and although you affirm that “they
_in a sense_ died and were born again,” it is evident that they did not
die at all, but only lost the proximate power of performing certain
operations. The soul and the body, so long as they are together, must work
together. Even the purely intellectual operations, in which the body has
no part, are always naturally associated with the imaginative operations,
in which the body has a considerable part; and when these latter, through
the abnormal condition of the brain, are suspended, the former also are
suspended, so far at least as there is question of reflex acts. And this
fully accounts for the phenomena accompanying certain morbid states,
without resorting to your pretended annihilation of the spirit.
Accordingly, if you wish to argue against personal continuance, you must
draw your objections from some other source.

_Büchner._ “The annihilation of a personal soul has been protested against
upon moral grounds. It was, in the first place, asserted that the idea of
an eternal annihilation is so revolting to the innermost feeling of man
that it must be untrue. Although an appeal to feelings is not a scientific
method of proceeding, it must certainly be admitted that the thought of an
_eternal life_ is more terrifying than the idea of eternal annihilation.
The latter is by no means repugnant to a philosophical thinker.
Annihilation, non‐existence, is perfect rest, painlessness, freedom from
all tormenting impressions, and therefore not to be feared” (pp. 204,
205).

_Reader._ This way of reasoning, doctor, is most extraordinary. First, you
assume that the moral grounds on which our knowledge of the immortality of
the soul is based consist of mere feelings. This is false. Secondly, you
do not consider that there are rational tendencies which, whether you call
them feelings or not, ought to be taken into account in a philosophic
discussion, as they are of such a character that their fulfilment cannot
be a matter of doubt. Thirdly, you exhibit _eternal life_ as a synonym of
_perpetual torments_; for you suppose that the idea of eternal life is
terrific, and that, to be free “from all tormenting impressions,”
annihilation is necessary. Thus you conceive that after this life there
can be nothing but the torments of hell. This is most certainly true with
regard to unrepenting Freemasons; they have nothing else to expect, not
even annihilation; and it would truly be better for them if they were
annihilated or _had never been born_, as we know from the Gospel. But why
should you take for granted that there is no heaven? It is plain that your
argument in favor of annihilation is nothing but a miserable sophism.
Lastly, I wish to remark, though it is of little importance to the
question of immortality, that annihilation, or non‐existence, is _not_
perfect rest, as you imagine. For who is it that rests? Can you have the
subject after its annihilation, or the rest without the subject? You see,
I hope, that your logic here, too, is at fault.

_Büchner._ “Philosophers, perceiving the loose ground upon which they
stand in regard to this question, have, in their endeavors to reconcile
philosophy and faith, tried to help themselves by very singular
expedients” (p. 205).

_Reader._ Loose ground and singular expedients indeed! Who will believe
you?

_Büchner._ “The desire of our nature,” says Carrière, “to solve so many
problems requires immortality, and the many sorrows of this earth would be
such a shocking dissonance in the world if it were not to find its
solution in a higher harmony, namely, in the purification and development
of personal individuality. This and other considerations render
immortality, from our point of view, a subjective certainty—a conviction
of the heart” (p. 206).

_Reader._ Do you consider these words as a very singular expedient to
reconcile philosophy and faith? What can you object to the thought they
express?

_Büchner._ “Every one may, certainly, have _convictions of the heart_, but
to mix them up with philosophical questions is unscientific. Either
something accords with reason and experience—it is then true; or it does
not accord—then it is untrue, and can find no place in philosophical
systems” (_ibid._).

_Reader._ I see your trick, doctor. There are two kinds of convictions of
the heart. Some of these convictions are accidental, transitory, not
universal, and not invincible; others universal, permanent, and
unchangeable. The first kind originates in accidental affections of
particular persons in particular circumstances; and this kind of
convictions should not be mixed up with philosophical questions. But the
second kind owes nothing to accidental circumstances, and shows in its
universality and invincibility its universal and unconquerable cause,
which cannot be other than our rational nature; and this kind of
convictions must be taken into account in the philosophical questions
concerning our rational soul; for it is from the nature of the effects
that we discover the nature of the causes. Now, “the conviction” which
Carrière mentions belongs to this second kind; for it is common to all
rational beings, and cannot be shaken off even by those who, like you, try
to convince themselves of a future annihilation. We therefore can and must
take into account such a conviction when we examine philosophically the
nature of the soul.

Accordingly, it is absurd, on your part, to pretend that an appeal to such
a conviction is “unscientific.” Nothing is more unscientific than to lay
aside the effects while one wishes to investigate the causes.

As to your aphorism, “either something accords with reason and
experience—it is then true; or it does not accord—then it is untrue,” I do
not think that it can help you much. A thoughtless reader may indeed be
dazzled by its fine glittering, and candidly believe that you are a most
resolute champion and acute investigator of truth; but he who reflects on
your reckless disregard of logic, tergiversation, and intellectual
perversity will only wonder at your audacity in appealing to a principle
which you trample upon in every page of your production. Yes, sir; what
accords with reason and experience is true; but how can this be a plea for
denying immortality?

_Büchner._ “It may be that it would be very fine if in heaven, as in the
last act of a heart‐stirring drama, everything would resolve in a touching
harmony or in general joy; but science has nothing to do with what _may
be_, but with what _is_, and is accordingly compelled to infer from
experience the finiteness of human existence. Indeed, a perfect solution
of the enigmas of the universe, as Carrière desires, must be considered as
impossible for the human mind. The moment we arrive at this point we are
creators and capable of shaping matter according to pleasure. Such a
knowledge would be equivalent to dissolution—annihilation—and there exists
no being which can possess it. Where there is no striving there can be no
life; perfect truth would be a sentence of death for him who has acquired
it, and he must perish in apathy and inactivity” (p. 206).

_Reader._ It is of no use, doctor, to heap up assertions of this kind.
They are all groundless. When you say that science has nothing to do with
what may be, but with what is, you latently assume that between what may
be and what is there must be opposition; whereas it is plain that nothing
is but what could be. And again, when you mention _science_, what do you
mean? Physics, chemistry, astronomy, geology, and the like have certainly
nothing to do with the immortality of the soul; but philosophy has
something to do with it, and philosophy, the highest of sciences, decides
that the human soul not only _may be_, but _must be_, immortal. In the
third place, it is ludicrous to affirm that “experience shows the
finiteness of human existence”; for our experience is limited to human
life upon earth, whereas our discussion refers to after‐life. In the
fourth place, you pretend that a full knowledge of truth is impossible to
the human mind, for the wonderful reason that we would then be “creators
and capable of shaping matter according to pleasure.” In this you commit
two blunders; for, first, the knowledge of natural truths does not
necessarily entail a physical power of shaping matter according to
pleasure; and, secondly, were our souls to acquire such a power, we would
not yet be creators, as creation is infinitely above the shaping of
matter. You are never at a loss to find false reasons when needed to give
plausibility to false assertions. Thus you invent the prodigious nonsense
that a perfect knowledge of natural things “would be equivalent to
annihilation,” and to support this strange notion you argue that “where
there is no striving there can be no life,” as if a human soul, when in
full possession of truth, could not find in its contemplation a sufficient
exercise of intellectual life. Yet it is clear that striving for a good
must end in a peaceful enjoyment of the same good; or else all our
striving would be purposeless. On the other hand, if “perfect truth were a
sentence of death for him who has acquired it,” would it not follow that
the more we know, the less we live? But to conclude. How can you
conciliate these two things: “The moment we possess full knowledge we are
creators,” and “the moment we possess full knowledge we are annihilated”?
or these two things: “We become capable of shaping matter according to
pleasure,” and “we perish in apathy and inactivity”? Answer, old fox?

_Büchner._ “It may be that we are surrounded by many riddles” (p. 206).
“In doubtful questions we must apply human knowledge, and examine whether
we can arrive at any solution by experience, reason, and the aid of
natural sciences. . . . Some believe they can give scientific reasons for
the doctrine of individual immortality. Thus Mr. Drossbach discovered that
every body contains a limited number of _monads_ capable of self‐
consciousness . . .” (p. 208).

_Reader._ There is no need of discussing such absurdities. We know, that
monads are not self‐conscious.

_Büchner._ In fact, “Drossbach’s monads are too intangible to concern
ourselves about them. We may, however, take this opportunity of alluding
to the unconquerable difficulties which must arise from the eternal
congregation of innumerable swarms of souls which belonged to men who, in
their sojourn upon earth, have acquired so extremely different a degree of
development” (_ibid._).

_Reader._ What unconquerable difficulties do you apprehend?

_Büchner._ “Eternal life is said to be a perfectioning, a further
development, of earthly life, from which it would follow that every soul
should have arrived at a certain degree of culture, which is to be
perfected. Let us think, now, of the souls of those who died in earliest
childhood, of savage nations, of the lower classes of our populations! Is
this defective development or education to be remedied beyond? ‘I am weary
of sitting on school‐benches,’ says Danton. And what is to be done with
the souls of animals?” (pp. 208, 209).

_Reader._ Indeed, doctor, the ignorance of the unbeliever is astounding!
Our children and the lower classes of our populations are not half as
ignorant as you are. They would tell you that the light of the beatific
vision dispels with equal facility all degrees of darkness which may
remain in our souls in consequence of imperfect education, without any
need of your “school‐benches” or other imaginary devices. They would tell
you also “what is to be done with the souls of animals,” on which you most
stupidly confer “the same rights” as are possessed by the human soul. If
beasts have the same rights as men, it is a crime to kill them; or, if
this is no crime, it must be as lawful to kill and devour men! Are you
ready to accept this doctrine?

_Büchner._ “There is no essential and natural distinction between man and
animal, and the human and animal soul are fundamentally the same” (p.
209).

_Reader._ Do you understand what you say? What do you mean by
“fundamentally”?

_Büchner._ I mean that the animal soul is only distinguished from the
human soul “in quantity, not in quality” (_ibid._).

_Reader._ Then you yourself must have the qualities of an ass, and there
will be no difference between you and the ass, except in this: that the
asinine qualities are greater in you than in the ass. Your efforts to
prove that beasts are endowed with intellect, reason, and freedom are very
amusing, but lack a foundation. It would be idle to examine minutely your
chapter on the souls of brutes; it will suffice to state that your
reasoning in that chapter is based on a perpetual confusion of the
sensitive with the intellectual faculties. Sense and intellect do not
differ in quantity, but in quality. No sensation can be so intensified as
to become an intellectual concept or a universal notion. Hence no
intellect can arise from any amount of sensibility. Brutes feel; but,
although their sensitive operations bear a certain analogy to the higher
operations of the intellectual soul, nothing gives you the right to assume
that brutes can reason. So long as you do not show that asses understand
the rules and the principles of logic, it is useless to speak of the
intellect of beasts. Their cognitions and affections are altogether
sensitive; reasoning, morality, and freedom transcend their nature as much
as your living person transcends your inanimate portrait in the
frontispiece of your book.

But reverting to the immortality of the human soul, I wish you to
understand that in the course of your argumentation you have never touched
the substantial points of the question. You not only have not refuted, but
not even mentioned, our philosophical proofs of immortality. You have been
prating, not reasoning. To crown your evil work a couple of historical
blunders were needed, and you did not hesitate to commit them. The first
consists in asserting that “the chief religious sects of the Jews knew
nothing of personal continuance,” while it is well known that the chief
religious sect of the Jews was that of the Pharisees, who held not only
the immortality of the soul, but also the resurrection of the body. The
second consists in asserting that “among the enlightened of all nations
and times the dogma of the immortality of the soul has had ever but few
partisans” (p. 213), while the very reverse is the truth.

_Büchner._ “Mirabeau said on his death‐bed, ‘I shall now enter into
nothingness,’ and the celebrated Danton, being interrogated before the
revolutionary tribunal as to his residence, said, ‘My residence will soon
be in nothingness!’ Frederick the Great, one of the greatest geniuses
Germany has produced, candidly confessed his disbelief in the immortality
of the soul” (p. 213).

_Reader._ You might as well cite Moleschott, Feuerbach, yourself, and a
score or two of modern thinkers, all _enlightened_ by Masonic light,
_celebrated_ by Masonic pens and tongues, and _great geniuses_ of
revolution. But neither you nor your friends are “among the enlightened of
all nations and times.” Before you can aspire to this glory you must study
your logic, and, I dare say, the Christian doctrine too.

_Büchner._ If the soul survives the body, “we cannot explain the fear of
death, despite all the consolations religion affords” (p. 214).

_Reader._ You cannot; but we can.

_Büchner._ Men would not fear death, “if death were not considered as
putting an end to all the pleasures of the world” (_ibid._)

_Reader._ I too, doctor, acknowledge that death puts an end to all the
pleasures of this world; but this does not show that our soul will not
survive in another world. We fear death for many reasons, and especially
because we are sinners, and are afraid of the punishment that a just Judge
shall inflict on our wickedness. We would scarcely fear death, if we knew
that our soul were to be annihilated. And therefore our fear of death is a
proof that the belief in the immortality of the soul is more universal
than you imagine.

_Büchner._ “Pomponatius, an Italian philosopher of the XVIth century,
says: ‘In assuming the continuance of the individual we must first show
how the soul can live without requiring the body as the subject and object
of its activity. We are incapable of thought without intuitions; but these
depend upon the body and its organs. Thought in itself is eternal and
immaterial; but human thought is connected with the senses, and
perceptions succeed each other. Our soul is, therefore, mortal, as neither
consciousness nor recollection remains’ ” (p. 214). Can you answer this
argument?

_Reader._ Very easily. That the soul can live without the body is proved
by all psychologists from its spirituality—that is, from its being a
substance performing operations in which the body can have no part
whatever. Such operations are those which regard objects ranging above the
reach of the senses altogether; which, therefore, cannot proceed from an
organic faculty, nor from any combination of organic parts. Now, if the
soul performs operations in which the organs have no part, it is evident
that the soul has an existence independent of the organs, and can live
without them. Accordingly, the body is _not_ the “subject and object” of
the activity of the soul.

That “we are incapable of thought without intuitions” is true, in the same
sense as it is true that we are incapable of digesting without eating. But
would you admit that therefore no digestion is possible when you have
ceased eating? Or would you maintain that I cannot think to‐day of the
object I have seen yesterday? Certainly not. Yet it is evident that I have
to‐day no sensible intuition of that object. That thought in itself is
“eternal” is a phrase without meaning. Thought is never in itself; it is
always in the thinking subject. That “human thought is connected with the
senses” in the present life is true, not, however, because of any
intrinsic dependence of the intellect on the senses, but only because our
present mode of thinking implies both the intellectual and the sensible
representation. The consequence, “our soul is therefore mortal,” is
evidently false, as well as the reason added, that “neither consciousness
nor recollection remains.” Pomponatius was a bad philosopher, but still a
philosopher. His objection is vain, but still deserves an answer. His
reasoning is sophistical, but there is still some meaning in the sophism
itself. Not so with you. After three centuries of _progress_ you have not
been able to find a single objection really worth answering, either in a
scientific or in a philosophical point of view.

Pomponatius brings in another argument against immortality by saying that
virtue is much purer when it is “practised for itself without hope of
reward.” You quote these words (p. 214), but without gaining much
advantage from them. You might have argued that “as the hope of reward
makes virtue less pure, it would be against reason to suppose that God can
offer us a reward, the hope of which must thus blast our virtue.” In your
next edition of _Force and Matter_ you may develop this new argument, if
you wish. Your future adversaries, however, will refute it, as I fancy,
with the greatest facility, by observing, first, that the hope of a reward
may accompany the practice of virtue without interfering with its purity;
for we can love virtue _for itself_ without renouncing the reward of
virtue. Do you not expect your fees from your patients as a compensation
for your services? And yet I presume that you would take it as an insult
if any one pretended that you practise medicine for the love of money. It
might be observed, secondly, that as sin deserves punishment, so virtue
deserves reward; hence a wise and just Providence, which we must recognize
as an attribute of Divinity, cannot leave the virtuous without a reward,
nor the sinner without a punishment. And, since it is plain that neither
the reward nor the punishment is adequately meted out in this world, it
remains that it should be given in the next. I shall not enter into any
development of this argument, which is the most intelligible among those
usually made use of by philosophers to prove the immortality of the human
soul. It suffices for me to have shown the utter falsity of your reasons
against this philosophical and theological truth.



XIX. Free‐Will.


_Reader._ Do you admit free‐will?

_Büchner._ “A free‐will,” says Moleschott, “an act of the will which
should be independent of the sum of influences which determine man at
every moment and set limits to the most powerful, does not exist” (p.
239).

_Reader._ Do you adopt this view?

_Büchner._ Of course. “Man is a product of nature in body and mind. Hence
not only what he is, but also what he does, wills, feels, and thinks,
depends upon the same natural necessity as the whole structure of the
world” (_ibid._)

_Reader._ Then free‐will, according to you, would be a mere dream;
political and religious freedom would be delusions; _free_‐thinkers could
never exist; and, what may perhaps strike you most of all, _Free_‐masons
would be actual impossibilities.

_Büchner._ “The connection of nature is so essential and necessary that
free‐will, if it exists, can only have a very limited range” (_ibid._)

_Reader._ What! Do you mean that free‐will can exist, if “what man does,
wills, feels, and thinks depends upon the same natural necessity as the
whole structure of the world”? Can you reconcile necessity and freedom?

_Büchner._ “Human liberty, of which all boast,” says Spinoza, “consists
solely in this, that man is conscious of his will, and unconscious of the
causes by which it is determined” (_ibid._)

_Reader._ This answer does not show that liberty and necessity can be
reconciled. It would rather show, if it were true, that there is no
liberty; for if the human will is determined by any cause distinct from
itself, its volition cannot be free. Accordingly, your assertion that
“free‐will, _if it exist_, can only have a very limited range,” is
inconsistent with your principle of natural, essential, and universal
necessity, and should be changed into this: “Free‐will cannot exist, even
within the most limited range.” If you admit the principle, you must not
be afraid of admitting the consequence; or if you shrink from the
consequence, it is your duty to abandon the principle from which it
descends.

_Büchner._ “The view I have expressed is no longer theoretical, but
sufficiently established by facts, owing to that interesting new science,
statistics, which exhibits fixed laws in a mass of phenomena that until
now were considered to be arbitrary and accidental. The data for this
truth are frequently lost in investigating individual phenomena, but,
taken collectively, they exhibit a strict order inexorably ruling man and
humanity. It may without exaggeration be stated that at present most
physicians and practical psychologists incline to the view in relation to
free‐will that human actions are, in the last instance, dependent upon a
fixed necessity, so that in every individual case free choice has only an
extremely limited, if any, sphere of action” (p. 240).

_Reader._ “Limited, if any”! It is strange that you hesitate to say which
of the two you mean to advocate. Why do you not say clearly, either that
free‐will has a certain sphere of action, or that it has no existence at
all? Instead of explaining your opinion on this point, you try to obscure
the question. Individual free‐will is to be ascertained by the statistics
of the individual, not by that of the collection.

When a crowd moves towards a determinate spot, individuals are carried on
to the same spot, be they willing or unwilling, by the irresistible wave
that presses onward. So also when any collection of men, from a nation to
a family, lives under the same laws, experiences the same wants, enjoys
the same rights, and holds the same practical principles, the general
movement of the mass carries in the same direction every individual member
of the collection, by creating such conditions all around him as will
morally compel his following the general movement. But this is only
_moral_ necessity, against which man can rebel in the same manner as he
can rebel against the divine or the human law; whereas our question
regards the existence or non‐existence of a _physical_ necessity,
physically binding the human will, and determining every one of its
actions. Hence, even were it true that “a strict order inexorably rules
humanity”—that is, the collection of human beings—it would not follow that
the individual will is inexorably ruled by a physical necessity.

_Büchner._ “The conduct and actions of every individual are dependent upon
the character, manners, and modes of thought of the nation to which he
belongs. These, again, are, to a certain extent, the necessary product of
external circumstances under which they live and have grown up. Galton
says: ‘The difference of the moral and physical character of the various
tribes of South Africa depends on the form, the soil, and the vegetation
of the parts they inhabit.’ ... ‘It is about two hundred and thirty
years,’ says Desor, ‘since the first colonists, in every respect true
Englishmen, came to New England. In this short time they have undergone
considerable changes. A peculiar American type has been developed,
chiefly, it appears, by the influence of the climate. An American is
distinguished by his long neck, his spare figure, and by something
irritable and feverish in his character.... It has been observed that,
during the prevalence of easterly winds, the irritability of the Americans
is considerably increased. The rapidity of the American state development,
which surprises us, may thus, to a considerable extent, be ascribed to the
climate.’ As in America, so have the English given rise to a new type in
Australia, especially in New South Wales....” (pp. 241, 242).

_Reader._ Has all this anything to do with the question of free‐will?

_Büchner._ Certainly. “If the nations are thus in the aggregate, in regard
to character and history, dependent upon external circumstances, the
individual is no less the product of external and internal natural
actions, not merely in relation to his physical and moral nature, but in
his actions. These actions depend necessarily, in the first instance, upon
his intellectual individuality. But what is this intellectual
individuality, which determines man, and prescribes to him, in every
individual case, his mode of action with such force that there remains for
him but a minute space for free choice? What else is it but the necessary
product of congenital physical and mental dispositions in connection with
education, example, rank, property, sex, nationality, climate, soil, and
other circumstances? Man is subject to the same laws as plants and
animals” (pp. 242, 243).

_Reader._ I do not see any ground for this conclusion. Our “intellectual
individuality” is, I surmise, our individual soul, or our individual
intellect. Now, our intellect may speculatively prescribe, in individual
cases, some mode of action, but even then it lets our will free to obey
the prescription. Moreover, it is not true that our intellect prescribes,
in every individual case, a determinate mode of action. How often do we
not hesitate, even after long intellectual examination, what line of
action we should adopt! How often do we not entertain distressing doubts,
and have no means of emerging from our state of perplexity! It is
therefore false that our “intellectual individuality” prescribes to us, in
every individual case, our mode of action. Hence your other assertion,
that the same intellectual individuality urges us “with such a force that
there remains for us but a minute space for free choice,” needs no further
discussion, as being contrary to constant experience and observation. It
is curious that a man who professes, as you do, to argue from nothing but
facts, should coolly assume as true what is contradicted by universal
experience; but you have already accustomed us to such proceedings. What
strikes me is that your blunder cannot here be excused by the plea of
ignorance, as you cannot be ignorant of your own mode of action; whence
your reader must infer that your direct intention in writing is to cheat
him to the best of your power.

As to education, example, rank, climate, soil, and other circumstances, I
admit that they are calculated to favor the development of particular
mental and physical dispositions; but I deny, first, that such
dispositions are the “intellectual individuality,” and, secondly, that the
existence of such dispositions is incompatible with the exercise of free‐
will. Of course, we experience a greater attraction towards those things
which we are accustomed to look upon as more conducive to our well‐being,
and towards those actions of which we may have acquired the habit; but
this attraction is an invitation, not a compulsion, and we can freely do
or choose the contrary, and are responsible for our choice.

_Büchner._ “Natural dispositions, developed by education, example, etc.,
are so powerful in human nature that neither deliberation nor religion can
effectually neutralize them, and it is constantly observed that man rather
follows his inclinations. How frequently does it occur that a man, knowing
his intellectual character and the error of his ways, is yet unable to
struggle successfully against his inclinations!” (p. 244.)

_Reader._ I do not deny the power of natural or acquired dispositions, and
I admit that men usually follow their inclinations; but this is not the
question. The question is, “Do men follow their inclinations freely or
necessarily?” The assertion that “neither deliberation nor religion can
effectually neutralize” such inclinations is ambiguous. If you mean that,
in spite of all deliberation, we continue to feel those inclinations, the
thing is obviously true, but proves nothing against free‐will; if, on the
contrary, you mean that, after deliberation, we cannot act against such
inclinations, the assertion is evidently false; for we very often do
things most repugnant to our habitual inclinations.

That a man, knowing the error of his ways, “is unable to struggle
successfully against his inclinations,” is a wicked and scandalous
proposition. As long as he remains in possession of his reason, man is
able to struggle successfully, not only against his own inclinations, but
also against his predominant passions. The struggle may indeed be hard,
for it is a struggle; but its success is in the hands of man. How could
criminals be struck by the sword of justice, if, when committing crime,
they had been unable to check the temptation? Your doctrine would, if
adopted, soon put an end to the existence of civil society, and transform
mankind into a herd of brutes. If we cannot successfully struggle against
our bad inclinations, then theft, murder, adultery, drunkenness, and all
kinds of vice and iniquity are lawful, or at least justifiable, and
nothing but tyranny can undertake to suppress them or to inflict
punishment for them. Is it necessary to prove that a theory which leads to
such results is a libel against humanity?

_Büchner._ “The most dreadful crimes have, independently of the will of
the agent, been committed under the influence of abnormal corporeal
conditions. It was reserved for modern science closely to examine such
cases, and to establish disease as the cause of crimes which formerly were
considered as the result of deliberate choice” (p. 245).

_Reader._ Modern science pretends, of course, to have established a great
many things. But how can you explain the fact that, when “the most
dreadful crimes” are committed by common criminals, science still
considers and condemns them as a result of deliberate choice, whilst, if
such crimes are committed by members of secret societies, science
attributes them to abnormal corporeal conditions? Can we trust a science
which so nicely discriminates between the Freemason and the Christian? Yet
even your modern science, not to become ridiculous, is obliged, in order
to absolve criminals, to put forward a plea of _temporary insanity_, thus
acknowledging that a man who enjoys the use of his reason is always
responsible, as a free agent, for his actions. Hence, even according to
your modern science, our actions, so long as we are not struck with
insanity, are the result of our deliberate choice. It is only when you
lose your brain that you are “under the influence of those abnormal
corporeal conditions” which prevent all deliberate choice.

_Büchner._ Yet man’s freedom “must, in theory and practice, be restricted
within the narrowest compass. Man is free, but his hands are bound; he
cannot cross the limit placed by nature. For what is called free‐will,
says Cotta, is nothing but the result of the strongest motives” (pp. 245,
246).

_Reader._ It is difficult, doctor, to hold a discussion with you. Your
views are contradictory, and your argumentation consists of assertions or
quotations for which no good reason is, or can be, adduced. If man is
free, his hands are _not_ bound; and although he cannot cross the limits
of nature by which he is surrounded, he has yet a great latitude for the
exercise of freedom within said limits. We are not free to attain the end
without using the means, to live on air, to fly to the moon, to add an
inch to our stature; but these are limits of physical power, not limits of
free volition. Our will is moved by objects through the intellect; and no
object which is apprehended as unnecessary to our intellectual nature can
necessitate the will. To admit that what is presented to the will as
unnecessary can produce necessity, is to admit an effect greater than its
cause. Hence the range of free‐will is as wide as creation itself; for no
created object can be considered by the intellect as necessary to our
rational nature. One object alone may be so considered—that is, God, whose
possession alone is sufficient, and therefore necessary, to fill the
cravings of our heart. Thus man’s freedom is not to be restricted “within
the narrowest compass,” as you pretend, but is to be stretched to the very
limits of creation.

But “what is called free‐will,” you say, “is nothing but the result of the
strongest motives.” I answer that the stronger the motive is, the intenser
is the movement of the will, since the effect must be proportionate to its
cause. But the movement of the will is not a reflex act; it is merely an
indispensable condition for it, and its existence does not necessarily
entail the existence of the rational volition. The first movements of our
appetitive faculty are not formally free; for they are not originated by
the will, but by the objects. It is only when we reflect upon ourselves
and our movements that we become capable of rationally approving or
reprobating that towards which or against which we feel moved; and
consequently it is only after such a reflection that our will makes its
choice. Now, it is impossible that the rational soul, reflecting upon
itself and its first movements towards a finite good, should consider its
possession as a necessity of its own nature; for all good that is finite
is deficient, and if the rational soul considered finite good as necessary
to its happiness, it would in fact consider its deficiency also as
necessary to its happiness; which cannot be. Hence, whatever the strength
of the motives by which we are impelled, no movement excited by finite
good interferes with the freedom of the volition.

And now, is it true that our choice always answers to the strongest
motives? This question may be understood in two ways, according as the
motives are considered objectively or subjectively. The motives which are
the strongest objectively may become the weakest subjectively, and _vice
versa_. It is with our will moved by different motives as with the lever
loaded with different weights. The heavier weight absolutely prevails over
the lighter; but if the arms of the lever be suitably determined, the
lighter will prevail over the heavier. Thus the lightest motives may
prevail over the strongest ones, when our soul adapts itself to them, by
shifting, so to say, its own fulcrum, and thus altering the momenta of the
opposite forces. The motives which prevail are therefore the strongest in
this sense only: that the will has made them such; and, properly speaking,
we should not even say that they are the strongest, but only that they are
the most enhanced by the will.

These explanations may be new to you, but they are the result of
experience and observation. I abstain from developing them further, as it
is no part of my duty to vindicate them by positive arguments. No truth is
so universally and unavoidably recognized as the existence of free‐will. A
man of common sense must be satisfied of this truth by simply reflecting
upon his own acts. Criminals may pretend that they have not the power to
avoid crime; but doctors should not countenance such a pretension contrary
to evidence. To excuse crime on such a miserable plea is to encourage the
triumph of villany and the overthrow of human society.

_Büchner._ Indeed, it has been said that “the partisans of this doctrine
denied the discernment of crime, and that they desired the acquittal of
every criminal, by which the state and society would be thrown into a
state of anarchy.... What is true is that the partisans of these modern
ideas hold different opinions as regards crime, and would banish that
cowardly and irreconcilable hatred which the state and society have
hitherto cherished with so much hypocrisy as regards the ‘malefactor’ ”
(p. 247).

_Reader._ To denounce the state and society as hypocritical is scarcely a
good method of exculpating yourself. Yet your denunciation is false, so
far at least as regards Christian states and Christian society; for as
regards anti‐Christian societies connected with Freemasonry, and states
fallen under their degrading influence and tyranny, I fully admit that
they cannot, without hypocrisy, hate malefactors. Those who plunder whole
nations, who corrupt public education, who persecute religion, who sow
everywhere the seeds of atheism, materialism, and utilitarianism, have no
right to hate malefactors. As to those who teach that “neither
deliberation nor religion can effectually neutralize the dispositions of
man,” and that “man, knowing the error of his ways, is yet unable to
struggle successfully against his inclinations,” what right have they to
speak of crime or of malefactors? Can there be crime and malefactors
without free‐will? You see, doctor, that your materialistic doctrines do
away with all morality, and that a society imbued with them cannot be
moral. Hence it is bad taste in you to declaim against modern society, as
you do (p. 247), on account of vices which are nothing but the result of
materialism. “We are astonished,” you say, “that our society is so
ticklish as regards certain truths taught by science—a society whose
social virtue is nothing but hypocrisy covered by a veil of morality. Just
cast a glance at this society, and tell us whether it acts from virtuous,
divine, or even moral motives! Is it not, in fact, a _bellum omnium contra
omnes_? Does it not resemble a race‐course, where every one does all he
can to outrun or even to destroy the other?... Every one does what he
believes he can do without incurring punishment. He cheats and abuses
others as much as possible, being convinced that they would do the same to
him. Any one who acts differently is treated as an idiot. Is it not the
most refined egotism which is the spring of this social mechanism? And
distinguished authors who best know human society, do they not constantly
depict in their narrations the cowardice, disloyalty, and hypocrisy of
this European society? A society which permits human beings to die of
starvation on the steps of houses filled with victuals; a society whose
force is directed to oppress the weak by the strong, has no right to
complain that the natural sciences subvert the foundations of its
morality.” These last words should be slightly modified; for the truth is
that such a society is the victim of your modern theories, which you
dignify with the name of _natural sciences_, and which have already
subverted the foundations of social morality. The society you describe in
this passage is not the old Christian society formed on the doctrine of
the Gospel, but the materialistic society formed on modern thought. The
moral distemper of modern society is the most irrefragable condemnation of
all your doctrines. By its fruits we know the tree.



Conclusion.


We ask the indulgence of our readers for having led them through so many
disgusting details of pestilential philosophy. Without such details it was
impossible to give a clear idea of the futility and perversity which
characterize the teaching of one of the greatest luminaries of modern
infidelity. We have shown that Dr. Büchner’s _Force and Matter_, in spite
of all its pretensions, is, in a philosophical point of view, a complete
failure. We have omitted many of the author’s passages, which we thought
too profane to be inserted in these pages, and which, as consisting of
vain declamation, arrogance, and assumption, had no need of refutation. As
to our mode of dealing with our adversary, we have been pained to hear
that some consider it harsh. We beg to say that a man who employs his
talents to war against his Creator has no right to expect much regard from
any of God’s creatures. Men of this type are frequently treated with too
much forbearance, owing to the false idea that every literary character
should be treated as a gentleman. Blasphemers are not gentlemen, nor
should they be dealt with as gentlemen. They should be made to feel the
disgrace which attaches to their moral degradation. Such was the practice
in the good old times; and we may justify it by the example of One who did
not hesitate, in his infinite wisdom, publicly to rebuke the Scribes and
Pharisees in terms not at all complimentary, and certainly much stronger
than those which we have used in censuring the author of _Force and
Matter_.




The Ice‐Wigwam Of Minnehaha.


The winter of 1855‐56, memorable for its excessive and prolonged cold,
while it brought suffering to many a household throughout the land, and is
recalled by that fact almost solely, is fixed in my memory by its
verification of an old Indian legend of the ice‐wigwam of Minnehaha.
Longfellow has made this name familiar to the English‐speaking world, and
beyond. A little waterfall, whose silvery voice is for ever singing a
love‐song to the mighty Father of Waters, and into whose bosom it hastens
to cast itself, bears the name and personates the Indian maiden.

On the right bank of the Mississippi, between the Falls of St. Anthony and
the mouth of the Minnesota, is a broad, level prairie, starting from the
high bluffs of the Mississippi, and running far out in the direction of
sundown. In the month of June this prairie is profusely decked with bright
flowers, forming a carpet which the looms of the world will never rival.
Stretching far into the west is a tortuous ribbon of rich, dark green,
marking the path of a stream which stealthily glides beneath the shadows
of the long grass. As it nears the eastern border of the prairie, this
stream becomes more bold. Its expanded surface glistens in the noon‐day
sun. Here it passes slowly under a rustic bridge, upon an almost seamless
bed of rock. Then its motion quickens, as if in haste to reach the ledge
which overhangs the broad valley of the Mississippi, when, with one bound,
it plunges into its basin sixty feet below. This is Minnehaha, the little
hoiden who throws herself upon the outstretched arm of the great Father of
Waters with a merry laugh that wins the heart of every comer. Beautiful
child of the plain! How many have sought you in your flower‐decked home,
and loved you! Hoiden you may be; but coquette, never. Your life is freely
given to be absorbed in the life of him you seek.

But Minnehaha is at times the ward of another—an old man whose white locks
are so often the sport of the winds, whose very presence makes the limbs
of mortals tremble, and their teeth chatter at his approach. Yet he is
wondrous kind to his beautiful ward—touchingly kind is the Ice‐King of the
North. When the blasts from his realms, freighted with the chill of death,
scourge the lands over which they pass, and a silence awe‐inspiring and
complete falls on all; when the flowers are being buried beneath the snow,
and the mighty river bound with ice, then it is the ice‐king exhausts his
powers to build for Minnehaha a palace worthy of her. The summer through
(and spring and autumn scarce are known where Minnehaha dwells) the maid
has worn about her, as a veil, a cloud of mist and spray. O wondrous
architect! Of mist and spray you build a palace even Angelo might not
conceive in wildest dreams, were marbles, opals, pearls, all gems and
stones and precious metals, cut and fashioned ready to his hand! Thy
breath, O ice‐king! fashions mist and spray into grand temples, palaces,
more chaste and cold than any stuff Italian quarries yield! Behold the
ice‐king build! He breathes upon the mist, and on all sides strong‐based
foundations fix about the space he would enclose. The walls on these rise
up, as mist and spray are gathered there and set with his chill breath.
Height on height they rise, until the arch is sprung; and then the dome is
gathered in to meet the solid rock above, and all the outer work is done.
Within, the decorations form as do the stalactites within the caves. Then
these are covered with the diamond frost, such as December’s shrubs and
trees so oft put on to greet the rising sun. And Minnehaha, so the legend
says, sings here the winter through. This is the masterpiece of the great
ice‐king. Solomon in all his glory possessed no temple to compare with
this, nor Queen of Sheba ever saw its counterpart.

A party of four started from St. Paul in the latter part of March, 1856,
to visit this wonder of the North. For many years the winters had not been
protracted enough to permit the planting of a Maypole upon the ice of Lake
Pepin, nor had eye seen the ice‐wigwam of Minnehaha. Marquette, Hennepin,
Lesueur, and the early Catholic missionaries had carried with them their
love for the month of Mary into that cold region, and settlers and
Christian Indians made the opening day of this month one of joyful
festivity. To plant a May‐pole upon the ice of Lake Pepin (which is always
the last point on the Upper Mississippi where the ice breaks up, as no
current helps to cut or break it) was quite an event. The May‐pole, decked
with garlands of green and dotted with the many‐colored crocuses that
spring up and bloom at the very edge of the melting snow, and long before
the drifts and packs have disappeared, if planted on the ice, permitted
dancing on its smooth surface, and pleasanter footing than the loose,
moistened soil. May‐day can seldom be pleasantly celebrated in that region
out‐of‐doors, except upon the ice. Ice on Lake Pepin, then, is to the
young folk of that latitude as important an event as a bright, sunny day
in latitudes below.

During the month of March, 1856, a bright, warm sun melted the snows to
such an extent as to cover the level prairies with several inches of
water, confined within banks of melting snow. Wheels were taking the place
of runners. Our party drove over the undulating prairie to St. Anthony,
crossed the Mississippi by the first suspension bridge which spanned its
waters just above the Falls of St. Anthony, and from Minneapolis, on the
west bank, moved out into the dead level which extends south and west
toward the Minnesota River. A splashing drive of four miles brought us to
the bridge above the Falls of Minnehaha, from which we could see on our
left a cone of dirty ice, disfigured here and there with sticks and stones
and clods of earth; its base far down within an ice‐lined gorge, its top
close pressed upon an overhanging ledge. Was _this_ the wonder we had come
to see? A wonder, then, we came. But we did not turn back at this
unsightly scene. There was a charm about this legend of Minnehaha’s ice‐
wigwam that surely did not have its source in the charmless thing before
us. Nor could we believe the imagination of the red man capable of drawing
so poetic an inspiration from so prosaic a source. We therefore set to
work to discover the hidden things, if such there were. With large stones
we broke away the ice about the top of the cone, hoping to peer through
the opening by which the water of the stream entered. We failed in this,
but let in the western sun through the opening we had made. Then we
descended to the bottom of the gorge, over ice and snow, to seek a new
point of observation. Here, to the east, lay the broad, snow‐covered
valley of the Mississippi; before us, at the west, rose the cone of ice
full sixty feet in height, its wrinkled surface all discolored and
defaced, inspiring naught of poetry, stifling imagination. Moving
northward around the ungainly mass, and part way up the north side of the
gorge, we reached a terrace which led behind the cone and underneath the
overhanging ledge. We enter from the north (by broad steps of ice, each
rising three or four inches above the other) a hall twelve by twenty feet,
floored, columned, curtained, arched, and walled with ice. At somewhat
regular intervals elliptical columns of ice rose from floor to spring of
arch. Between these columns curtains hung, with convolutes and folds and
borders, filling all the space—and all of ice. Above us was the ledge of
rock overhanging the basin of the fall, behind us the bluff, and under our
feet the terrace of earth midway the cone; and all was paved and curtained
and ceiled with ice. Before us stood the upper half of the cone, meeting
the ledge above.

While giving play to admiration of the architectural beauties of the
place, our ears were greeted with a sound muffled or distant, as of
falling water. Whence could this come? Could there be life or motion
within that frozen mass? In the chill of that drear winter was not the
laughing voice of Minnehaha hushed?

The sun was dropping down the western sky, and a shadow lengthened in the
gorge below. The broken edges of the ice which overhung the quiet stream
gave back the borrowed rays of sunlight more brilliant than they came.

One of the party had, slung to his side, the customary long‐knife of those
days. With it in hand he started in search of the creature whose voice
lured him on, not, as the siren, to destruction, but to a scene of beauty,
brilliance, glory, with which the fabled cave of Stalacta was but as
shadow. Between him and the voice he sought a wall of ice imposed. The
knife at once was called to play its part. Between two columns this wall
was cut away, a window opened, through which we saw the glories of the
wigwam. Our eyes were dazzled and our senses mazed. The curtain rent
exposed to view the inner surface of a dome high‐arched and perfect in its
curves. From base, through all its height, it was hung with myriad
stalactites of ice, which seemed to point us to the laughing voice still
rippling on the waters far below. These stalactites were covered thick
with richest frost‐work; and from ten thousand upon thousand points the
glinting light fell off in floods. Near to the centre of the upper dome
the waters of the stream pour in in one broad sheet. An instant only is
such form preserved. The sheet of water breaks, and countless globes, from
raindrops to a sphere the hand would scarcely grasp with ease, come down,
and break still more in passing through the air, until within the basin
all is mist and spray. These globes at first arrange themselves in systems
not unlike the planetariums of the schools, where sun and planets, with
their satellites, are shown the youths, to aid such minds as seek to learn
the grander works of God in space. These systems, as they fall, are
countless; and by common impulse, which means law, the smaller range
themselves about a greater central orb. And so they pass through space, to
fall upon the bosom of the pool in mist. Is there no emblem here of life
and God?

And as we look, behold! the walls and dome are striped and slashed with
silver and with gold; then barred; and then again are panelled with this
silver sheen and gold. The gold and silver interchange positions, fade,
return, as the Northern Lights dissolve or chase each other here and
there. The mystery of this party‐colored scene was soon resolved. The ice
we broke away with stones had let the sun shine through the opening, and
the waters, flowing in, disputed passage with the light. There is an ebb
and flow in running water so like to pulse‐beats that it may not seem
strange to those who stop to think, that ruder men have worshipped streams
as gods. This ebb and flow upon the ledge so changed the depth of water
there that the sunlight, as it struggled through these different depths
(for ever changing), cast the light in silver or in gold upon the walls
and dome.

And now the sun bows down still more, and shines still more within the
dome; its rays are kissed by countless water‐drops, and changed by that
caress from white to all the colors of the bow or prism. But, strange, no
bow is formed; but in its stead a circle of the varied hues is poised
within the midst of all this splendor, as though the sun and flood had
come to crown the Indian maid, and vie with the ice‐king in doing fullest
homage to his ward.

Such is the legend realized. The time, the accidents, and every impediment
we overcame seemed but steps so prearranged that we might see complete the
efforts of the cold, the light, the water, all combined to create The
Beautiful. It was the meeting of extremes in harmony for common end,
instead of conflict. Here was a grand display of powers without jealousy.
The cold took irresistible possession of the water, mist, and spray, and
reared a work that art can scarcely copy. But all was cold and chaste and
white. The light possessed itself of the water also, but with a touch so
delicate and warm that color mantled the coldest, chastest, whitest ice.

Do you, dear reader, imagine this a fancy sketch? Be undeceived. Three of
the “four” still verify its truth. The fourth has fallen upon the
outstretched arm of the great Father of mankind. It is in tribute to his
memory that I write; for never soul more chaste, or heart more warm, or
life more full of love for all the beautiful, made up a man.




A Russian Sister Of Charity.


By The Rev. C. Tondini, Barnabite

On the fifth of August died in Paris Sister Nathalie Narishkin, a Russian
by birth, and descended from the same family from which sprang the mother
of Peter the Great. Born on the 1/13th of May, 1820, Sister Nathalie
Narishkin abjured the Greek Church August the 15th, 1844. This first step
had cost her a fearful struggle—that struggle of heart for which Jesus
Christ prepared us when he said, “I came to set a man at variance against
his father, _and a daughter against her mother_” (S. Matt. x. 35). We mean
that endurance which is perhaps the hardest of martyrdoms, at least when
God requires it of a soul whose love of him is combated by an unusual
tenderness of affection towards the authors of her being. Such was
Nathalie Narishkin.

But as any sacrifice we offer to God enables us, by strengthening our
will, to make fresh sacrifices for his love, she had not yet attained the
age of twenty‐eight when she resolved to follow more closely the footsteps
of our Lord, and in March, 1848, she entered the novitiate of the Sisters
of Charity in Paris. A few years afterwards she was named superioress of
the convent in the Rue St. Guillaume, where she died.

Foreigners who visit Catholic countries often imagine themselves
acquainted with Catholicity when they have hastily glanced through the
streets of our capitals, visited the museums, the public buildings, and
theatres, and inspected the Catholics in the churches at some mid‐day or
one o’clock Mass on Sundays. Hence it follows that in reality they have
nothing to relate concerning the influence of the Catholic faith in the
sanctification of souls. What would have been their edification, and
perhaps surprise, had they visited that convent of the Rue St. Guillaume,
and had the good‐fortune to converse with Sister Nathalie! No one who
approached her could help feeling that he was in presence of a soul in
continual union with God, and in whom self‐abnegation and the profoundest
humility had grown, as it were, into a second nature. With these
qualities, which at once struck the beholders, she combined the most
refined gentleness of manners and language—a gentleness which, let us
remark, was in her the same when soliciting from the Emperor Alexander
II., at the Elysée, in 1867, permission to enter Russia for the purpose of
nursing the sick attacked with cholera, as when answering the meanest
beggar asking at her hands a morsel of bread. “Every one who had to deal
with Sister Narishkin departed satisfied”—this is the general testimony of
all who ever had occasion to speak with her.

It is needless to add that, with regard to charity—that virtue which is
the special vocation of the daughters of S. Vincent de Paul, and the
surest token of true Christianity, as pointed out by Christ himself—Sister
Nathalie was second to no one; and this was made manifest on the day of
her funeral by the multitude of poor who accompanied her remains to the
cemetery, and the tears they shed on their way to the grave. What is the
pomp of the sepulture of kings and the great ones of the nations when
compared to this tribute to the memory of a Catholic Sister?

Father Gagarin, S.J., himself a Russian convert, though scarcely recovered
from an illness, and in spite of his age and physical sufferings—which did
not permit him to walk without difficulty, and leaning on a stick—would
not fail to follow the funeral on foot. The body was deposited in the
Cemetery of Mont Parnasse—in that same cemetery where for fifteen years
past have reposed the remains of that other Russian convert and Barnabite
father, Schouvaloff, who, speaking of those among his countrymen who had
become Catholics, said: “Fear not, little flock; we are the first‐fruits
of that union which every Christian should desire, and which we know will
take place. Fear not; our sufferings and our prayers will find grace
before God. _Russia will be Catholic._”




New Publications.


    THE ILLUSTRATED CATHOLIC FAMILY ALMANAC FOR THE UNITED STATES, FOR
    THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1875. Calculated for Different Parallels of
    Latitude, and Adapted for Use throughout the Country. New York:
    The Catholic Publication Society.


This annual is already known in almost every Catholic home in the land.
Its cheapness places it within the reach of all, whilst its literary and
artistic excellence renders it acceptable even to the most fastidious. The
issue for 1875 even surpasses its predecessors in the variety of subjects
treated and in the beauty of its illustrations.

Publications of this kind undoubtedly do very much to awaken a truly
Catholic interest in the contemporary history of the church, and therefore
tend to enlarge the views and widen the sympathies of our people. The
life‐current of the universal church is borne through the whole earth, and
whatever anywhere concerns her welfare is of importance to Catholics
everywhere.

The opening sketch in the _Almanac_ for the year which even now “waiteth
at the door” carries us to Rome, in a biographical notice of Cardinal
Barnabo, whose name will long be held in grateful remembrance in the
United States.

There are also sketches of the lives of the late Archbishop Kenrick,
Archbishop Blanc of New Orleans, Bishop Whelan. Bishop McFarland—brief,
but sufficiently comprehensive to give one an insight into the character
and labors of these apostolic men. Col. Meline and Dr. Huntington, who
strove so faithfully and so successfully, as men of letters, to defend and
adorn Catholic truth, receive due tribute, and are held up as examples for
those of our Catholic young men to whom God has given talent and
opportunity of education.

Cardinal Mezzofanti, the greatest of linguists; Cardinal Allen, who was
the first president, and we may say founder, of the Douay College, which,
during the darkest period of the history of the Catholic Church in
England, gave so many noble confessors of the faith to Great Britain;
Archbishop Ledochowski, who is to‐day suffering for Christ in the dungeons
of Ostrowo, all pass before us in the pages of the _Catholic Almanac_ for
1875.

Then we have sketches of John O’Donovan, the famous Irish antiquarian; of
Father Gahan, the great Irish preacher; of Father Clavigero, the historian
of Mexico and California, and of Joan of Arc, whose name may yet be
inscribed by the church among those of her saints. The miscellaneous
matter with which the present issue of the _Catholic Almanac_ is filled
has been chosen with admirable tact and with a special view to the wants
of our own people.

If the standard of excellence which this publication has now reached be
maintained, it cannot fail to command a steadily increasing patronage, and
to become in yet wider circles an instrument for good.


    NOTES ON THE SECOND PLENARY COUNCIL OF BALTIMORE. By Rev. S.
    Smith, D.D., formerly Professor of Sacred Scripture, Canon Law,
    and Ecclesiastical History at Seton Hall Seminary. New York: P.
    O’Shea. 1874.


The author of these _Notes_ makes his observations on a considerable
number of very practical questions, some of which are of the greatest
moment and of no small difficulty, with great modesty and moderation of
language. Evidently, he seeks to promote piety, discipline, and the well‐
being of the church in an orderly manner, and with due respect to
authority and established usage. _The Decrees of the Second Plenary
Council of Baltimore_ is intended as a text‐book of instruction for the
clergy and seminarists on what we may call “pastoral theology”—that is, on
the whole range of subjects relating to the conduct, preaching, and
administration of those who are invested to a lesser or greater degree
with the pastoral office. The author makes the Acts of the Council
therefore the basis of his _Notes_, or familiar disquisitions on practical
topics of canon law, giving also a general exposition of certain
fundamental canonical principles and laws, chiefly derived from the
standard authors Soglia and Tarquini. Some valuable documents are also
contained in the appendix. Such a work as this is evidently one that, if
it can be made complete, and also carry with it sufficient intrinsic and
extrinsic authority to give its statements and opinions due weight, will
be one of great utility. Due respect to the author, who has given us the
results of careful and conscientious labor, as well as the great
importance of the topics he discusses, demand that we should not attempt
to express a judgment upon his work or the opinions contained in it
without a minute and detailed examination and discussion of every point,
supported by reasons and authorities. We are not prepared to do this at
present. We may say, however, that, in our opinion, a work of this kind
cannot easily be brought to completion by a first and single effort. It
is, in many respects, _tentative_ in its character. As such, we regard it
as a promising effort, creditable to its author, and in many ways likely
to prove a serviceable manual for the clergy and those who are engaged in
teaching canon law in seminaries.


    THE MISTRESS OF THE MANSE. By J. G. Holland. New York: Scribner,
    Armstrong & Co. 1874.


We never pardon the reviewer who praises a novel by telling us its plot.
Therefore we shall not spoil the pleasure of the reader by revealing the
story of this poem. We will only say that the heroine is the wife of a
“country parson,” and that their conjugal life is beautifully drawn. A
Catholic will not find anything to move his righteous indignation, as he
did in the author’s _Marble Prophecy_ though here and there he will come
upon something which


    “In the light of deeper eyes
    Is matter for a flying smile.”


For instance, a poet who can write such Tennysonian verse does not blush
to place in the same “evangelical” library “Augustine” and “Ansel” (we
suppose he means S. Anselm) by the side of


    “Great Luther, with his great disputes,
    And Calvin with his finished scheme.” (!)


After the flood of light which even Protestant research has poured on the
characters of Luther and Calvin, how can a poet (of all men) dare to hold
them up to admiration?


    MARIA MONK’S DAUGHTER. An Autobiography. By Mrs. L. St. John
    Eckel. New York: Published for the Author by the United States
    Publishing Co.., 13 University Place. 1874.


The writer of this notice well remembers reading, when a boy of fifteen,
the _Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk_, and _Six Months in a Convent_, by
Rebecca Reed. With great satisfaction he recalls the fact that his own
father, who was a Presbyterian minister of Connecticut, together with a
very large number of other most respectable Protestants, condemned and
repudiated the calumnies of Maria Monk from the first moment of their
publication. The effect of these books and of the exposure so honorably
made by Col. Stone on our own young mind, and undoubtedly upon the minds
of thousands besides, to open our eyes to the falsehood and dishonesty of
the gross misrepresentations of the Catholic religion and its professors
which have been rife among Protestants, and are still prevalent among the
less enlightened of them, both gentle and simple. Afterwards the task
devolved upon us to prepare a set of documents concerning Rebecca Reed and
Maria Monk which Bishop England had collected, for publication in the
edition of his works issued by his successor in the see of Charleston.
While we were correcting the last proofs of the printer at Philadelphia,
the _Times_ of that morning furnished us the last item of news respecting
the unfortunate Maria Monk, which came to the knowledge of the public
before the publication of the volume under notice, viz., that she had died
in a cell on Blackwell’s Island. After the lapse of twenty‐five years, we
find before us the autobiography of a daughter of Maria Monk, who seeks to
expiate her mother’s crime, and to make reparation for the wrong done to
the clergy and religious of the Catholic Church by her pretended
disclosures made in the fictitious character of an escaped nun. The
unhappy young woman herself, though we believe she was the daughter of an
English officer at Montreal, seems to have had a very unkind mother, and,
for some reason to us unknown, to have been brought up without education,
and early turned adrift without any protection. Having fallen into a
condition of desperate misery, she resorted to the expedient of inventing
her _Awful Disclosures_ in order to get money and escape from present
wretchedness. The men—far more malicious and base in their villainy than
this poor forlorn girl, so much sinned against and so fearfully punished
for her own sins that we pity more than we blame her—who prepared the vile
book of _Awful Disclosures_, and published it under the name of HOWE AND
BATES, cheated her out of her share of the profits. We are glad to see
their infamy once more exposed, and the honor of the Catholic religion
avenged. Although the most honorable class of Protestants are exempt from
complicity with this and similar gross libels on Catholics and caricatures
of all they hold dear and sacred, nevertheless their cause and name are
disgraced by the fact that they are so frequently and generally implicated
in a mode of warfare on the Catholic Church which is dishonorable. The
statements which are continually made current among them respecting
Catholics and their religion, and which are so generally believed, do no
credit to their intelligence or fairness. We remember hearing the
Archbishop of Westminster remark that the most ridiculous fables about the
Catholic religion are accepted as truth among the aristocratic residents
of the West End of London. The coarse and angry assaults of the English
press upon the Marquis of Ripon, on account of his conversion, show, what
Dr. Newman has so humorously and graphically described, the extent and
obstinacy of vulgar prejudice and hostility in England. There is less
here, and it is diminishing; yet there is enough to make Mrs. Eckel’s
audacious spring into the arena of combat against it well timed as well as
chivalrous.

We do not intend a criticism on her book, but merely, as an act of justice
to one who has braved the criticism of the world, to aid herself and her
book to meet this criticism fairly, without prejudice from any false
impressions which may be taken from its title. We therefore mention the
fact, which may not be known to those who have not read the book or any
correct account of its contents, that Maria Monk, according to the
probable evidence furnished in the book, and which does not seem to have
anything opposed to it, was really married to a man who was a gentleman by
birth and of respectable connections, although reduced by his youthful
follies to a condition which was always precarious and sometimes very
destitute. Mrs. Eckel is the offspring of this marriage. After a childhood
of hardship, she was adopted into a respectable family related to her
father, Mr. St. John, and made the most strenuous efforts to acquire the
education and good manners which are suitable for a lady. She married a
gentleman of respectable position and of very superior intellectual gifts
and culture, Mr. Eckel, who afterwards fell into distressed circumstances,
and died in a very tragical manner. Mrs. Eckel separated herself from him
some time before this occurred, and very shortly before the birth of her
daughter, as it seems to us for very good reasons which exonerate her from
all blame for the misery into which her husband fell when he lost the
support of her sustaining arm. The remarkable history of her subsequent
career in Paris must be sought for in the pages of the autobiography. The
circles in which she moved while there were the highest, and many of her
intimate friends were persons of not only exalted rank, but of the most
exemplary piety, and of universal fame among Catholics. Of her own accord,
without either compulsion or advice, she did what she was not bound in
conscience to do—abandoned her brilliant position in the world, made known
the secret of her origin, and has now thrown open the history of her life
to the inspection of the world. That history must plead for itself and for
the author before impartial and judicious readers. In our opinion it is
substantially true. We believe the author has written it from a good
motive, and that she is sincere in her statements. Divested of all the
adventitious glitter of the successful woman of the world, she presents
herself for precisely what she is in herself, and, as we think, is far
more worthy of honor and respect now than ever before, or than the most
brilliant marriage in France could have made her.

Everybody who can read this book will do so, as a matter of course, even
if they have no other motive than they would have in reading one of
Thackeray’s romances. It is a romance in real life, and an instance of the
truth of the old adage, “Truth is stranger than fiction.” Such fictitious
works as _Lothair_ and the _Schönberg‐Cotta Family_ have served as a
polemical weapon against the Catholic Church, and we do not see why a
romantic but true history, of much greater literary merit than the whole
class of that sort of trash, should not answer a good purpose on the other
side. If the readers of the book find in it many things open to criticism,
and jarring upon a delicate and cultivated Catholic sense of propriety and
reverence, they should remember that the author lacks the advantage of
long and careful Catholic discipline, is still comparatively young, and a
novice in everything that relates to the spiritual and religious life. She
does not profess to give the history of her life as a model to be
imitated, or to instruct others as one competent to teach on spiritual
matters, but to write her confessions for the encouragement of other
wayward and wandering souls, and to speak out freely what she thinks as
she goes along, with very little regard to censure or fear of it.

There seems a Nemesis in the publication of such a book which should give
a salutary lesson to those who dare to throw dirt on the spotless robe of
the Catholic Church. We have often thought that this Nemesis is frequently
apparent of late in the punishments which have come from divine or human
justice on notorious corrupters of public and private morals. Dreadful as
are the actual corruptions and the corrupt tendencies in the bosom of our
political and social state, we hope this is a sign that God has not
abandoned us. It is hardly necessary to say that this is not a book
suitable for very young people.





THE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XX., NO. 118.—JANUARY, 1875.




The Persecution Of The Church In The German Empire.


Concluded.

In the spring of 1870, whilst the discussion concerning the opportuneness
of defining the infallibility of the Pope was attracting the attention of
every one, and when the distant mutterings of the Franco‐Prussian war were
not yet audible, the leading organs of the Party of Progress in Berlin
sought to weigh the probable results of a definition, by the Vatican
Council, of the much‐talked‐of dogma. In case the Pope should be declared
infallible, the _Volkszeitung_, of Berlin, affirmed that many would favor
the interference of the government to prevent all further intercourse
between the bishops of Prussia and the Roman Pontiff, which would result
in the creation of a national church wholly independent of Rome.

But this organ of the Party of Progress openly avowed that there was not
the slightest probability that the state could, by any means at its
command, succeed in separating the Catholic Church in Prussia from
communion with the See of Peter; nor was there, it confessed with perfect
candor, a single bishop in Germany who would desire such a separation.

And yet, as we have shown in a former article, the task which the German
Empire has set itself is precisely the one which is here pronounced
impossible; and we propose now to continue the history of the tyrannical
enactments and harsh measures by which the worshippers of the God‐State
hope to destroy the faith of thirteen millions of Catholics. The project
of the Falk laws was brought before the Landtag on the 9th of January,
1873, and on the 30th of the same month the Catholic episcopate of the
kingdom of Prussia entered a solemn protest against this iniquitous
attempt to violate the most sacred rights of conscience and religion.

In the name of the natural law, of the historical and lawfully‐acquired
rights of the church in Germany, of the treaties concluded by the crown of
Prussia with the Holy See, and, in fine, in the name of the express
recognition of these rights by the Constitution, they protest against the
violation of the inalienable right of the Catholic Church to exist in the
integrity of its doctrine, its constitution, and its discipline.

It is of the duty and right of each bishop, they declare, to teach the
Catholic doctrine and administer the sacraments within his own diocese; it
is also of his duty and right to educate, commission, and appoint the
priests who are his co‐operators and representatives in the sacred
ministry; and it is of his duty and right to exhort and encourage them in
the fulfilment of their charge, and, when they obstinately refuse to obey
the doctrine and laws of the church, to depose them from office, and to
forbid them the exercise of all ecclesiastical functions; all of which
rights are violated by the proposed laws. As to the Royal Court for
Ecclesiastical Affairs, they affirm that they can never recognize its
competency, and that they can see in it only an attempt to reduce the
divinely‐constituted church to a non‐Catholic and national institution.

The Memorial concludes with the following noble and solemn words:

“Concord between church and state is the safeguard of the spiritual and
the temporal power; the indispensable condition of the welfare of all
human society. The bishops, the priests, the Catholic people, are not the
enemies of the state; they are not intolerant, unjust, rancorous towards
those of a different faith. They ask nothing so much as to live in peace
with all men; but they demand that they themselves be permitted to live
according to their faith, of the divinity and truth of which they are most
thoroughly convinced. They require that the integrity of religion and
their church and the liberty of their conscience be left inviolate, and
they are resolved to defend their lawful freedom, and even the smallest
right of the church, with all energy and without fear.

“From our inmost souls, in the interest of the state as much as of the
church, we conjure and implore the authorities to abandon the disastrous
policy which they have taken up, and to give back to the Catholic Church,
and to the millions of the faithful of that church who are in Prussia and
in the Empire, peace, religious liberty, and security in the possession of
their rights, and not to impose upon us laws obedience to which is
incompatible, for every bishop and for every priest and for all Catholics,
with the fulfilment of duty—laws, consequently, which violate conscience,
are morally impossible, and which, if carried into execution by force,
will bring untold misery upon our faithful Catholic people and our German
fatherland.”

The organs of the government declared that the Memorial was an
_ultimatum_, “a declaration of war”; that “it was impossible to keep the
peace with these bishops; and that they should be reduced as soon as
possible to a state in which they could do no harm.” Accordingly, the
discussion of the Falk laws was hurried up, and they were adopted in May
by a majority of two‐thirds.

In the meantime, the government continued to follow up its harsh measures
against the religious orders, going so far as to close the churches of
royal patronage in Poland, in order to prevent their consecration to the
Sacred Heart of Jesus. It even forbade the children of the schools to
assist at the devotions of the Sacred Heart. The Catholic casinos were
closed; the Congregations of the Blessed Virgin, the Society of the Holy
Childhood, and other religious associations were suppressed. The Catholic
soldiers of the Prussian army had already been outraged by having their
church in Cologne turned over to the Old Catholics.

By the beginning of 1873 nearly all the Jesuits had withdrawn from the
territory of the German Empire, and taken refuge in France, England,
Austria, Belgium, Brazil, the Indies, and the United States. Those who
still remained were interned, and, deprived of all means of subsistence,
placed under the supervision of the police. The government next proceeded
to take steps to suppress those religious orders which it considered as
_affiliated_ to the Jesuits. A mission which the Redemptorists were giving
at Wehlen, near Treves, was broken up by the police. Another mission which
they were about to open at Oberjosbach (Nassau) was interdicted; whilst
almost at the same time several Redemptorists were decorated “for services
rendered to the fatherland during the war.” A community of Lazarists at
Kulm was dissolved, and houses of the Ladies of the Sacred Heart, of the
Sisters of Notre Dame, of the Sisters of Charity, and of the Sisters of S.
Charles were closed.

Von Gerlach, the President of the Court of Appeals of Magdeburg, himself a
Protestant, has informed us, in a pamphlet which he published about this
time, of the effect of these persecutions upon the Catholics of Germany.

“As for the Catholic Church,” he wrote, “persecutions strengthen her. In
fact, her moral power is increased under pressure. The Catholic Church is
to‐day more zealous, more compact, more united, more confident of herself,
more energetic, and better organized, than she was at the commencement of
1871. The Roman Catholics have good reason to be thankful that their
church has gained in faith, in the spirit of sacrifice and prayer, in
devoutness in worship, and in all Christian virtues.

“It is even evident that the interior force of the religious orders,
especially that of the Jesuits, has been proportionately augmented. Around
these proscribed men gather all those who love them to protect and help
them.”

The courageous conduct of the German bishops in taking a firm and decided
stand against the persecutors of the church met with the almost unanimous
approval of both priests and people. Dr. Döllinger and his sect were
forgotten. If there had ever been any life in the impossible thing, it
went out in the first breath of the storm that was breaking over the
church. All the cathedral chapters gave in their adhesion to their
respective bishops, and their example was followed by the pastors,
rectors, and vicars of the eleven Prussian dioceses. They repelled with
horror, to use the words of the clergy of Fulda, the attempt to separate
the members from the head, and to give to the priesthood tutors in the
person of a state official. Even the twenty‐nine deacons of the Seminary
of Gnesen entered their protest, recalling in their address to Archbishop
Ledochowski the beautiful words of S. Laurence to Pope Sixtus as he was
led to martyrdom: _Quo sine filio, pater?_

The Catholic nobility, in their meeting at Münster in January, 1873,
openly proclaimed their fidelity to the church and their firm resolve to
defend her rights and liberties; and the Catholic people began to organize
throughout the Empire.

“The Association of the Catholic Germans,” which now counts its members by
hundreds of thousands, was formed, with the motto, _Neither rebel nor
apostate_. Its _Wanderversammlungen_ (migratory reunions) spring up
everywhere, and become the centre of Catholic life. This association is
based upon the constitutional law, its acts are public, the means it
employs are lawful, and the end it aims at is distinctly formulated in its
statutes.

In this manner the Catholics of Germany prepared themselves, not to commit
acts of violence or to transgress the law, but to offer a passive
resistance to tyranny and oppression, to uphold liberty of conscience
against state omnipotence, and to suffer every evil rather than betray
their souls’ faith.

The Imperial government, on the other hand, showed no intention of
withdrawing its arbitrary measures, but through its organs openly declared
that “the execution of the clerical laws would form a clergy as submissive
and tractable as the Prussian army”; whilst Herr Falk proclaimed in the
Reichstag “that the government was resolved to make use of every means
which the law placed within its power; and if the present laws were not
sufficient, others would be framed to ensure their execution.”

The ukase, signed by Bismarck on the 20th of May, 1873, suppressed the
convents of the Redemptorists, of the Fathers of the Holy Ghost, of the
Lazarists, and of the Ladies of the Sacred Heart; and the members of these
orders were commanded to abandon their houses before the end of the
following November. The Ladies of the Sacred Heart were accused of
desiring to acquire “universal spiritual dominion.”

The bishops were called on to submit for the approval of the government,
in accordance with the tenor of the May laws, the plan of studies and the
disciplinary rules of their diocesan seminaries; which, of course, they
declined to do, whilst foreseeing that their action would bring about the
closing of these institutions. Herr Falk, the Minister of Worship, ordered
an examination into the revenues of the different parishes, without even
asking the co‐operation of the bishops; and the civil authorities were
warned of their duty to notify the government of any changes which should
be made in the body of the clergy. The police received orders to
interfere, at certain points, with Catholic pilgrimages, which, in other
instances, were positively interdicted.

The annual allowance of twelve hundred thalers to Mgr. Ledochowski,
Archbishop of Posen, was withdrawn, his seminary was closed, and all
teachers were forbidden to ask his permission to give religious
instruction. In November, 1873, the archbishop’s furniture was seized;
even his paintings were carried off. The people, gathering in crowds,
shouted after the officials: “Thief! thief!” On the 23d of the same month
Mgr. Ledochowski was condemned to pay a fine of five thousand four hundred
thalers, or, in default, to an imprisonment of two years, for having made
nine appointments to ecclesiastical offices contrary to the laws of May.

Before the end of December, the fines imposed upon the archbishop reached
twenty‐one thousand thalers. In January, 1874, he was cited before a
delegate judge of the Royal Court for Ecclesiastical Affairs, but refused
to appear, since he could not, in conscience, recognize the competency of
a civil tribunal to pass sentence on the manner in which he had exercised
his pastoral functions. He moreover averred that, in case the threat to
drag him into court should be carried out, it was his firm resolve to say
nothing.

Several priests of the Diocese of Posen had already been incarcerated for
failure to pay the fines of the government, and on the 3d of last
February, at five o’clock in the morning, the archbishop was himself
arrested and carried off to prison in Ostrowo, a town of about seven
thousand inhabitants, chiefly Protestants and Jews.

The bishops of Prussia at once drew up a letter to the clergy and the
Catholic people of their dioceses, in which they declared that “the only
crime of Archbishop Ledochowski was that of having chosen to suffer
everything rather than betray the liberty of the church of God and deny
Catholic truth, sealed by the precious blood of the Saviour.”

The canons of the Chapter of Posen were ordered by the government to elect
a capitular‐vicar; and as they declined to give their approval to the
cruel and unjust imprisonment of their archbishop, a state official was
appointed to take charge of the affairs of the diocese.

Both the priests and people of Prussian Poland remain firm, and give noble
examples of steadfastness in the faith.

The history of the persecution in one diocese is, with a few unimportant
differences, that of all. More than a year ago, the annual allowance of
three thousand four hundred and seventy thalers made to the Theological
Seminary of Cologne was withdrawn. Archbishop Melchers and his vicar‐
general were cited before a civil tribunal for the excommunication of two
apostates. The Lazarists were driven from the preparatory seminaries of
Neuss and Münstereifel.

On the 22d of November, 1873, the archbishop was condemned to pay a fine
of twenty‐five hundred thalers for five appointments made in violation of
the May laws; and almost every week thereafter new fines were imposed,
until finally his furniture was seized on the 3d of last February, and in
a very short time the venerable prelate was incarcerated, not even his
lawyer being allowed to visit him. His prison‐cell was thought to be too
comfortable, and he was soon changed to one under the very roof of the
jail. A great number of pastors and vicars of his diocese were deprived of
their positions, and some of them imprisoned.

On the 20th of November, 1873, the priests of twenty‐eight towns and
villages of the Diocese of Treves were interdicted by the government, and
the bishop fined thirty‐six hundred thalers. The Theological Seminary was
closed, “not to be reopened until the bishop and rector should accept in
good faith the laws of May, 1873.” Any seminarians who might be found
there on the 12th of January, 1874, were to be forcibly ejected.

The 15th of this same month the professors were forbidden to instruct the
students of theology, under penalty of a fine of fifteen thalers or five
days’ imprisonment for each offence; and this prohibition is to remain in
vigor until the bishop accepts the Falk laws. On the 21st of January, an
inventory of the furniture of the episcopal palace was taken. The goods
were sold at public auction on the 6th of February; in a few days, Bishop
Eberhard was thrown into prison; and before the end of last August sixty
of his priests were confessing the faith in the dungeons of Treves and
Coblentz.

The old Dominican convent in Treves had been converted into a prison, and
it is there that the bishop and some thirty of his priests were
incarcerated. The prison discipline is rigid and harsh in the extreme.
These confessors of Christ are forced out of their beds at five o’clock in
the morning, and from this until they retire at nine in the evening they
must either walk to and fro in their cells, or sit upon stools, since
chairs are not allowed. If during the day they wish to lie down for a
moment, an official at once informs them that this is not permitted; if
they lean against the wall, the table, or the bed, they again receive the
same warning. A jailer accompanies them whenever necessity forces them to
leave their cells. All letters to and from the prison are read by the
officials, and, in case the slightest pretext can be found, are destroyed.
None save those who have voluntarily given themselves up, and who, after a
first imprisonment, have not received an ovation from the people, are
allowed to say Mass. The bishop is permitted to celebrate the Holy
Sacrifice, but no one is suffered to be present except the server and the
indispensable government official.

The food seems scarcely sufficient to sustain life. Three times in the
week, each of the prisoners receives a small piece of meat, and this is
the only change ever made in the bill of fare which we have just given.
What we have called “porridge” is known at Treves under the name of
_Schlicht_, and is a kind of flour‐paste. When we reflect that there are
in Germany to‐day not less than a thousand priests who are suffering this
slow and cruel martyrdom, we shall be able to realize that the present
pagan persecution may in all truth be compared to those which, in the
first ages of Christianity, gave to the church her legions of martyrs and
confessors. It is not necessary that we should enter into a detailed
account of the persecution in the other dioceses of Germany. The same
scenes are everywhere enacted—fines, citations, seizure of effects,
interdicts, and imprisonments, on the part of the government; whilst the
Catholics, standing in unshaken fidelity to God and conscience, suffer in
patience every outrage that their enemies can inflict, rather than betray
the sacred cause of the religion of Christ. The May laws of 1873 did not
prove sufficiently harsh or tyrannical to satisfy the Prussian infidels;
and they were consequently supplemented by clauses which passed both
houses of the Reichstag last May. In virtue of these amendments, the state
can decree the sequestration of the goods of an ecclesiastical post not
occupied in the manner prescribed by the Falk laws. In this case, these
goods are to be administered by a royal commissary.

The Royal Court for Ecclesiastical Affairs receives the power to depose
bishops; and, this deposition being once pronounced, they are forbidden to
exercise any ecclesiastical functions in their respective dioceses, which
by this very fact are placed under interdict. When the bishop is deposed
by the Royal Court, the cathedral chapter is summoned to proceed to elect
his successor; and in case it fails to comply with this injunction within
ten days, all goods belonging to the episcopal see, as well as those of
the chapter of the diocese, and of the parishes, are sequestrated and
administered by the government.

This miserable legislation gives to the state the entire spiritual power,
and ignores alike the rights of God and those of the free Christian
conscience. Still, it is only the legitimate and logical expression of the
views and aims of the modern heathendom which is organizing throughout
Europe for the destruction of the religion of Christ.

The May laws of 1873 required the bishops to convert all the incumbents
having charge of churches into permanent and irremovable parish priests;
in consequence of which the position of twelve hundred and forty‐one
incumbents in the Rhine Province became illegal on the 11th of last May. A
general interdict was therefore expected, and even a process to compel the
bishop to comply with this clause was looked for; but Herr Falk seems to
have been frightened by his own legislation, since already, on the 8th of
May, he announced in the Reichstag that only those priests whom “the
government considered dangerous” would be notified of the proceedings
taken against the bishops, and that no others would be held to come under
the operation of the law. In this manner the Prussian Minister of Worship
avoided the odium of a general interdict, whilst by a slower process he
hopes eventually to bring about this result. The moment the incumbent of a
church receives official notification that his bishop has been put under
restraint, he is by the very fact forbidden to perform any ecclesiastical
function, and his post is considered vacant. The _Landrath_ then declares
this _vacancy_, and invites the parishioners to prepare for the election
of a successor to their former pastor.

That this election may take place, it suffices that ten men, who are of
age and in the full possession of their civil rights, put in an
appearance, that the person chosen by them and approved of by the civil
authority may be recognized as the lawful incumbent.

The evident aim of this law is to create a schism in every parish in the
German Empire, which, by fomenting divisions amongst the Catholics, would
greatly aid the government in its efforts to destroy the church. But this
is only one of innumerable instances in which the persecutors have been
wholly mistaken.

They counted first upon the weakness of the Catholic bishops; confidently
expecting that one or the other of them would place himself at the head of
the Old Catholics, and thus, whilst causing great scandal in the church,
give to that still‐born sect at least a semblance of respectability. But
not one of the German prelates wavered. They go to prison, like the
apostles, rejoicing that they are found worthy to suffer for Christ, and
declare that they are willing to shed their blood for the holy cause.
Their enemies are not more ready to inflict than they to bear everything
for the love of Jesus. Then, there was no doubt in the minds of the
Prussian infidels that large numbers of the clergy would take advantage of
the bribes offered by government to apostates to throw off the authority
of the bishops, and to constitute themselves into a schismatical body. On
the contrary, the persecution has only drawn tighter the bonds which unite
the priests with their chief pastors. In all Germany there have not been
found more than thirty rationalistic professors and suspended priests who
were willing to take sides with Döllinger in his rebellion; and the
juridically‐proven immorality of Bishop Reinkens will no doubt give us a
true insight into the characters of most of the men who have elected him
their ecclesiastical superior.

When the persecutors found that both bishops and priests were immovable in
their devotion to the church, they appealed to the Catholic people, and,
by the laws of last May, placed it in their power to create a schism, by
giving them the right to elect their own pastors, with the promise that
government would turn the churches over to them. But this attempt to show
that the bishops and priests of Germany have not the sympathy and
confidence of the laity has met with signal rebuke.

The elections for the Prussian Landtag in November, 1873, and those for
the Reichstag in January last, had not merely a political significance;
their bearing upon the present and future welfare of the church in the
German Empire is of the greatest importance. Opportunity was given to the
Catholic people to make a public confession of faith; to declare, in words
which could not be misunderstood, whether or not they were resolved to
stand firm in the struggle into which their leaders had been forced.

In the November elections, in spite of every effort of the government, the
Catholics increased their representatives in the Landtag from fifty‐two to
eighty‐nine; whilst in the Reichstag their members have grown from sixty‐
three to considerably more than one hundred.

The entire Rhenish Province elected Catholics. Cologne, Düsseldorf,
Treves, Coblentz, Aix‐la‐Chapelle, Crefeld, Bonn, Neuss, Düren, Essen,
Malmedy, Mülheim, all the cities of the Lower Rhine, made their vote an
act of faith. Windthorst, the leader of the Catholic party, was elected at
Meppen (Hanover) over Falk, the author of the May laws, by a majority of
nearly fifteen thousand. The entire vote for Falk was only three hundred
and forty‐seven.

The result of the elections undoubtedly startled the government, and
possibly shook Bismarck’s confidence in the power of persecution to
destroy Catholic faith; but the struggle had grown too fierce to allow him
to think of withdrawing.

On the contrary, the firmness of the Catholic people incited the
persecutors to still harsher measures; but nothing that they have done or
can do will succeed in breaking the combined passive opposition of the
clergy and the laity.

In the Vatican Council, the most determined resistance to the definition
of the infallibility of the Pope was made by the German bishops, who felt
no hesitation in openly declaring with what anxiety they regarded the
probable effects of such a definition upon the Catholics of their own
country. Divisions, apostasies, schisms, seemed imminent; and it is not
easy now to determine what might have been the result had not God’s
providence interfered.

In the first place, at the very moment when the definition was made, the
terrible conflict between France and Prussia broke forth, and raged so
fiercely that the loud earth was struck dumb, and men held their breath
till it should be ended. In the meantime, the angry feelings aroused by
the discussions in the Vatican Council had, in great measure, been calmed,
and it was possible to take a fairer and more dispassionate view of the
whole subject.

Then the attempt of the government to destroy the Catholic Church in
Germany, by tearing it away from its allegiance to the Pope, and debasing
it to a mere function of the state, roused those who might have been
disposed to waver, and brought about a universal reawakening of faith. It
is the fate of the enemies of God’s people to bless when they mean to
curse. In fact, when Catholics begin to suffer, they begin to triumph; and
hence even those who hate us have of nothing so great horror as of making
martyrs and confessors. They know the history of martyrdom—that in the
whole earth and in all ages it means victory.

The church, which sprang from the conflict of the God‐Man with death, like
him, in her greatest humiliation shows forth her highest power.

Her march through the world and through the ages is not along pleasant
roads and through peaceful prospects, or, if so, only at times and rarely.
If she move in pomp amid the acclamations of peoples, her triumphal
procession ends in sorrow. The bark of Peter must be storm‐tossed; and
when the angry waves would swallow it, the divine voice speaks the magic
word, and the quiet deep bears it up on her peaceful bosom.

The road wherein the progress of the church is most secure is the blood‐
stained way of the cross. When she is all bruised, and there is no
comeliness left in her; when her eyes are red with weeping, and the world,
beholding her agony, mocks and jeers and laughs her to scorn, then is she
strongest; for her strength comes from humility, from suffering, from the
cross. When she is humbled, God exalts her; when he permits her enemies to
entomb her in ignominy, he is near at hand to crown her with the immortal
glory of a new life. The word of Christ is: “You shall live in the world
in the midst of persecutions; but take heart: I have conquered the world.”

Within the memory of those who are still young, it was the fashion with
our enemies to proclaim that the church was decrepit, that she was dying,
that of her own weight she would fall to pieces in the new society that
was growing up around her: to‐day we hear that she is everywhere waxing
too strong, and men appeal against her to tyranny and to brute force.

The most powerful and the most thoroughly organized of the modern nations,
the great _Cultur‐Staat_ of the age, has confessed that it is unable to
check the growth of the church by legitimate means, and it has therefore
had recourse to the most arbitrary legislation and to the harshest
measures of compulsion and violence. This, of course, is the most explicit
avowal of its own impotence. We find also that the two nations which have
manifested the most supercilious indifference to the Catholic Church, as
being something which did not and could not concern them, now applaud this
Prussian tyranny, in spite of the pretence of the love of freedom and fair
play. The sympathy of the English press, and to a great extent of the
American press, in this struggle, is with the absolute and liberty‐
destroying government of Prussia. The favorite motto of “civil and
religious liberty all the world over” has been wholly lost sight of, and
Englishmen and Americans give moral aid to a state which wantonly tramples
upon both.

This, too, was a cherished watch‐word: The church is the friend of
absolutism, the enemy of freedom.

But to‐day we behold the Catholic Church, single‐handed, fighting again
the same battles of liberty which she fought and won in the early
centuries of Christianity. Now, as then, she opposes absolutism in the
state; denies, as she then denied, that Cæsar can lawfully lay claim to
“the things of God”; and protests, in the name of the outraged dignity of
human nature, that there is a freedom which transcends the sphere of all
earthly authority. Her children, when nothing else remains to be done,
utter the divine words: _Non possumus_—we cannot; we must obey God rather
than men.

Referring to this struggle, Bismarck has said, in a memorable speech, that
“it is the ancient contest for power, which is as old as the human race
itself—the contest for power between king and priest.” This is necessarily
the view which he takes, since he believes in nothing but force. But the
dualism here is not in the combatants alone; it is in the objects for
which they contend.

It is indeed the ancient contest between good and evil, between the spirit
and the flesh, between the Christ and the rulers of this world, which
makes life a warfare and the earth a battle‐field, and which must continue
until the end. Never has it been fiercer than in our day, and the battle
is yet hardly begun. But very few indeed understand, as yet, the nature of
the struggle, or are at all aware of the real principles and interests
which are at stake. Few men can see further than an hour or beyond the
little circle that bounds their private interests; but each day it is
becoming more evident that men must take sides; that not to be for Christ
is to be against him.

Twice in the last eighteen hundred years the church has been the ark of
the nations: she destroyed paganism; she converted and civilized
barbarism. Some historian will tell, in another age, how, when Christian
society, grown luxurious and corrupt, without God and without future hope,
was sinking back into the flesh‐worship and the death of ancient paganism,
she, gathering around her the remnant of her children, and fearlessly
facing the storm and the wrath of those who had ceased to know her, kept
her own pure and undefiled till the dawn of the brighter day, to become
the leaven of the social state that is to be.




Christmas‐Tide.


’Twas the hallowed Christmas even—
  Christmas of the olden time,
Earth in snowy robes lay sleeping,
  But there came a ringing chime
      From the forest
Deck’d with glittering frozen rime.

Bright the golden stars were gleaming
  Through the cloudless frosty air,
Like the tapers softly beaming
  Round some holy shrine of pray’r,
      And the night wind
Chants an anthem faint and rare.

Cheer’ly shone the Yule‐log, glowing
  In an old baronial hall,
Ghost‐like shadows rose and faded
  On the ancient panelled wall:
      O’er my spirit
Mournful fancies seemed to fall.

Happy hearts were gathered round me—
  Laughing childhood, free from stain;
Maidens, in their girlish beauty;
  Manhood’s gaze, undimm’d by pain;
      And the aged,
Who might never meet again.

Gathered on that Christmas even
  In the old ancestral home,
Breathing words of hope and kindness,
  ’Neath that lofty arching dome,
      Ere they parted
Through life’s thorny paths to roam.

Two beside the hearthstone lingered—
  Aged sire, and lady fair;
He of life’s long journey weary;
  But her softly waving hair
      Graced a forehead
Yet unmarked by trace of care.

Spake then out that youthful mother
  With her babe upon her knee
To the grandsire old and hoary,
  Like a leafless forest tree:
      “Tell me, father,
What thought Christmas brings to thee.”

Silently he gazed upon her,
  On her brow so pure and white,
On her dark eyes, softly beaming
  With affection’s holy light;
      But a shadow
Lay upon his soul like night.

“Daughter, in life’s joyous morning
  Christmas comes with merry cheer,
Fancy tints a glowing pathway
  Bright’ning with each coming year:
      On the picture
Falleth not a shade of fear.

“Childhood smileth in its gladness,
  Archeth Hope her rainbow bright—
Ah! he strives to grasp the vision;
  Fades it from his eager sight:
      Soon around him
Closes Disappointment’s night.

“In the noontide, manhood kneeleth
  Low before Ambition’s shrine,
Praying: ’Goddess, hear thy vot’ry,
  I no altar seek but thine’:
      Fame’s wan fingers
Withered chaplets for him twine.

“But when fall the length’ning shadows,
  When life’s even stealeth on,
Memory opes her golden casket,
  Counts her jewels one by one—
      Earth’s dream fadeth;
Her bright smile remains alone.

“One by one my loved departed
  To the far‐off spirit‐land—
One by one they crossed my threshold,
  Till, the last of that bright band,
      Sad and weary,
By a stranger hearth I stand.

“As the wand’rer homeward speeding
  Marks the Southern Cross decline,
I am looking ever backward
  To the stars that faintly shine;
      But one beameth
With a radiance all divine.

“Star of Bethlehem! ere the sunlight
  Of another Christmas blest
Rises in the glowing Orient,
  Light, oh! light me to my rest!
      I would slumber
Calmly in earth’s quiet breast.”

Slowly, slowly crept a Shadow
  Through that silent, dark’ning room—
Softly loosed the cord of silver,
Led that soul from Sorrow’s gloom
      To the valleys
Where the flowers immortal bloom.




The Veil Withdrawn.


Translated By Permission, From The French Of Madame Craven, Author Of “A
Sister’s Story,” “Fleurange,” Etc.



XXX.


The portrait of Gilbert I have drawn is not incorrect. He was as noble as
I have represented him, and it is certain that, in speaking to me as he
did that day, he was very far from the thought of laying a snare for me,
or even for himself. Whether he was absolutely sincere or not I cannot
say, but probably as much so as I, at least during the few first days
after this conversation. Thanks to the method of reasoning I have given
above, and which I thought original, it seemed to me that this frequent
intercourse with a man unusually superior to any one I had ever known, and
who, very far from addressing me any silly flattery, almost invariably
appealed to all that was highest in my nature, and, without alluding to
the cause of my troubles, knew how to divert my mind completely from
them—it seemed to me, I say, that this intimacy, this sort of imaginary
relationship which I had accepted, was not only lawful, but beneficial,
and I regarded it even as a just compensation for so many cruel
deceptions. In a word, I had lost, through the frivolity of my recent
life, that clearness of spiritual vision which is maintained by vigilance
alone, and I was a long time without suspecting that this idle frivolity,
with all the exuberant gayety that accompanied it, was a thousand times
less dangerous than the long conversations, to which the perfect harmony
of a kindred mind, and the contact with a soul so noble that it seemed to
ennoble mine, lent such a charm, and gave to my life a new interest which
I had never experienced before.

There was no apparent, or even real, difference in our interviews from
what they were before, and any one might have heard every word he
addressed me. And yet I felt that he by no means talked to me as he did to
others, and I, on my side, conversed with him as I did with no one else.
We were seldom alone together, it is true, but every evening, either in
the drawing‐room or on the terrace, he found an opportunity of conversing
with me a few moments without witnesses. He did not conceal from me that
he regarded these as the most precious moments of the evening; and as to
this I scarcely differed from him. Occasionally, something inexpressible
in his voice, his looks, and even in his silence, made me tremble, as if I
felt the warning of some approaching danger. But as he never deviated a
single word from the _rôle_ he had taken, my torpid conscience was not
aroused! Lorenzo was still absent, though the time fixed for his return
had long gone by; and when I was expecting him the second time, I received
a letter announcing a further delay, caused, as he said, by “a
circumstance that was unforeseen and independent of his will.”

A flush of anger rose to my face while reading this letter, though I felt
and acknowledged that the prolongation of his absence did not cause me the
same chagrin it once would. I did not ask why. I took pleasure in
recalling with a kind of complacency the aggravating wrongs I had
repeatedly endured, and it seemed to me he had less right than ever to
deny a heart he had so cruelly wounded any consolation whatever that
remained.

The day this second letter arrived we were on the point of starting for
Mt. Vesuvius, where, for a week, crowds of people had been going out of
curiosity, as is the case at every new eruption. It was nearly night
before we set out. My aunt and her two daughters were of the party,
besides Gilbert, Mario, and Lando, as well as two foreigners who, from the
time of the Carnival, had assiduously haunted the steps of my two cousins.
One was a young Baron von Brunnenberg, an excellent dancer and a great
lover of music; the other an Englishman, no less young, of fine figure and
herculean proportions, whose name was Harry Leslie.

There was a certain embarrassment at our departure among the members of
the party, caused by the simultaneous desire of several of them to avoid
the _calèche_ in which Donna Clelia had at once installed herself. I
observed this hesitation, which was far from flattering to my poor aunt,
and hastened to take a seat beside her. The young baron, who escorted her,
then concluded to follow my example, and I made a sign to Lando to take
the vacant place. He obeyed me less eagerly than usual. Stella, my two
cousins, and the young Englishman took possession of the other carriage,
which assumed the lead, followed with an envious eye by the baron as well
as Lando, who, I remarked, seemed in a less serene frame of mind than
usual. Gilbert and Mario came after in a _carozzella_, which formed our
rear‐guard.

At first everything went on pleasantly. My aunt was very fond of pleasure
excursions, and she regarded this as one, particularly as we were all to
take supper together at my house on our return. The conversation did not
slacken an instant as far as Resina, where we arrived at nightfall. There
we left the main road to take that which led directly to Mt. Vesuvius.

A new crater had this time been formed below the well‐known cone from
which the fire and smoke generally issued. It was like a large, gaping
wound on the side of the mountain, which sent forth torrents of fire,
ashes, and red‐hot stones.

Consequently, instead of being obliged to climb to the summit in order to
witness the eruption, we were able to drive so near the stream of lava
that we only had to walk a short distance to see the terrible opening,
which was approached more or less closely, according to the degree of
boldness or curiosity with which each one was endowed.

But the spectacle presented an imposing appearance long before we saw it
close at hand, and I was in the height of admiration when I heard a murmur
beside me: “O Gesù, Gesù!... O Madonna santa!...” Turning around, I beheld
my aunt, pale with fright, kissing the cross of the rosary she held in her
hand.

Donna Clelia, as we are perfectly aware, knew how to brave danger when she
found an occasion worthy of the trouble. We had a proof of this on the
memorable day of the combat on the Toledo. But, as it has perhaps also
been perceived, she was rather indifferent to the picturesque.
Consequently, there was nothing at this moment to stimulate her courage,
and I was alarmed at the condition in which I saw her.

“O Ginevrina mia!...” said she at last in a trembling voice, “_non mi
fido!_ No, I have not the courage to go any further.... Madonna!...”

This last appeal was caused by a stream of fire brighter than any of the
preceding ones, and accompanied by a loud detonation.

“But merciful Lord! What folly!” she continued. “What caprice! What
madness! How can you wish to rush into such a lake of fire while you are
still alive!... Oh! no, not yet; no, never! _O mamma mia!
misericordia!_...”

Each new stream of fire produced a more lively exclamation of terror. All
at once she leaned her head on my shoulder, exclaiming:

“Ginevrina!... I feel I am going to have a _papariello_!”(106)

At this we stopped the carriage. It was evidently dangerous to take her
any further. But what should we do?... Must we give up our excursion, and
retrace our steps? We were not inclined to do this. Besides, the other
carriage was some distance in advance, and could not be recalled. In this
dilemma we were rejoined by the _carozzella_. Gilbert and Mario leaped
from their carriage to ascertain what had happened to us.

“What is it, Zia Clelia?” said Mario, approaching the carriage, and
perceiving my aunt in the attitude I have just mentioned. She raised her
head.

“O Mario! _figlio mio!_ It is because I cannot endure this storm of fire.
It is the end of the world—the day of judgment!... How it oppresses me!...
How it stifles me!... O my God! and the _povere ragazze, dove sono?_... O
holy Virgin, lead us all back safe and sound to Naples, and I promise you
that for nine days....”

She finished her vow mentally, for Mario at once decided on the only thing
that could be done, and devoted himself to the task. He would take her
back to Resina in the carriage, and there await our return.

The exchange was soon effected. My aunt did not require any insisting,
after we promised to bring her daughters back without allowing them to
incur any danger. In the twinkling of an eye she was placed beside Mario
in the _carozzella_ with her back to Mt. Vesuvius, while Gilbert took her
place beside me, and we pursued our way as fast as possible, in order to
make up for the time we had lost.

We soon arrived at the place where we were obliged to leave the carriage.
Gilbert aided me in descending, and then gave me his arm, while Lando and
the baron went in search of the other members of the party, who only had
Mr. Leslie to protect them. They were soon out of sight, and Gilbert
remained alone with me.

I will not repeat here what every one has seen or read concerning the
eruptions of Mt. Vesuvius. I will merely say to those who have not had the
experience, that this extraordinary spectacle, assuredly the most
wonderful and at the same time the most terrific in the whole world of
nature, causes a singular fascination which induces the spectator to
approach continually nearer and nearer the fiery crater. It seems
impossible to turn away his eyes. He keeps on, therefore, without looking
to the right or left, without seeing where he is walking, stumbling at
every step over heaps of lava scarcely cold, regardless of the rough path
with its sharp, burning stones, the effect of which is afterwards seen on
his garments and shoes, though he does not think of it while exposed to
the danger, more apparent, perhaps, than real, but which indubitably
exists, however, as is proved by the numerous accidents that occur at
every new eruption.

Leaning on Gilbert’s arm, I was too firmly supported to stumble, and was
able to ascend to the top of a ridge of lava formed by preceding
eruptions; and there, protected by an immense block on the very edge of
the flaming abyss, I contemplated the awful, imposing spectacle! Gilbert
did not utter a word, and I attributed his silence to the impression which
likewise rendered me dumb in the presence of this terrific convulsion of
nature. The burning lava, issuing, as I have said, from a crater on the
side of the mountain, did not spring up to fall back again on the summit,
as usual, but it advanced like a large river of fire over the heaped‐up
masses of cold, black lava, giving them the most singular, fantastic
forms. It was like a city, not on fire, but of fire! It seemed as if one
could see houses, towers, and palaces; and in the midst of these imaginary
edifices moved the fiery stream! For lava does not flow. However steep the
descent, it stops and goes no further as soon as the crater ceases to emit
it. But it had not yet stopped. On the contrary, it pursued its slow,
pitiless course, consuming vineyards, swallowing up houses, and burning
the trees and bushes in its way.

It was a sight difficult to endure for a long time, and yet I could not
turn my eyes away from so mysterious and terrible a spectacle.

“O my God!” I murmured, “this is truly _la città dolente!_ We have before
our eyes an exact representation of the last day of the world!...”

Gilbert made no reply. He was overcome by I know not what emotion more
powerful than mine, and, looking at his face by the red light of the fire,
I was alarmed at the change in his features and their unusual expression.

“Would that that day had arrived for me!” said he at length. “Would that
this were really the last day of my life! Yes, I would like to be
swallowed up in that flame! I would like to die here on the spot where I
am—beside you—worthy of you....”

In spite of the terrific scene before me, in spite of the noise of the
explosions and the sullen sound of the lava, the tone in which he spoke
was distinctly audible, and made my heart beat with mingled emotion and
fear.

“I am afraid you are becoming dizzy, Monsieur de Kergy,” said I in a
trembling voice; “take care. Its effect, they say, is to draw one into the
abyss.”

“Yes, Donna Ginevra,” replied he in the same strange tone, “you are right.
I am dizzy. I am approaching the verge of an abyss, I know. I have rashly
exposed myself to the danger. I have presumed too much on my strength.”

The look he fastened on me, as he uttered these words, gave them a meaning
I could not mistake. It was no longer Gilbert who spoke—it was not he to
whom I had accorded the rights of a safe and faithful friend. The veil
with which I had wilfully blinded my eyes suddenly fell off, and the
emotion I was seized with, the material flames that surrounded me, and the
certain peril into which another step would have plunged me, gave an exact
idea of the danger to which I had foolishly exposed my honor and my soul!

I covered my face a moment with my hands, but spoke as soon as I dared.

“Monsieur de Kergy,” said I in a supplicating tone, “cease to look at the
fire around us. Lift up your eyes, and see how calm and beautiful the
night is above this terrible _inferno_.”

In fact, a bright moonlight was diffused over this terrific scene, and the
contrast between the earth and sky could not have been more striking.

Gilbert’s eyes followed mine, and remained for some time fastened on those
peaceful starry worlds, which seemed as far remote from the agitation of
our hearts as they were above this frightful convulsion of nature. I felt
in my soul the need of powerful assistance, and murmured in a low tone: “O
my God, have mercy on me!” with a fervor that for a long time I had not
felt in my prayers.

After a long silence, Gilbert said to me in a low, agitated tone:

“Will you pardon me, madame? Will you trust in me to take you away from
this place?”

“Yes, I trust you. But let us make haste to leave so dangerous a spot. Do
you not hear the frightful explosions? Do you not see the red‐hot stones
that are flying over our heads?...” And as I spoke a cloud of thick smoke
added obscurity to all the other horrors of the place.

“Do not be alarmed,” said Gilbert in a tone once more calm and decided.
“We must certainly hurry away, but there is no danger yet, unless from
fear. Give me your hand.”

But I hesitated when he endeavored to take it, and made an involuntary
movement, as if going to descend without his assistance.

“In the name of heaven,” said he rapidly, trembling with agitation and
terror, “do not refuse my assistance in the danger we are in. You cannot
do without it. You _must_ give me your hand, madame.”

His agitated voice became almost imperious. I gave him my hand, and even
complied when he told me to rest the other firmly against his shoulder.

“Now,” said he, “descend carefully. You need not be afraid. I will support
you. In spite of this whirlwind of fire and smoke, I can clearly
distinguish my way.”

He made no further observations, as we slowly descended; and as soon as we
were in a place of safety, I left him, and leaned against a tree at some
distance, trying to get breath. Besides the violent agitation of my heart,
the suffocating air that surrounded us gave me a feeling of giddiness and
faintness that was almost overpowering.



XXXI.


The stream of fire and smoke that obliged us to leave the place where we
were standing had a like effect on all who were in the vicinity of the
fiery current. We were therefore soon joined by Teresina and Lando,
Mariuccia and the baron. But I felt extremely anxious at seeing nothing of
Stella and young Leslie, who had left the others to go further below, in
order to get a better view of the lava in its course to the plain. The
fear lest some accident had happened to them began to chill the blood in
my veins, but I was soon reassured by seeing them at last reappear with
blackened faces and torn garments, while Stella was bareheaded, and her
hair streaming in disorder.

“Good heavens! what has happened to you?”

“Nothing, nothing,” said Stella, out of breath. “We will tell you
everything by‐and‐by.”

Here Mr. Leslie interposed, declaring that the Countess Stella was “the
bravest woman he had ever met—a heroine, and an angel of goodness.”

“You are entirely mistaken,” said Stella, drawing up the hood of her
cloak. “But I have lost my bonnet, and nearly destroyed my shoes also, I
fear. Let us start immediately. We will relate everything afterwards.”

As she was there safe and sound, it was really much better to put off any
further particulars till another time, and return to Naples as quickly as
possible. We started, therefore, without any delay, only stopping at
Resina long enough to take my aunt, who, having devoted the whole time of
our absence to a siesta, was completely rested, and had quite recovered
from her terror. Mario was less good‐humored; but when, a little after
midnight, we all assembled at last around the supper‐table that awaited
our return, every one seemed satisfied with the excursion we had made. I
alone felt I had brought back a heart more agitated than at our departure.

Stella still refused to answer our questions, pretending to be too hungry
to think of giving the account we were all so eager to hear; but Mr.
Leslie was only too glad to assume the task, and at once proceeded to
satisfy our curiosity.

“We were,” said he, “watching the lava, as it advanced with a dull sound
resembling the distant report of grape‐shot, when all at once we heard a
succession of heart‐rending groans a few steps off. At our approach we
found a man lying on the ground. I endeavored to raise him. Impossible: he
had broken his leg. Countess Stella questioned him, and the story he
related was a sad one. Like so many of the other poor creatures, he had
deferred leaving his house till the last moment. His wife was ill in bed,
with a little boy of five or six years old beside her. He kept hoping the
lava would stop before it could reach his dwelling—they all hope that! He
went out two or three times an hour to see how far it had progressed, and
finally saw all hope was vain. The lava kept on its course, regardless of
any one. He had barely more than half an hour to save his wife and child,
and then carry away what he could. He rushed towards the house; but in the
haste with which he endeavored to make up for lost time, he had fallen
from one of those black rocks you are so familiar with, on the spot where
we found him, unable to rise. It was necessary to hasten; the lava was
continually advancing. In less than a quarter of an hour it would reach
his hut, and his wife and child were there!... I could not understand what
he said,” continued the young Englishman with an expression of benevolence
and courage which added to the effect of his narrative, “but while I was
gazing at the devouring current that was advancing towards a house I
supposed empty, I suddenly saw the countess dart forward without any
explanation. I understood it at once, and followed her. Outrunning her, I
was the first to arrive at the house, and had already taken the woman and
mattress in my arms when the countess joined me. ‘Take the child!’ I
cried. He was screaming, the poor thing; for, in taking up his mother, I
had, without intending it, thrown him on the floor. He was a boy of about
six years of age, and heavy to carry, I assure you. But kindness and
courage gave strength. The countess picked him up as if he were a feather,
and we hurried out of the house. The heat of the fire was already
intolerable, and the earth under our feet heaved at every step. I thought
a dozen times we had sacrificed our own lives in trying to save theirs.
But no, thank God! we all succeeded—woman, child, and ourselves, with the
mattress—in reaching the poor wounded man, whose cries of terror now gave
place to those of joy. He had reason—the poor creature!—for we were hardly
in safety before we heard a horrid sound, this time like the noise of
cannon—it was the shock of the burning lava against the house we had just
escaped from. What a sight! Good God!... But since it must have happened,
I am not sorry I was there! The fiery stream first passed around the
house, then rose, as if to wrap its red flame around it, and finally swept
over the roof; and when everything was engulfed, it quietly continued its
course. The poor people wept; but, after all, they were thankful to be
alive, and kissed the hands of the Countess Stella, calling her an angel
sent by the Madonna and a thousand other things of that kind. It was now
time to call for assistance, and by the aid of two or three peasants we
transported them all into a habitation, where they were received for the
night. To‐morrow I shall go and carry them some assistance. And now,
Madame la Duchesse, you know how the Countess Stella lost her bonnet, and
why we were so late.”

The effect produced by this account cannot be described. Gilbert eagerly
raised his head, and I saw his eyes glisten as he listened. As for me, my
heart leaped with a kind of transport, while my dear, noble Stella made
fruitless efforts to stop the acclamations her courage drew even from
those who were the least accessible to enthusiasm.

“What an absurdity!” exclaimed she as soon as she could make herself
heard. “Who of you would not have done the same thing? Stop, I beg of you,
or rather, listen to me. Let us all join in buying these poor people a
cottage to replace the one they have lost.”

This proposition was of course acceded to with ardor and unanimity. My
Aunt Clelia instantly plunged into the depths of her pocket, and had
already opened her well‐stocked _porte‐monnaie_ when Lando rose and
exclaimed:

“Stop, Donna Clelia; put your gold back in your pocket—for the moment. I
have an idea. Let us do as they do in Paris.”

“Oh! bravo!” exclaimed my two cousins in a breath.

“Yes,” said Teresina with enthusiasm, “as at Paris, I beg of you. But
what? how? say!”

“Listen, all,” said Lando—“listen to my programme. It contains a _rôle_
for us all. First, Donna Ginevra’s is the easiest, but most indispensable.
She must lend us one of her drawing‐rooms where a small but select number
can assemble. This _réunion_ shall take place to‐morrow, ... no, the day
after to‐morrow, when—pay special attention now, Monsieur le Comte de
Kergy.”

Gilbert, hearing his name, looked up with surprise, while Lando stopped to
say very swiftly in Italian to his neighbor, “You know he is celebrated
for his eloquence,” then continued: “And then, the Comte de Kergy, here
present, shall, at the opening of the meeting, make a brief discourse, in
order to explain the object of the contribution we shall afterwards expect
of each one. He will relate the account we have just heard, and add all he
pleases about the excursion we have made together and the various
incidents that have taken place. We shall depend on his omitting nothing
that occurred. _Poi_, Donna Teresina and Donna Mariuccia will sing a duet,
accompanied by the Baron von Brunnenberg; and if you wish for a general
chorus, here we are, Mario, Leslie, and myself, ready to lend our
assistance. _Finalmente_, we come to the most important; the Countess
Stella will recite some poetry of her own choice, and you who have heard
her know what is in reserve for those who are to hear her for the first
time. After that is the moment to present your contributions, and you
shall give me the result. _Che ne dite!_”

I could not have declined, even if I had had any serious objections
against this proposition, which was unanimously received with even more
enthusiasm than the first. Stella, though really endowed with the talent
Lando was desirous of profiting by, seemed annoyed. Gilbert’s face
darkened, and he resumed the gloomy, preoccupied expression he had for an
instant shaken off; but to protest or refuse was as impossible for them as
well as me, and before separating, at two o’clock in the morning, the
meeting was decided upon and appointed for the next day but one.

When I found myself alone, it was impossible to think of sleep,
notwithstanding the advanced hour of the night. My chamber was at one end
of the house, and opened on the lateral terrace opposite that of the
drawing‐room. I opened my window, and took a seat outside. There, in the
imposing silence of that beautiful night, I sought calmness and the power
of reflection. The uncommon courage Stella had just given a proof of
produced a salutary effect on me. Her example reacted somewhat against a
fatal enervation that was gradually diminishing my moral strength. I
admired courage, and my soul, however enfeebled it might be, responded at
this moment to her noble, generous impulse. With my eyes fastened on the
flame that now lit up the whole horizon with its sinister gleam, I thought
the sight ought to inspire Stella with a lofty emotion such as follows the
accomplishment of an heroic deed; whereas I—it was with a shudder I
thought of the contrast it suggested!... I tried to avoid dwelling on what
had taken place. I wished to believe it was my imagination alone that
disturbed and alarmed me; that nothing was changed; but I could not
succeed, and at last I was forced to consider what I should do—what was
the course prescribed by the new light to which I could no longer close my
eyes? But as soon as this question was clearly placed before me, I
experienced the most violent repugnance to solve it.

Gilbert’s sweet, beneficent friendship alone had enabled me to endure the
destruction of my happiness. Could I admit the necessity of renouncing it?
What had he ever done till to‐day to give me reason to regret my
confidence in him? For an instant, it is true, and only for an instant, he
had not seemed like himself, and my heart beat, in spite of myself, as I
recalled his look and the accent of his voice; but did I not attach too
much importance to words which, after all, were vague and incoherent?
Should I not take time to reflect? Such were the questions I asked myself,
in order to impose silence on my reason and the actual voice of my
conscience. I succeeded so far as to defer the reply I was unwilling to
listen to, and put off my decision, whatever it might be, till the
following day.

It was late when I awoke, for I did not go to sleep till daylight; and I
had not yet left my chamber when the following letter was brought me. It
was dated the same day at three o’clock in the morning:

“MADAME: A few hours ago I addressed you in a moment of delirium. What I
said I know not. But what I do know is that you understood me, and, in
order to regain your confidence and make you forget what I uttered, I
should be obliged to declare what is false, and this I cannot do. No, I
will not be false to myself, were I, by speaking the truth, to forfeit a
happiness I ought to have courage enough to deny myself, and which I
shall, at least, renounce if you require it.

“I only ask you not to condemn me without a hearing. For once allow me to
speak plainly, though it be of myself; which is repugnant to me, as you
may have perceived. But it is necessary to do this in order to throw light
on the decision you will afterwards have to make.

“I believe I have a high idea of the use a man should make of his life, as
well as a profound conviction he will have to render an account of the way
he spends it. In a word, I adhere, thank God, to the faith of my mother,
and desire to live as much as possible in accordance with this faith, and
as it becomes an honest man and a Christian to live.

“To this end, I have given my activity every possible scope—long,
fatiguing journeys, hard study, active concurrence in a multitude of
enterprises that seemed to have an useful object. I have entered eagerly
into everything that could absorb my mind and time, not so much out of
disinterested zeal for doing good, as from a calculation that is
allowable, I think; for it is founded on a distrust of myself, resulting
from an exact knowledge of the shoals on which I might easily be wrecked.

“I dreamed of a happiness, common enough in many countries, but rare in
ours—that of knowing, loving, and choosing the one I would make my own;
but this is a difficult thing in France, and I had a strong repugnance to
any other way of deciding my lot. I persistently refused to consent to any
of those so‐called chance encounters one is constantly drawn into by
officious friends without number in Paris, who are always ready to take
possession of any one who has the misfortune to be considered a _bon
parti_.

“In avoiding these encounters I was spared other temptations still more
dangerous, and I met with nothing to disturb my peace of mind till the day
I saw you the first time, madame. I had no conversation with you on that
occasion, but I observed you, I heard your voice, and listened to some of
your remarks. I noticed your indifference to the homage that surrounded
you, and the evident absence of vanity which your beauty rendered so
strange, and I became afraid of you. Yes, I felt I must avoid you, and I
did so resolutely. One day, however, you were, without my being aware of
it, in the audience I addressed, and Diana afterwards presented me to you.
The opinion of every one else immediately became indifferent to me. I only
cared to know what you thought of my discourse, and to ascertain if there
was any mental sympathy between us. I thought I discovered some in the few
words we exchanged, and my resolution to avoid you only became the more
fixed. I even resisted my mother’s entreaties to join some of the
excursions she made with you. Consequently, I only met you once, as you
are aware, madame, and that was at home, where I could not avoid the
happiness of being beside you.

“I perceived you were sad that evening, in spite of your charming smile
and gayety of manner, which were no less dangerous to me than your tears.
I saw it, and was terribly agitated. And when at last the time came to bid
you farewell, I could not summon the resolution, but said instead ‘_au
revoir_.’

“Nevertheless, I allowed long months to pass. I waited till time had
somewhat effaced the vividness of my recent impressions, so I should no
longer fear to meet you, and then I made an excuse to stop at Naples a few
days on my way to Egypt. The day I arrived here, though I detest balls, I
could not avoid attending that given by the French ambassador, and there I
saw you once more!

“Shall I acknowledge it? When I saw you in all the splendor of your
dazzling beauty, enhanced by your dress, and surrounded by adorers, I felt
a momentary relief. I congratulated myself on having braved the danger of
seeing you again. It seemed to me at that moment the image I had so
cherished in my heart was effaced, and I was no longer in any danger.
Alas! the next day you were no longer the same. I found you as you once
were, but I had not the courage to fly from you. My stay was to be short,
and I yielded to the happiness allotted me, persuading myself the habit of
seeing you daily might diminish the effect of your influence.

“At length, madame, in good faith, as I thought, I ventured one day to ask
you to regard me as a friend, and promised to be worthy of the favor. I
firmly believed I promised you nothing beyond my strength. A single
instant was sufficient to reveal to me, even more clearly than to you, the
extent of my illusion. You see I make no attempt to conceal anything from
you now. I no longer try to deceive you. But in spite of all I have said,
I implore you not to bid me depart. In asking this I feel sure of never
offending you again. I cannot hope for the return of your confidence. I no
longer claim to be regarded as a friend. I even promise to speak to you
henceforth but seldom. But I beseech you not to deprive me of the
happiness of seeing you! Do not punish me so severely! Do not yet command
me to _go_. That word would be an order I should at once obey, or rather a
sentence I should submit to without a murmur; but there is no criminal who
has not the right to petition for mercy, and that mercy I now implore at
your feet.

“_Gilbert._”



XXXII.


My mother, in portraying the lineaments of my youthful soul, once spoke of
a precious jewel hidden in its depths. She doubtless referred to the
inclination for what is right and the lively horror of evil she discovered
there. But does not this jewel exist with more or less purity and
brilliancy in the depths of every human soul, requiring only a perverted
will to crush it utterly, or a feeble, undecided will to tarnish its
lustre and diminish its value? My life, though not very culpable in
appearance, was now drawing me in its soft current into that state of
sluggishness, inaction, and weakness which is a dissolvent of this
supernatural jewel without any equal in the natural world.

Lorenzo, notwithstanding his jealous vigilance during the earlier period
of our married life, did not hesitate to take me to all the theatres, and
at Paris he placed in my hands some of the most celebrated romances of the
day. This somewhat disturbed the equilibrium of my mind, and produced a
certain agitation of soul, which is the natural consequence of an
unhealthy interest in works to which genius and talent have the cruelty to
lend their irresistible power. When we reflect on the value of these
divine gifts, the source from which they emanate, and their power of
diffusing light and awakening the mental faculties, we cannot help
thinking how cruel it is to employ them in kindling everywhere a fire so
destructive to the human soul—the only real, irrevocable death.

But, in spite of the inevitable effect spoken of above, the strong disgust
and repugnance they speedily produced in my mind prevented their poisonous
emanations from affecting me seriously. Now, after being so long exposed
to influences doubtless less deleterious than those, but by no means
strengthening, a more subtle snare was laid for me.... The letter I held
in my hand was not an effusion that should instantly have aroused my
conscience, which, though torpid, was not hardened; no, its language was
such that I read and reread it, and allowed the sentiments it expressed to
penetrate my very heart. And yet, what was the substance of this letter;
what was its real signification? However noble and superior to other men
Gilbert might appear in my eyes, of what avail was this nobleness, this
superiority, this purity of his soul even, when he began to tread the
lower path of common mortals with the vain thought that he could maintain
a straight course better than others; ... that he could make me so
decidedly explicit a declaration, and promise me an inviolable respect,
which he immediately deviated from the first time he had the
opportunity?...

But this truth did not at that time appear in the light in which I saw it
at a later day, and a terrible struggle took place in my heart. Illusion
was no longer possible. I could no longer say I had a sure, faithful
friend whose attachment was allowable, and yet I could not decide to give
it up. I tried to persuade myself, with all those arguments that present
themselves as soon as one is ready to listen to them, that this sacrifice
was unnecessary. In the bottom of my soul, however, another voice made
itself heard, repeating more strongly the warning of the night before—a
sweet, divine voice, scarcely audible in the midst of all this agitation,
and, when heard, was not listened to!

That was the day I usually went to see Livia, but it was quite late before
I remembered it. My first thought was to omit going for once, but as I had
always been punctual at these interviews, in spite of every obstacle, and
Saturday was the only day I could be received, after some minutes’
hesitation I surmounted the temptation to remain at home.

During the whole period of frivolous gayety that marked the first months
of my life at Naples, far from wishing to avoid seeing Livia, I took
pleasure, on the contrary, in asking her advice, which I was by no means
as afraid of, even in Carnival time, as my Aunt Clelia. I was something
like a place besieged and almost surrounded by the enemy, but still not
wholly inaccessible to the friendly power disposed to deliver it. As I
have said elsewhere, Livia’s voice always took a correct pitch,
unmistakable to the ear, and I loved to listen to it, even when mine was
too weak to sound the same note with like power and clearness.

But from the day of Lorenzo’s departure, so doubly fatal, instead of the
careless gayety I usually went to the convent to acknowledge and correct,
I was filled with a sadness and anxiety Livia was not slow to perceive,
and, instead of gently shaking her head, as she smiled at my account of
the somewhat too gay a life into which I had been led by Lorenzo, she now
fastened a grave, anxious look on me, to which I replied by pouring out
all the bitterness of my fresh grievances without any restraint. After
this explanation, which sufficiently accounted for the change she had
remarked, I spoke no more of myself, and never once mentioned Gilbert’s
name. I was angry with myself for this reserve. I longed to overcome it,
and tell her, as I had often told myself, that in Gilbert heaven had sent
me a friend whose influence was delightful, salutary, elevated, pure, and
so on. These words came to my lips, but I could not utter them before her.

Once (it was the Saturday before) there was a new change in the expression
of my face—a change which reflected, I suppose, the insecure and dangerous
happiness to which I had unscrupulously yielded. Seeing me appear with a
smiling air and a calm, untroubled face, she at first seemed pleased, but,
after observing me for some time, said:

“Has Lorenzo returned?”

“No.”

She looked thoughtful.

“Do you know when he will return?”

“I do not know,” said I bitterly; “and, in fact, I begin never to expect
him, and almost not to wish him to return.”

I saw a slight movement of her clasped hands like a shudder. She raised
her large eyes, and, looking me in the face, said:

“Take care.”

Her look and words greatly troubled me, and I did not recover from the
impression till it was time for Gilbert to arrive in the evening, when his
presence made me forget it. I thought of this to‐day, and perhaps the
remembrance added to the repugnance I felt to go to the convent. Perhaps
it also caused the unusual emotion I experienced when I found myself once
more in the parlor—the very parlor that filled me with so much terror the
first time I entered it, but which I afterwards forgot, so different were
the impressions that followed.

But whatever the joy, the trouble, the agitation, or, as to‐day, the
anguish, with which I came, a few minutes sufficed to put me in harmony
with the inexpressible tranquillity that reigned around me. The pulsations
of my heart diminished, and I experienced the effect a pure, vivifying air
produces on one who has just come from a heavy, feverish atmosphere. The
bare walls, the wooden seats, the extreme simplicity and austerity on
every side, inspired me with a kind of attraction that would have
surprised those who daily saw me in my sumptuous home, surrounded by all
that wealth and the most refined taste could procure. This attraction,
incomprehensible to myself, was like that vague perfume the traveller
breathes when approaching some unknown shore which he does not yet
perceive....

But on this occasion these things, instead of producing their usually
beneficial, soothing effect, caused me a kind of uneasiness akin to
remorse, and I soon found the solitude so difficult to endure that I had
some idea of profiting by the interval that remained in order to leave the
convent under some pretext without seeing my sister. But the strength of
mind that, thank heaven, I still possessed prevented me from leaving the
place, and I became absorbed in thoughts I dared not fathom, so utterly
discordant were they with everything around me, and so different from what
they seemed in the light by which I regarded them only an hour before.

At last the door opened, the curtain was drawn aside, and Livia made her
appearance.

“You are late, Gina,” said she. “I was afraid I should not see you to‐
day.”

I stammered some excuse, as she gave me a scrutinizing look with her usual
expression of extreme sweetness.

“You do not look so happy as you did last Saturday, Ginevra. You are
agitated and excited to‐day. Will you not tell me the reason?”

I was tempted to make her a thorough, sincere confession; but the moment I
was about to begin I was struck with the impossibility of speaking in that
angelic place of what seemed elsewhere only natural, excusable, and almost
legitimate.

Seeing I made no reply, she gently said:

“Lorenzo has not yet come home. Of course his absence afflicts you. Be
patient and forbearing, I conjure you, Ginevra.”

Her words caused me a kind of irritation, though I was glad to elude her
previous question, and I hastily replied:

“Livia, you require too much of me. Some day I may become patient and
forbearing, but at present it is impossible.”

“Gina, Gina, do not say so,” said she in the tone in which she used to
correct the faults of my childhood.

“O Livia! your poor sister finds life hard, I assure you. How happy you
are!...”

“Yes, I am happy,” she softly replied.

“Who would have said it, however,” I continued in an agitated tone, “when
Lorenzo came to woo me with so many assurances of affection, so many
promises of happiness?... That all this should prove false and
illusory!... Oh! when I think of it, I no longer have the strength to....”

“Ginevra!” said Livia, suddenly interrupting me in a tone of authority,
“it is useless to talk in that manner. You speak like a child!”

She seldom spoke to me in this way, and I stopped.

“At the time you are speaking of,” she resumed, “do you remember my
telling you one day—it was only a short time before your marriage....”

I hastily interrupted her in my turn.

“I have not forgotten our conversation, Livia. That was the day you told
me I was going to pronounce _the most fearful vow there is in the world_.
But, sister, I was not the only one who made it.”

“No, certainly not. You mean to say that Lorenzo has violated the solemn
vow that bound you together.... Yes, Gina, it is horrible, I acknowledge,
but listen to me; if you continue to think more of your own wrongs than of
God, whom he has offended a thousand times more; if you continue to
complain and dwell on your injuries, the result will be, you will soon
seek likewise to be released from the fidelity you vowed to him. And then
(may God preserve me from ever seeing that day, when I shall be truly
separated from you!) your fall will be speedy, rapid, and terrible. You
will fall as low, perhaps, as you might now rise high.”

She saw me shudder at these words, and continued with her usual mildness:

“Now, my dearest Gina, may God and his angels watch over you!... It is
growing dark. The bell is about to summon me away. I have only time for
one word: _Forget your heart_, I implore you. Believe me, God will some
day satisfy its cravings, if you cease to listen so weakly to them,
longing to have them gratified at all costs. Forget your heart, I say, and
think only of your soul!”

The bell rang while she was speaking. She raised her hand, and made the
sign of the cross in the air. I bowed my head, and when I raised it again
she had disappeared. But she had not spoken in vain. The clouds that
obscured my reason began to disperse, my courage began to revive, and the
jewel within to regain the brilliancy that had been obscured in the depths
of my soul. The course I ought to pursue was set before me with painful
distinctness, but I no longer turned my eyes away from it.

I was not happy when I left the convent. I did not even feel calm or
consoled; but I had come to a decision.

It was so late when I arrived home that the garden was filled with
moonlight. I walked there a long time, absorbed in my reflections, and
sincerely endeavoring to strengthen a resolution whose fulfilment I did
not yet dare to consider. I trembled as I asked myself if it was necessary
to utter the decisive word before another day, or if I could wait till
after the _soirée_ organized by Lando, when it would be no longer possible
to defer it.

I still hesitated as to this point. Though I had come to a decision, I did
not cease to suffer, but I ceased to be weak. I was very far from the
summit, but I resolved to attain it, instead of remaining as far below as
I now stood. A circumstance, insignificant in itself, now occurred to
confirm the change in my mind.

The door of Lorenzo’s studio was open, and, wishing to shorten the way to
my chamber, I entered it, and was proceeding towards the other door when I
found myself face to face with the vestal of which I was the model. The
moon threw so brilliant a light over it as to produce a striking effect. I
stopped to look at it, and, while doing so, it seemed as if this statue of
myself spoke to me in its own way, and in a language similar to that I had
so recently been listening to.

And what was the idea which Lorenzo really intended to express in this
vestal—the finest of his productions?

One of those ideas which, under the inspiration of genius, sometimes
sprang from his soul, and seemed for an instant to show a sense of the
good equal to that he had of the beautiful. This was, alas! only a
transitory gleam of light, but it was sufficient to justify the ambitious
hopes I once felt for a day—hopes so fatally illusory at the very time
they were conceived!

Lorenzo’s idea in choosing the ancient guardians of the sacred fire as his
subjects was to represent under these two figures the woman who was true
to her highest mission, and the woman who was untrue to it; the latter
making use of the holy fire under her charge to kindle a flame that would
end in destruction and woe; the other striving to keep this very fire
alive, diffusing its clear, brilliant, beneficent light, not only over
herself, but over everything around her.

Such was the idea he had not been able to embody, he said, till he had me
for his model. All this was doubtless the dream of an artist; but while I
stood contemplating what had resulted from it, the effect I experienced
was so strange, the thoughts that came to my mind were so vivid, that they
could only have been the whisperings of the voice that for an hour had
spoken more and more clearly to my heart.

The statue, however idealized it might be by the genius of the sculptor,
resembled me sufficiently for me to recognize the likeness. Flooded as it
now was by a brilliant, unearthly light, I looked at it with an attention
I had never done before. I observed its simple, dignified attitude; the
head slightly inclined towards the symbolic flame that rose from the lamp
she bore in her hands with so much ease, and yet with care and vigilance;
and, finally, the mouth and eyes, in which it seemed to me no artist had
ever expressed so clearly the gentleness, firmness, and purity he wished
to depict. It was thus Lorenzo imagined the guardian of the divine fire
which not only burned on the sacred altar, but kindled and fed the noblest
inspirations of genius....

Yes, the conception was a beautiful one, and I felt proud and gratified
that he had found me worthy of being the model to realize it!

All at once I was struck with a kind of terror, as it occurred to me,
Shall this resemblance be merely external? Are not many things wanting in
my nature which this statue seeks to express, and of which its beauty is
only the reflection?...

O my God! I thank thee! Everything becomes an instrument in thy hand. It
was thou, and not this marble, who didst suggest this thought, and it was
through thy grace that, at that moment, quicker than I can express it, and
as clearly as the eye beholds a picture placed suddenly before it, I all
at once saw if Lorenzo were present, under the roof that was his, and
Gilbert were also there—Gilbert, who called himself my friend and not
his—there would exist at my fireside, there would be infused into my life,
a perpetual lie, unmistakable treachery, and constant danger. I saw and
realized that, though he might not apparently have anything to reproach me
for, everything within and around me would henceforth continually reproach
me. I saw if the sacred lamp did not actually fall from my hands, the
purity of its flame would speedily be dimmed, and certainly end by being
wholly extinguished....

All this became clearly visible and palpable, and in the presence of this
voiceless marble, before the image of this pagan priestess, I renewed the
tacit promise I had an hour before made to her who was the living
Christian realization of this ancient ideal of a virtue pure and chaste.



XXXIII.


I went up to my chamber, not only startled at the vividness of the
impression I had received, but decided as to my course. The words
_falsehood_ and _treachery_ that came to my mind produced a powerful
effect on me, and would, perhaps, have had the same effect on every woman
who happened to be in a similar position, if she had the courage to call
things in this way by their right names. It is pleasant and delightful to
inspire and to experience those profound emotions sung by poets and
exalted by writers of fiction, but it is not noble to be false. No poet
has ever said so, no writer of fiction has ventured to insinuate it. Now,
it is this falsity, so essential a feature in all these little dramas of
the heart (real or fictitious), which ought, it seems to me, to disgust
even those who do not act from any higher motive than those of the world.
As for me, the mere thought that it would henceforth be impossible to
speak of Gilbert’s friendship without falsehood, and, at Lorenzo’s return,
that I should not have the same right as before to look him in the
face—this thought, I say, was sufficient to inspire me at this moment with
so much determination that I thought my irresolution at an end. It seemed
as if I should have but little difficulty in accomplishing the task from
which I no longer endeavored to escape. But in the evening, when, at a
late hour, Gilbert arrived, I was somewhat moved at perceiving my outward
calmness and animation made him suppose I acquiesced in his wishes; for,
after looking at me an instant, he seemed suddenly relieved from a lively
apprehension, and his eyes flashed with joy.

There was considerable company in the drawing‐room that evening, and
consequently a good deal of noise. They had a kind of rehearsal of what
was to take place the following evening. My cousins were at the piano with
the baron and Lando. Leslie, at a distance, was gazing at Stella, who,
under the pretext of looking over a volume of Dante, in order to select
something to recite, was seated apart, silent and absorbed. There was no
one on the terrace, and I proceeded in that direction. I felt that
Gilbert’s eyes followed me; but he hesitated about joining me. I likewise
felt some hesitation, but, fearing I might again become irresolute, and
wishing at once to make it impossible to yield to the danger, I looked up,
and motioned for him to follow me. In an instant he was at my side, and,
as I remained silent, he said in an agitated tone:

“I hope you have pardoned me, madame.”

I was terribly moved on my part, but it would not do to manifest it.

“Yes,” I replied, “I forgive you; for you have been sincere, and that is
worth everything else. But, Monsieur de Kergy, I must be sincere likewise.
Let me therefore say to you, leave Naples. You ought to, and it is my
wish.”

He was greatly agitated, but did not utter a word. I continued with a
calmness that astonished me, though my heart beat with frightful rapidity:

“To‐morrow, I know, every one will depend on hearing you speak, and I
also. But do not remain in Naples beyond the following day, if you can
possibly help it. And after you are gone; I am sure you will be glad you
obeyed me.”

He made no reply.

“Who knows?” continued I gently. “The day will come, perhaps, when we can
meet again—when we can be truly friends without deceit, without falseness
in the real sense of the word. What is impossible now may not be always.”

While I was speaking he leaned against the wall with folded arms. He
listened at first with his head bent down; but he now suddenly raised it,
and I saw such a veil of sadness over his eyes and whole face that I had
to make a violent effort to maintain my self‐command.

At last he said:

“You are right. It was folly in me to come; it would be greater folly to
remain. I will obey you, madame. I cannot complain, and I respect you as
much as I....”

He stopped, for I made a deprecatory gesture. What I had to say was said,
and I felt our interview ought not to be prolonged. I was about to leave
the terrace when he detained me.

“A moment more, madame, I beg—only one, and the last; for who knows if you
will grant me another, even to bid you farewell?...”

I stopped.

“Yes,” continued he slowly, “I would like to think, as you say, that I
shall be permitted to see you again some day, and sincerely be your
friend. Time will pass over my head and yours. You will not always be
young and beautiful. Long years will doubtless pass. To enable me to
endure the present, I must look forward to the time when I shall be no
longer young, and can see you again, and resume without fear the title I
ought not to claim, I acknowledge, while there is any danger of profaning
it. I await that day.”

It was by no means with indifference I listened to his agitated, trembling
voice; but I manifested nothing outwardly, and was even able to smile, as
I replied:

“It will not be necessary to wait so long as you suppose, I assure you.
Long before my hair grows white, what there is good and true in your
friendship will be restored to me. For before that day some one, more
beautiful than I (whom it will not be difficult to find), and, moreover,
worthy of you, to whom you can give your whole heart, will have effaced
the remembrance of the passing fancy I have caused without intending it,
but which shall not be prolonged a single instant with my consent.”

I passed by him without looking up or giving him time to reply, and
returned to the drawing‐room. There I seated myself on a sofa in an
obscure corner of the room, or rather, I fell on it, pale, faint, and
exhausted by the effort I had made.

I did not believe a word of what I had just said to Gilbert. My duty was
to send him away, and this duty was accomplished! But I by no means
desired another should so soon efface my image. I said so to allay his
regret and appear indifferent. I was proud of the courage I had
manifested. When I compared myself with Lorenzo, I thought myself
perfectly heroic, and I was about to have reason to think myself a
thousand times more so.

Lando at that moment left the piano, where he had been stationed all the
evening beside Teresina. The latter, it may be remarked _en passant_, had
profited so well by his hints that her toilet had become irreproachable,
and now added singularly to the effect of her beauty. Lando perceived it,
and it was evident he also thought of my cousin’s by no means despicable
dowry among her other attractions, as a possible means of abridging his
exile and returning to Paris before the two years had expired. When,
therefore, I saw him coming with a grave air towards the place where I was
seated, I thought I was about to receive a communication I had long been
prepared for. I did not suspect what he had to say concerned me much more
directly than himself.

“Cousin Ginevra,” said he in a low tone, as he took a seat beside me, “I
have had news from Milan.”

I started involuntarily. He did not notice it, but continued:

“News which proves I was not mistaken the other day when I told you the
beautiful Faustina would take good care to avenge you. Only, I did not
think it would be so soon.”

Brought back so suddenly to the most painful reality of my life, I was the
more startled and confounded at what he said. Lando’s gossip was usually
odious to me; but now, instead of imposing silence on him, I insisted, on
the contrary, that he should conceal nothing from me.

“Well, then,” continued he, “it seems the fair Milanese, notwithstanding
her _belle passion_ for Lorenzo, had never been able to console herself
for being deprived of the duchess’ coronet on which she had depended. So
while neglecting nothing to maintain the ascendency she had regained over
him, she was not wholly indifferent to the homage of a certain potentate
from the Danube who offered to share with her his principality and his
millions. She was still hesitating, it seems, between ambition and love,
when Lorenzo, who had some suspicion, and was on the alert, unexpectedly
came upon his rival. Then there was a violent scene and high words, which
ended in a challenge. They were on the point of fighting when the lady
prevented the affair from going any further by declaring she would give
her hand to the potentate!... So in a short time, I imagine,” continued
Lando, rubbing his hands, “Donna Faustina will take her departure for the
banks of the Danube. You will be delivered for ever from her, and we shall
soon see Lorenzo come home in a terrible humor. But, frankly, it is good
enough for him. This punishment is not the hundredth part of what he
merits when he has a wife like you!”

“O merciful heaven! what a fate is mine! and what a husband I am obliged
to immolate myself to!...”

Such was my first thought on hearing this account, and an hour after, when
I went to my chamber, I had not yet overcome the bitterness and agitation
it caused me. My temptation became stronger and more formidable than ever,
and the desire again sprang up in my heart to retract the sentence I had
so recently pronounced. To see him, hear him, sometimes speak to him, and
meet his sympathetic glance—was all this really forbidden me? Would this
be failing in my duty to the husband who had outraged me so publicly? No,
no, it could not be.... No one yet knew Gilbert was to leave Naples. A
line, a word, from me, would suffice to prevent his departure. The new
life created by his presence would continue as if nothing had happened
that ought to terminate it!... I had already seized my pen and written the
word ... when suddenly there awoke in my memory the words of Livia: “Think
of God, whom he has offended a thousand times more than he has you”; and
afterwards these: “If you seek likewise to be released, your fall will be
speedy, rapid, and terrible.”

The recollection of these words stopped me and made me shudder. I now
perceived what gradations I had passed through within a month. I felt that
Livia was right—should I descend from the height I had just attained, it
would indeed be to fall lower than I was before, and perhaps to the lowest
depths!

My sister in her quiet cell still aided me with her prayers, which
doubtless augmented the increasing light in my soul. I tore up the note I
had begun to write, and, again preparing myself to struggle and suffer
more than ever, I calmly renewed the resolution I had been so near
breaking. It seemed to me this slight victory, though it did not lessen my
sadness, added to my strength, and made the jewel within gleam with a
lustre somewhat brighter than before.




Another General Convention Of The Protestant Episcopal Church.


The late convention of the Protestant Episcopal Church has, we believe,
disappointed everybody. With skilful care to avoid anything which might
cause a rupture, the various factions of this large and respectable
denomination have spoken to each other, and parted. The world is none the
wiser, and we hardly think that _they_ are. High‐Churchmen have maintained
their ground with smooth dignity; Low‐Churchmen have gained some points,
while they have lost others; and Ritualists have hidden themselves in
silence. If neither party is suited, there is the consolation that no one
is pleased; and from this universal negative we presume the conclusion
comes to an universal affirmative that all are pleased. We have long ago
foreseen this result, and they who, arguing from the defection of Bishop
Cummins, expected to hear something decisive in the way of doctrine, have
learned how peace may be maintained by simply abstaining from war. The
Episcopal Church has no fixed creed. Its articles of faith contradict its
offices. Its various members interpret both, so that from the Babel of
conflicting opinions no certain sound can be heard. Thus it has been, and
thus it will be to the end. There is only one thing on which Episcopalians
unite—namely, hostility to the Catholic Church. With various degrees of
ignorance or honesty, they are enemies of the only body which teaches with
authority, whose forms they counterfeit by sad travesties or servile
imitations.

The action of this convention, as far as it concerns the interior
structure of the church, which they profess to have modelled after the
American Constitution, has no particular interest for the world. Some
improvement may have been made in the canons, of which we can be no
judges. Legislation is one of the peculiarities of our day. If it be
harmless, it is looked upon as a safe use of force and nerve which,
expended in another direction, might have done damage. We proceed to
notice a few things which are of importance, and they are the only acts of
the convention which, on the reading of the journal, strike us as of any
consequence.

We are happy to be able to congratulate our friends on the rejection of
the _provincial system_. With them it would have worked very badly,
because a province supposes some central government and a unit in
authority. When a province separates from its parent state, it becomes
independent. If there be no home government, there can be no province,
properly so‐called. The committee very _learnedly_ explains the
constitution of the primitive church, and concludes that it would not
apply to them, and could not without injury be forced upon them.


    “Your committee assume that the terms ‘provincial system’ are used
    in the resolution in their full ecclesiastical and primitive
    sense. In the early church there were: 1. the parish; 2, the
    diocese; 3, the province; 4, the patriarchate. The parish had its
    priest, the diocese its bishop, the province its archbishop, the
    patriarchate its patriarch. Among these, the dominant and most
    active power was the province with its archbishop. Speaking
    generally, we may say that it possessed the powers of this body
    and of the House of Bishops, and many of the powers of our
    diocesan councils. The provinces were disconnected and
    independent, except as, by very slender ties, they were united in
    the patriarchate. Such a system would dismember this church, and
    out of this now compact, now united body create five, or seven, or
    ten separate churches. The ties which may at first unite them will
    grow weaker and weaker. However similar they may be at the moment
    of dismemberment, at that moment the process of divergence will
    begin, and it will go on until the separation will be as great as
    that now existing between York and Canterbury. Those provinces now
    communicate with each other only informally.

    “Any institution of provinces or provincial synods, with powers
    subject at all times to revocation by the General Convention,
    would be useless and illusory. The provinces, if invested with
    irrevocable powers, and discharged from the constant and necessary
    authority and supervision of the General Convention, certainly
    might, and probably would, soon diverge into widely differing
    practices and opinions, engendering ecclesiastical conflicts,
    threatening the unity of our church.”


Nothing could be plainer than this argument. In any Protestant
organization, the least separation makes an independent church. It could
not be otherwise where there is no infallible authority and no divine
government to bind all the members to one head. It must be sad to the
lovers of primitive purity to know how imperfect the constitution of the
early church was. Everything tended to disintegration, and a more perfect
system has been found out by the wisdom of modern days. In the mind of the
committee, the hand of God had nothing to do with the primitive church;
for there is only _one_ author of confusion and disorder. These learned
antiquarians never heard of the See of Rome, and do not know that our Lord
said to Peter, “Thou art the rock, and on this rock will I build my
church.” Viewing them, however, from their own standpoint, we are glad to
note their acuteness, and to congratulate them that they have not
_divided_ themselves.

It appears also that there was some disposition to consider the American
Episcopal Church as a province of the English, and to treat the Archbishop
of Canterbury as a kind of patriarch. This disposition was rebuked by the
convention. The following are among the remarks made in the House of
Deputies which show that the _quasi_ mission of the Bishop of Lichfield
was fruitless:


    “The right reverend gentleman who has taken so strong an interest
    in this subject has made a proposition, and the proposition is
    that we should become one great province, if you please, with the
    Archbishop of Canterbury as metropolitan of these United States
    for the nonce, and that in all these conferences the Archbishop of
    Canterbury, as the great metropolitan or patriarch, is to preside.

    “I know that many are wont to call the Church of England the
    mother church. I hold that she is not. If so, I claim her to be
    nothing but a very poor stepmother. The church in this country
    never was perfected till she got her perfection by the
    consecration of Seabury from the bishops of Scotland; and if we
    acknowledge a mother other than the mother church of Jerusalem
    (which I am not prepared to acknowledge), we must acknowledge
    Scotland, not England.

    “I could say a great deal more on this subject—full of it I am;
    but, under the circumstances, I think I have said enough to
    satisfy the members of this house that they had better let it
    alone, and wait till the bishops tell us what they think of it.
    They are the persons interested. They accepted the first
    invitation without asking us ‘with your leave’ or ‘by your leave.’
    Now, after they have been bluffed, and this church, I would say,
    insulted as it has been by the Dean of Canterbury, and by the
    prearrangement of keeping out the very question which these
    gentlemen, at a large expense of time and money, went to attend
    to, why not leave them first to express their opinion? My word for
    it, from what I know of the self‐respect of the members of that
    house, if you wait for that, you will wait to the end of the term.

    “There are several parties to this movement, of different
    temperaments. One of them is the great apostolic prelate whom we
    have welcomed twice to this convention—the illustrious prelate, of
    whom I speak with the most unbounded admiration as a churchman, as
    a gentleman, as a historian, as a man. In every capacity in which
    I can know human nature, he deserves honor and affection. I do not
    enter into the motives of this movement, but I simply say that he
    is affirmatively moving, in my belief, to gratify what he has
    largely developed in his great nature—the power of organism. He
    does wish, I have no doubt, something like an organic union of the
    two churches of the two great English‐speaking races. That
    movement, to a certain extent, is creditable and desirable, but to
    a certain other extent it is extremely dangerous and utterly
    inadmissible.”


The organic unity of the Anglican with the American Episcopal Church is as
far from perfect as the union of provinces would prove if the _primitive_
system, as stated by the learned committee, were adopted. The independence
of the two churches is as complete as that of the Presbyterian or
Methodist denominations in this country. Neither is bound by the doctrinal
decisions of the other. This being the case, we hardly understand the full
significance of the ceremony by which an “alms‐basin” was presented by the
General Convention to the Archbishop of Canterbury. The Bishop of
Lichfield, explaining his part in the august rite, says:


    “It was my happiness to present that alms‐basin to the Archbishop
    of Canterbury in concert with one whose loss we all lament, who is
    now with God in his rest—Bishop McIlvaine, of Ohio, who, hand‐in‐
    hand with me, each of us holding the alms‐basin by one hand and on
    bended knee, presented that alms‐basin for the Lord’s table in S.
    Paul’s Cathedral, on the fourth of July, on that occasion.”


One of the members of the House of Deputies tells us that


    “This basin was procured from the Messrs. Kirk, of the city of
    Baltimore. The price of it was one thousand dollars, and it is
    said to be the finest piece of work of silver and gold and
    precious stones combined that has ever been made upon our
    continent. It was sent through the hands of the Bishop of
    Lichfield, who presented it on bended knees to the Archbishop of
    Canterbury, to be placed upon the altar of S. Paul’s Cathedral;
    and in this basin the bishops of the Church of England made their
    own offerings first. It is understood that the basin is to be
    preserved by the archbishop and transmitted to his successors, to
    be used in all future times at the consecration of English bishops
    and the opening of the Houses of Convocation, and upon all public
    and great occasions in which the Church of England is interested,
    and to be preserved as a pledge and token of unity and good‐will
    between our own church and our mother Church of England.

    “I may say here, too, that both Houses of Convocation, by
    resolution adopted unanimously, went in their scarlet convocation
    robes from their sittings in the chamber near Westminster Abbey,
    in solemn procession, to the celebration of the Holy Communion in
    S. Paul’s Cathedral, especially to do honor to the American
    Church; and in this procession Bishop McIlvaine and the Lord
    Bishop of Lichfield carried our basin, and it was presented to the
    Archbishop of Canterbury in form.”


Why did these prelates _kneel_ to the archbishop on this occasion, unless
to do him homage? And what function does an “alms‐basin” discharge in the
consecration of bishops and the opening of the Houses of Convocation? We
ask in all sincerity, because our knowledge of ecclesiology is imperfect
in reference to these points.

While we praise the manly spirit of our American friends in not yielding
to the spirit of toadyism before English prelacy, we confess we are
somewhat pained at a seeming want of self‐respect in their attempt to deal
with the “Holy Orthodox Eastern Church.” This body, though having valid
orders, holds all the doctrines condemned by the Thirty‐nine Articles, and
has plainly and openly anathematized Protestantism. Why will the
Episcopalians consent to be snubbed and slapped in the face for the sake
of an intercommunion which is utterly impossible? If _they_ like it, we
ought not to repine; yet, for the sake of our manhood, we protest against
it. The Rev. Dr. Fulton, of Alabama, said:


    “There is a great body of Christian people, constituting one of
    the three great bodies of the Holy Catholic Church, throughout the
    world, which to‐day are not in visible communion, although they
    are in unity of spirit, and hope for a more clearly‐defined bond
    of peace. Hitherto it has only been possible for these various
    bodies, or at least two of them—that is to say, the Anglican
    Church and the Holy Orthodox Eastern Church—to meet each other in
    courtesy. Now, arrangements have been made through the Archbishop
    of Canterbury by which the dead of our communion from England or
    this country can be buried by the Orthodox clergy, and other
    offices of courtesy and kindness can be performed. The Archbishop
    of Syra, representing the Holy Orthodox Eastern Church, lately
    visited the Church of England, and was there received with the
    greatest honor. Prelates of our own church and clergy of lower
    degree have likewise been received by the Eastern clergy. There
    are, in this city, with the approbation of the bishop of the
    diocese clergy of the Holy Orthodox Eastern communion. It is
    believed—in fact, it is known—that they are present now in this
    house; and, as a member of the Russo‐Greek Committee, it was
    suggested to me that, in the general recognition of the clerical
    rank and character which these resolutions imply, these brethren
    should be likewise recognized. It touches not at all the doctrine
    of their churches; it touches not at all the doctrines of their
    church; it touches not at all their attitude toward us; it simply
    recognizes that they are clergy of a church toward which we hope
    that, in the providence of God, we may be drawn in love, without
    any sacrifice of our own principles.”


We doubt not that, when gentlemen meet, they treat each other with
courtesy. Even Roman Catholic, whom Dr. Fulton would not invite to the
convention, are courteous and polite. But this does not mean any
compromise in questions of doctrine. If Dr. Potter approves of the
presence of Rev. Mr. Bjerring in New York, we are quite sure that the
Russian priest never dreams of acknowledging his authority. Is it not very
much beneath the dignity of a large and respectable body to take mere
politeness for any approach to unity in faith or communion? A letter of
the Metropolitan of St. Petersburg was handed round among the deputies as
a curiosity and a wonderful sign of Eastern favor to the Protestant
Episcopal Church. We are not sure if the following is an exact copy of the
letter. If so, it is a gentle rebuke, given as politely as could be done
under the circumstances. We extract the letter and the comments thereon
from a secular paper generally trustworthy:

“The Convention’s Proposition Spurned By Orthodox Catholics.


    “Apropos of the efforts of the Protestant Episcopal Church for a
    closer union and affiliation with the Orthodox Eastern Church, the
    following letter, translated from the _Birzheviga Vedomosty_, a
    Russian journal of a semi‐official ecclesiastical status, will be
    interesting. It is a reply to the petition of the Protestant
    Episcopal Church for a more intimate union with the Russo‐Greek
    Church, and is now for the first time published on this continent:

    “ ‘TO THE WELL‐BELOVED IN CHRIST, AND THE RIGHT REVEREND COMMITTEE
    OF THE HOUSE OF BISHOPS OF THE PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL CHURCH IN THE
    UNITED STATES OF AMERICA:

    “ ‘Your letter, addressed to his Excellency the Procurator
    General, Count Tolstoy, having been presented by him to the
    consideration of the Most Holy Governing Synod of Russia, together
    with the report and the concurrence of the House of Bishops,
    approved by the House of Clerical and Lay Deputies, in reference
    to the establishment upon a true catholic basis of a spiritual
    fraternity between the American and Orthodox Churches, especially
    in the Territory of Alaska, was received by the Most Holy Synod of
    all the Russias with the utmost pleasure, as a new proof of
    respect shown by the representatives of the Episcopal Church, and
    of their estimable purpose concerning the union of the churches.
    The Most Holy Synod, on their part, will make it an object of
    their constant care that a spirit of Christian tolerance and
    fraternal love and esteem, in accordance with the precepts and
    usages of our church, shall continue to pervade all the relations
    existing between the members of the Orthodox Church and those of
    the Protestant Episcopal Church in America, and particularly in
    the Territory of Alaska.

    “ ‘As to the hypothesis of a reciprocal participation in the
    solemn performance of the sacrament of the Eucharist, the Eastern
    Church firmly adheres to the principles and convictions so clearly
    stated in the messages sent in 1723 by the Orthodox patriarchs of
    the East in reply to the Anglican bishops. It considers a previous
    agreement in faith as absolutely indispensable to the practical
    mutual participation in the sacraments, inasmuch as the first is
    the only possible ground‐work or basis for the last. In order to
    attain this most desired end, a thorough study and investigation
    of the differences in the doctrine of both churches would be
    absolutely requisite; and to promote this, a great principle of
    co‐operation will undoubtedly be found in the spirit of peace and
    charity which animates both churches, the Orthodox as well as the
    American, and in those prayers for the peace of the whole world
    and for the union of the holy churches of the Lord which arise to
    the God of truth and mercy from the Orthodox churches, and which
    are most certainly shared in by the American churches.

    “ ‘Having been authorized by the Most Holy Governing Synod, I
    assume the duty of presenting their answer to the House of Bishops
    of the American Episcopal Church, and beg you to accept the
    assurance of the highest esteem of your brother and co‐servant in
    Jesus Christ.

    ISIDORE,

    “ ‘First Presiding Member of the Governing Synod of all the
    Russias, and Metropolitan of Novgorod and St. Petersburg.’

    “The only ecclesiastical representative of the Russian Church in
    this city, the Rev. N. Bjerring, has corroborated the facts set
    forth in this letter, and furthermore stated to the writer, in
    answer to inquiries, that the Orthodox Church seeks not exclusive
    affiliation with the Anglican and American Episcopal Churches, but
    desires to hold friendly relations with all Christian
    denominations; and in this spirit of fraternal love he receives in
    his own house, as personal friends, not only members of his own
    household of faith, but ministers and members of the Lutheran and
    Reformed Churches, Methodists, Baptists, Episcopalians, and Roman
    Catholics, with all of whom he maintains the most cordial
    relations. But he declares that there can be no such thing as
    sacramental union between his church and any other, unless there
    shall have been first complete agreement in dogmas and an
    unconditional acceptance on the part of the affiliating churches
    of the authority and acts of the first seven Œcumenical Councils.
    This is a _conditio sine quâ non_ from which the Russian Church
    cannot move a step nor deviate one line from the dogmatic truth
    handed down to her from the apostolic church; nor can she at the
    same time permit anything to be added to these dogmas.”


The Eastern churches will never recognize the Episcopalians as anything
but a sect of Protestants. They deny the validity of their orders, and
condemn their articles of faith as heretical. Not one of their bishops or
priests would be recognized as possessing any sacerdotal power, or could
ever receive Holy Communion at the hands of the Greeks, whom they are
inclined to receive with so much favor.

The following words of one of their leading agents in England are
sufficiently decisive, though we fear not plain enough to convince our
brethren who are so sensitive about their apostolic succession, which
every one denies but themselves:

“No other Protestant church was ever so full of contradictions, so full of
variegated heresy, as the English Church was and is, and will be to the
end of her existence. With _such an heretical church_ the Orthodox Eastern
Church never would allow her bishops to transact.

“If Rome considered all ordinations by Parker and his successors—_i.e._,
the whole present English episcopate and clergy—to be invalid, null, and
void, and consistently re‐ordained all those converts who wished and were
fit for orders, the Eastern Church can but imitate her proceedings, as
both follow, in this point, the same principles.

“The Anglo‐Catholics are _most decidedly_ no Catholics, but Protestants,
although inclining hopefully towards Catholicism. It is astonishing how
the zealous Intercommunionists dive into the depths of orthodox learning,
rove in the remotest districts, compile the minutest arguments, while they
overlook the _chasm at their feet_. They most ingenuously demand to
dispense with ceremony, and to join hands all at once over _the vast deep_
stretching out between them.”(107)

Very little has been done by this convention in the way of doctrinal
decisions. The House of Bishops having solemnly declared that in baptismal
regeneration, as the term is used in the Prayer‐Book, no _moral change_ is
signified, the effort to drop the term altogether was voted down. Thus, in
harmony with the customs of this church, a term is retained which has no
real significance. Those who object to it can only console themselves by
the conviction that it means nothing.

A former convention had quite plainly denied the real presence of Christ
in the Holy Eucharist, and hence the condemnation of any adoration of the
sacrament is quite natural. We are not certain that the Ritualists will
see anything to startle them. They would hardly hear any voice, however
loud it might be. Yet we think the rest of the world will be satisfied
that no adoration can be paid to the _elements_ of the Protestant
Episcopal communion, for the reason that they are in their very nature and
substance, and that Christ is not in them. An important canon on ritual
was passed bearing chiefly on this subject. As it first received the votes
of the House of Deputies, it condemned “the use of incense; the placing,
carrying, or retaining a crucifix in any part of the place of public
worship; the elevation of the elements in the Holy Communion in such
manner as to expose them to the view of the people, as objects towards
which adoration is to be made; and any act of adoration of or towards the
elements, such as bowings, prostrations, or genuflections.” As amended by
the House of Bishops, and afterwards passed by both houses, the use of
incense and of the crucifix is not forbidden. One deputy explained that
the Greek Church is in the habit of using incense, and that the Lutherans
retain the crucifix. Perhaps these may be among the reasons for the action
of the bishops. We conclude that while the crucifix may be placed in the
church, and incense be used at the will of ministers or their people, no
act of adoration can be allowed towards the Eucharist. The force of this
canon will depend much upon the disposition of the bishop, who can wink at
these observances or fail to know anything of them. The law, however,
obliges him to examine the matter if any two of his presbyters complain,
and, referring the subject to his standing committee, to admonish the
offending minister. And if the minister disregard this admonition, he must
be tried for a breach of his ordination vow. If this canon means anything
at all, it will put a stop to all the practices of the Ritualists by which
they endeavor to imitate the beauty of Catholic worship, and their whole
ceremonial is at once excluded from any Episcopal church. Let us see if
this law will be either respected or obeyed.

The rejection of Rev. Dr. Seymour, elected to the bishopric of Illinois,
is a still further condemnation of any Eucharistic adoration. For chiefly
for this adoration, which he was supposed to favor, was he refused the
vote of the clerical and lay deputies. The majority against him was so
great that hardly any one can doubt of the mind of the convention. He had
been involved in the Confraternity of the Blessed Sacrament, either
directly or indirectly, and this fact alone was sufficient to cause his
rejection. It seems to us pretty evident that the Episcopal Church by her
highest authority has denied both baptismal regeneration and the real
presence of Christ in the Eucharist. Yet this denial will have little
effect, because all Episcopalians will think as they please, and no
doctrinal decision influences their faith. Creeds are with them written on
paper, and have no further value. One would naturally expect the believers
in these rather important doctrines to forsake a church which condemns
them. But few will do so. They will talk of the primitive days and the
hopes of better times, when the “three branches” of the Catholic Church
shall come together. Until that time there is no authority for Anglo‐
Catholics. If the Protestant Episcopal communion should by synod deny the
existence of God, we believe they would still remain in her, bearing their
burden, persecuted by their own church, and with great self‐denial waiting
till the truth should revive in the hopeful mother that bore them. This
new species of self‐abnegation and of moral martyrdom by one’s own church
is the glory of Ritualistic confessorship. They have not learned that the
first duty of a true church is to teach, and that the first step in
holiness is to mortify self‐will.

On the subject of education, the Protestant Episcopal Church has _nearly_
taken a step forward, and we sincerely regret that the step was only half
made. The Committee on Christian Education recommended the organization of
“sisterhoods” and “brotherhoods” to supply teachers. They say:


    “The great want will not be met until some method of organization
    be adopted, such as brotherhoods or sisterhoods, whose members
    make teaching their special work, and who therefore cultivate the
    teaching faculty, and acquire all the branches of useful learning,
    in order to do Christ’s work for the young, under the direction
    and at the call of their bishops and pastors. And while an
    organized work seems to be the only one likely to meet our
    necessities, and while the religious motive is the only one
    powerful enough to draw men and women to such work for the best
    years of their lives, it should be borne in mind that the truths
    of the Gospel, and the Catholic faith, as this church hath
    received the same, have strength and vitality sufficient to
    furnish motive and method to such associations without
    exaggerations or additions in doctrine or practice, and without
    borrowing distinctive dress, nomenclature, or usages from the
    Church of Rome. In some of the schools or colleges at present
    belonging to us, such associations might be developed—teaching
    orders—Brothers of the Christian Doctrine, Sisters of the Holy
    Childhood—composed of men and women of sound judgment, moral
    force, thorough education, patient and winning ways, who would ask
    for no higher work than to train the minds and mould the
    characters of the young in accordance with the gracious teachings
    of the church, and with the sanction of, and in loyal submission
    to, the authority of those who are rulers in the same.”


In accordance with this recommendation, a canon to establish “deaconesses
or sisters” was reported to the convention. It, however, failed to pass,
and the words of the committee stand before the world on their own merits.
Though there are grave difficulties in the establishment of communities
where there is no religious rule or any unity in faith, yet we would like
to see this imitation of Catholic life tried among our Protestant
brethren. It might do good, and gradually lead the earnest and truly self‐
denying soul to the one home of all Christian life and zeal.

It is a disappointment to us, however, that this convention has done
nothing in regard to parochial schools. Some years ago the language of the
Episcopalian bishops led us to think that they realized the full
importance of guarding the young from the dangers of an infidel education.
Colleges and academies will very poorly meet this great evil. The children
most exposed are those who every day go to our public schools, where no
religion can be taught, and where a non‐Christian system of instruction is
equivalent to infidelity. The truth of this assertion needs no
demonstration, for the facts of every day prove it, and the tide of
unbelief is at our very doors.

The report of the Committee on the State of the Church dwells on some
generalities, but yet admits a substantial decline during the three years
past:


    “But there are in these documents some facts that are not cheering
    or satisfactory. In 1871 there were 448 candidates for holy
    orders, and in 1874 but 301—decrease in three years, 147. In 1873
    it is said there were no ordinations in 17 dioceses, and of the
    whole number of candidates only 60 or 70 were able to maintain
    themselves. Thus we have not only the supply of the ministry
    diminished, but the fact revealed that parents of pecuniary
    ability, elevated social position, and great culture, seemingly
    withheld their sons from the Lord’s higher service. We have also
    had our attention called to the fact that, in many instances, the
    young novice is admitted to the diaconate and priesthood with such
    imperfect qualification that we are forced to the conclusion that
    there is great imperfection in our legislation, or they whose
    office and duty call them to decide upon the qualifications of
    candidates are too lenient in their admission of the applicants.”


We do not find any comparative table of communicants, but should be led to
conclude that as the ministry diminishes in numbers, the members would
decline in the same ratio. Perhaps a little more attention to schools and
the training of the young would be advisable. If the Episcopal Church
wishes to hold its own in this age and country, it will have to give more
attention to the dangers of the public schools.

We do not know precisely what authority belongs to the address of the
bishops at the end of the convention. It has not one word in regard to
doctrine, and the allusions to any differences of opinion are so very
general that no party could be offended. We do not even gather the precise
meaning of the writer. We utterly fail to comprehend his idea of “the
_liberty_ of Christian faith,” or understand his notion of freedom in
obedience. The pastoral was evidently written to offend no one, and in
this we think it must have succeeded.

There are some good words on the subject of divorce, but we can hardly
tell how far they go. Those “who put away an uncongenial wife or husband,”
and marry again, taking advantage of the license of the civil courts, are
condemned as adulterers, unless they do so for the cause of fornication.
We do not know how to explain this. Is fornication or sin before marriage
a reason for divorce? Is adultery after marriage considered sufficient to
break the tie of matrimony, so that a new marriage is permitted? If the
bishops mean to say this, we would earnestly recommend them to study the
sacred scriptures of the New Testament. Their halfway protest against
civil divorce is nevertheless something to be thankful for in these days.

Now, having rehearsed all the important points which we have been able to
see in the doings of this General Convention, we would ask any person of
honest mind who really believes in the divinity of Jesus Christ if there
is in the Protestant Episcopal community any trace of the one true church
which he established. It is to be found neither in the unity of faith nor
in any consciousness of sacerdotal gifts. No conception of the fundamental
idea of a church has any place in her councils, and the truth of Christ’s
presence in his adorable sacrament, which is the very life of his elect,
is the constant object of assault. While they, against all facts and the
testimony of all which they pretend to hold as the Catholic Church, assert
the validity of their orders, they prove beyond all cavil that the grace
of the priesthood is not theirs. For God never left that grace, even in
heresy and schism, without the consciousness of its tremendous power. As a
mere Protestant body, it may keep its exterior before the world. It has no
interior life whatever, no heart and no soul, that we might mark it and
distinguish it among the hosts of a divided Christianity. Nevertheless,
there is light enough to guide the sincere to the one faith, and the plea
of invincible ignorance will be a poor excuse for many in the dread day of
account. Let us pray earnestly to God for these souls in the night of
error. “What will it profit them to gain the world, and then to lose their
souls?”




Assunta Howard. Concluded.



VI. Woman’s Influence.


“And so I have you all to myself once more; no interference from cruel
guardians on your side, and none from unreasonable husbands on mine.
Joking apart, Assunta darling, I think God has been very good to me to
give me such a compensation for Harry’s long absence. Every trial seems to
have a blessing in its train, by way of a set‐off. And you are just the
very dearest of blessings.” And Mary Lee moved her chair a little nearer
to her friend, by way of showing her appreciation. Assunta looked up from
her work with a bright smile, as she replied:

“You are not in the least changed from the dear Mary Percival of convent
days—and happy days they were, too—while I feel twenty years older than I
did the day I bade you good‐by at the garden gate. But now you are
mistaken. I am the one blessed, not blessing. For think what it is to me—a
waif—to find awaiting me so kind a welcome and so pleasant a temporary
home. God only knows what would have become of me without you.”

“Oh!” said Mary, “my only fear was that, with so many claimants for the
honor, I should never succeed in carrying off the prize. I am sure, until
it was decided, and I saw your trunks safely landed at my door, I looked
upon Mrs. Sinclair as my deadly enemy.”

“Clara is very kind—much more so than I deserve,” said Assunta, while an
expression of seriousness passed over her face; “but I should not have
liked to accept her hospitality now. I think the present arrangement is
more for the happiness of all parties.”

And the remembrance of a certain evening on board the steamer, when Mr.
Sinclair, a married man, had dared to tell her, his wife’s friend, that
she had first possessed his heart, and that his love for her was still
unchanged, made her shudder now involuntarily. He must indeed have
strangely forgotten himself, when, after that, he added his entreaties to
those of his unsuspecting wife that she would look upon their home as
hers. Assunta felt as if the word love had indeed been profaned by the
lips of George Sinclair. God is love; but she knew that he would not
hesitate to take even that most holy name in vain. Why then scruple to
profane the attribute? However, all this was a secret, known to herself
alone.

“Mrs. Sinclair must have been a lovely bride,” said Mary musingly. “But,
Assunta, why did Mr. Carlisle return at once to Europe? I should think he
would be tired of travelling by this time, and would like to settle down
for a while on his own place. I have heard it is so beautiful.”

“The habit of travelling grows upon one,” replied Assunta. “He only
returned to Maryland to attend to certain matters in regard to his
sister’s property and mine. It was his intention to spend some time longer
in Europe and the East.” Then, to change the subject, she continued: “But,
Mary dear, when does your brother enter the seminary?”

“I do not know,” said Mrs. Lee. “I cannot understand Augustine at all. He
seems just as good and earnest as ever, and yet something troubles him, I
see it plainly. But he is unusually reserved with me; so that I feel a
reluctance to question him. I wish you would ask him about the seminary.
You can do it quite incidentally; and very likely he would tell you all
about it.”

“I certainly will,” said Assunta. “He is your brother; so I almost feel as
if he were mine too.”

“I do not think,” continued Mary, “that he is well. I am afraid his trip
to the East may have done him more harm than good. He always protests that
he is perfectly well, if I ask him; but I am sure he does not look so.”

“I have thought so myself, and I think we must look upon his case as our
next duty.” And Assunta arose, as the clock struck eleven.

The opportunity to take the case in hand came much sooner than the fair
conspirators had anticipated. The next afternoon, while Mrs. Lee had
excused herself for a few hours, in order to pay the expected weekly visit
to her mother‐in‐law, Mr. Percival joined Assunta, as she sat alone in the
cosey library, finishing a garment for a poor child in whom she was
already interested. Assunta noticed more than usual the paleness of the
spiritual face she had always so much admired, and the weariness of its
expression; but, with true feminine tact, she made no comment; only, as he
seated himself beside the table, she looked up with a smile of welcome, as
his sister might have done.

“Hard at work, as usual. I hope I do not interrupt you, Miss Howard?” said
Mr. Percival, with an answering smile.

“Oh! no indeed. I am delighted to see you this evening. We have not had a
good long talk since I came; and yet we have so many topics of mutual
interest.”

Mr. Percival took from his pocket a little box, and, opening it, said:

“Miss Howard, I have ventured to bring you a souvenir of my travels, which
I beg you will accept from Mary’s brother, and because of the
association.”

He placed in her hand a heart‐shaped locket, plain but heavy, in the
centre of which glowed a large crimson ruby, and around it were engraved
the words, “Cor cordium.” Within, on one side, was a miniature painting of
the Sacred Heart of Jesus; on the other side was set a tiny crucifix,
carved from the olive‐wood of Gethsemani by one of the monks of Jerusalem,
and which had been laid upon the altar in the Chapel of the Holy
Sepulchre.

“And I prayed for you in that sacred spot most fervently, you may be
sure,” said Mr. Percival.

Assunta’s eyes were still fixed upon the beautiful treasure which she held
in her hand. Tears were in them, as she raised them at last, saying:

“Words are poor thanks for such a gift as this. You know, Mr. Percival,
how much I shall value it. Indeed, I feel most unworthy to possess
anything so precious; yet I shall accept it, as you said, from the brother
of my dearest friend, who is to me truly a sister in affection.” And
pressing her lips to the crystal which protected the crucifix, she
carefully replaced the locket in its case.

“And so you did not forget those foolish, fanciful remarks I made by
Shelley’s grave. I had not dreamed they would have dwelt in your memory so
long; still less did I imagine they would inspire so beautiful a design as
this, which is, of course, your own.” Then she added after a little pause:
“There is one greater gift even than this that I shall ask of you one of
these days. It is one of your first Masses, when, as a priest, you are
privileged to offer the Holy Sacrifice.”

“Miss Howard,” exclaimed Mr. Percival, with deep emotion, “that is a
subject of which I cannot even think without suffering.”

“Forgive me,” murmured Assunta, surprised beyond measure. “It was indeed
unpardonable in me to pain you by speaking of that which is between
yourself and God alone. My only excuse is that I thought the matter had
long been settled.”

Then followed a silence, so prolonged that Assunta began to wonder what
kept that manly head bowed forward upon the table. Was it confusion, was
it prayer, or had he perhaps fainted? At last he suddenly looked up, and
fixed those fine, earnest eyes of his full upon Assunta’s face; and even
in that moment the thought struck her what pure, true eyes they were.

“Miss Howard, you are the last person on earth to whom I ought to speak on
this subject, and I know not what impels me to do so now. Pray for me; for
my salvation may depend upon it.”

Assunta tried to be calm, as she said gently, while she breathed a silent
prayer for guidance:

“You must think of me as almost a sister.”

Mr. Percival went on:

“Even your image, true and beautiful and holy as it is, and pure as an
angel’s, should never have been allowed to come between me and the God to
whose special service I was inclined. But believe me, Miss Howard, never
for one moment have I cherished a hope that you might be to me other than
you are; only, when I have striven to rise above all human feeling, and to
give myself unreservedly to him who demanded the sacrifice, God help me!
you seemed to fill his place in my soul. Forgive me and pity me! I am
miserably weak.”

After a moment he continued:

“Ah! Miss Howard, you know what I mean. It is only because of my own
weakness that I have found the memory of you an obstacle to my advance
towards the perfection to which I aspired.”

“And to which you will still aspire.” And Assunta’s voice was low and
sweet, as she for the first time broke silence. “I had not dreamed of
this, Mr. Percival, but I hope you will never have occasion to regret the
confidence you have reposed, not in the ideal which has for a moment
passed as a cloud of temptation between your soul and its high calling,
but in one who, though full of faults, may yet offer you her sympathy and
her prayers.”

“God bless you!” escaped from Mr. Percival’s lips.

“I am too young and inexperienced,” continued Assunta, “to give you
counsel; besides, I am a woman; but, with my woman’s intuition, I think I
see how all this has come about.... May I go on?”

“I beg you will; it is the sort of soul‐wound that needs probing.”

Assunta smiled. “I do not think such severe treatment will be
required—only an examination, perhaps, preparatory to healing. You met me
in Rome—forgive me if I speak too freely of myself—surrounded by that
atmosphere of beauty and poetry which steals into the soul, because it
breathes from the very centre of Catholic faith and the glory of the
church militant. But when you met me, I was with those whose hearts were
not open to such influences; and it was very natural that you and I should
feel drawn to each other by the attraction of a common faith and hope. Do
you think I could have said those foolish words, which it seems you have
remembered only too well”—and she glanced at the little case in her
hand—“if I had not felt that you could sympathize with my thoughts,
however poorly they were expressed? Believe me, it was a certain
earnestness of faith in me, which your presence drew out into somewhat too
free expression and which remained in your memory as an attraction; and
the devil has ingeniously made use of that little opening to insinuate
some subtle poison. But his power is at an end, thank God! He has, for me,
overreached his mark. The very fact that you could speak of this to me
proves that the danger is already passing. O my friend! think what a poor,
miserable substitute is even the greatest human happiness for the life to
which God calls you. Think of the reward! Heaven is the price! However, it
is the Holy Spirit, not I, that should speak to your soul. Will you not
give him the opportunity? Will you not, perhaps, go into retreat? Or
rather, please do not listen to me, but go to your director, and open your
heart to him. I can only give you a few words of sympathy and
encouragement. He can speak to you as the voice of God.”

“You do not despise me, then, for having wavered?”

“Do not say that, Mr. Percival,” exclaimed the young girl earnestly. “What
saint is there that has not suffered temptation? Despise you? I envy you,
rather. Think of the vocation God has given you! If it proves to be the
mountain of sacrifice, and you ascend it with the cross upon your
shoulders, will you not be all the better priest from your likeness to Him
who was at once both priest and victim!”

“Miss Howard, pardon me, but you speak as if the lesson of Calvary were
not new to you; as if you, too, knew what it is to suffer—not, as I have
done, through your own weakness—God forbid! That I could never think.”

“We each of us must bear some cross,” said Assunta hastily; and then, to
give a lighter turn to the conversation, she added: “I am sorry that I
should have proved to be yours.”

For the first time Augustine Percival smiled, as he said:

“But if, through you, I win my crown, you will not then regret it?”

“O that crown!” exclaimed Assunta; “let us both keep it ever in sight as
an incentive. The way will not then seem so long or so hard. Mr. Percival,
will you see your director to‐night?”

“I will go to him now. It is what I have neglected only too long. God
bless you, Miss Howard! But dare I now, after all that has passed, ask you
to retain my trifling gift, that you may not forget to pray for me?”

“I shall prize it most highly,” said Assunta. “But I shall not need to be
reminded to commend you very often to the Sacred Heart of our divine Lord,
where you will find strength and consolation. I am sure the least I can do
for you is to pray for you, having been the occasion of your suffering.”

“And of something more than that,” said Mr. Percival.

“And I shall still hope for the other greater gift,” said Assunta in
pleading tones.

“Miss Howard,” replied Mr. Percival, almost with solemnity, “if I,
unworthy as I am, should ever be permitted to offer the Holy Sacrifice, my
first Mass shall be for you, God willing. But I dare not yet look forward
with hope to such a possibility. Once more, God bless you! Pray for me.”
And in a moment more he had left the house.

Assunta attended Mass daily at the cathedral. The next morning, as she was
leaving the church, Mr. Percival joined her; but, without saying a word,
he placed a note in her hand, and at the corner he turned, and took his
way in the opposite direction. In her own room the young girl read these
words:

“To‐day I start for Frederick, where I shall make a retreat with the good
Jesuit fathers. In solitude and prayer I hope that God may make known to
me his will. Pray, that I may have light to see and grace to follow the
inspirations of the Holy Spirit. The words you spoke last night are known
to the loving Heart of Jesus. He will reward you. I can say no more now.
Your brother in Christ,

A. P.”

“Thank God!” exclaimed Assunta.

After breakfast, Mary came to her, as she stood for a moment by the
window, and, putting her arm about her affectionately, said:

“Darling, we need not make any more plans to entrap poor Augustine into a
confession, for I do believe he is all right. He came here for a few
minutes early this morning to say good‐by, as he was going to Frederick.
Of course that must mean a retreat; and a retreat is, of course, the first
step towards the seminary.”

“I am very, _very_ glad,” said Assunta, smiling. “Women are not always as
bright as they think they are, you see.”

Three weeks from that day Augustine Percival sailed for Europe to enter
upon his theological course in Rome. And two faithful hearts daily begged
for him of Almighty God grace and fortitude with that happy confidence
which seems almost a presage of answered prayer.

And five years passed away—long and often weary in the passing, but short
and with abundant blessings in the retrospect—five uneventful years, and
yet leaving a lasting impress upon the individual soul. Assunta’s home was
still with her friend, Mary Lee—an arrangement to which she most
gratefully consented, on condition that she might, from her ample income,
contribute her share towards the ease and comfort of the family. It thus
became a mutual benefit, as well as pleasure; for Capt. Lee’s pay as a
naval officer was small and their only dependence. Assunta had won the
hearts of all, even down to Mary’s two little ones, who came bringing
plenty of love with them, as well as adding much to the care and
solicitude of the young mother and her younger friend.

They saw but little of Mrs. Sinclair during those years. She had become a
thorough woman of the world—a leader of fashion in her own circle. She had
lost much of the simplicity and _naïveté_ of character and manner which
had made her charming in the old Roman days. Her laugh had not the genuine
ring which her own light heart used to give it. She was still
beautiful—very beautiful as queen of the ball‐room. But Mary Lee always
insisted that she had the unmistakable look of one who has an interior
closet somewhere which might reveal a skeleton; and Assunta thought—but
her thoughts she kept to herself—that it was not very difficult to divine
what that skeleton might be. She understood her, and pitied her from her
heart; and she loved her, too, with the old affection. But their life‐
paths, once seemingly parallel, had now diverged so widely that she felt
she could not help her. The consolation Clara sought was very different
from anything her brother’s ward could supply.

And that brother, Mr. Carlisle—did Assunta never think of him? Daily,
before God, she remembered him; but it was not for her peace to allow him
a place in her memory at other times. They were entire strangers now, and
she had long since given up the hope of any return to the old friendship.
He had dropped out of her life, and God alone could fill the place left
vacant by the surrender of this human love. She prayed for him, however,
still, but as one might pray for the dead. Her days glided quietly by,
each one bearing a record of deeds of love and kindness; while the
consciousness of duty fulfilled gave her a peace that it is not in the
power of mere human happiness to bestow. The blessings of the poor
followed her, and the blessing of God rested upon her soul.

Mary sometimes protested against this “waste of life,” as she called it.

“My darling,” she said one day, as she was rocking her baby to sleep in
her arms, “you will be a nun yet.”

“I fear not,” replied Assunta. “I might have wished to enter religion, but
it seems that God does not call me to that life.”

“Then, Assunta, why don’t you marry? It would break my heart to lose you,
darling; but, truly, it grieves me to have you settle yourself down to our
stupid life and ways, and you so young and rich and beautiful. It is
contrary to nature and reason.”

“Be patient with me, dear,” said Assunta. “I do not believe that you want
to be rid of me. Some time we shall know what it all means. I am sorry to
disappoint my friends, but my life is just as I would have it.”

“Well, you are a saint,” said Mary with a sigh; “and as I am the gainer, I
am the last one to complain. But I wish you had a dear little bother of
your own like my Harry,” And the maternal kiss had in it such a strength
of maternal love that the baby‐eyes opened wide again, and refused to
shut.

Mary heard occasionally from her brother; and sometimes she heard _of_ him
in a way that filled her heart with joy. Austere, yet with wonderful
sweetness, full of talent and a hard student, yet with touching humility,
Augustine Percival, by a life of mortification and prayer, which his
studies never interrupted, was preparing himself to do great things for
God. A few words, uttered simply by a true‐hearted Christian woman, had
turned the scale for him; and God will receive so much the more glory.
There will come a day which will reveal many such works, performed through
the perhaps unconsciously‐exercised influence of some noble woman, whose
mission is none the less real because it is accomplished silently and out
of the world’s sight.



VII. Credo.


Five years had passed away, and their close found Mary Lee welcoming back
to her home her long‐absent brother, now a priest. Augustine Percival
returned, the same, and yet changed. There was the same tender, earnest
nature; but upon that nature grace had built up a superstructure of such
strength and virtue that, in most respects, he was a different
man—purified by suffering, sanctified by penance, and now consecrated by
the sacrament of Holy Orders.

It was a happy circle that gathered around the blazing wood‐fire on that
cool October evening—so happy that they were almost subdued, and thought
more than they talked. It was towards the end of the evening that Father
Percival said quite incidentally:

“Mr. Carlisle returned in the steamer with me. I suppose he will soon pay
his respects to the ladies.”

Assunta did not start. Why should she? Had the name of one long since dead
been mentioned, it might have caused an emotion of tenderness; but that
would have been all. Mr. Carlisle was dead to her, and every memory of him
had long been buried. So, though her face became a shade paler, she went
on with her work, and her hand did not tremble.

“Is he well?” asked Mary, continuing the conversation, “and is he as fine‐
looking as he used to be?”

“He is just recovering from a very severe illness,” replied her brother.
“It has told upon him fearfully, so that you will find him much changed.
Still, I hope his native air will restore him to health; and no doubt,
Mary, his good looks will follow. He was already much better when I parted
from him yesterday.” And then Father Percival questioned Mary about her
absent husband and her children, and listened with interest to the young
mother’s enthusiastic description of Harry’s brilliancy and the little
Assunta’s sweetness.

The next evening, as Father Percival was giving the two ladies an account
of his last days in Rome, Mr. Carlisle’s name was announced, and
immediately he himself entered the pleasant drawing‐room. He was indeed
much altered, for the traces of sickness and suffering were only too
visible. There was another change, perceptible to one who had known him
well. In his bearing there seemed to be less pride than of old, and more
dignity; in his face the expression of bitterness had given place to one
more contented, more peaceful. Suffering had evidently done a work in that
proud spirit. But as Mr. Carlisle extended his hand to Assunta, who
greeted him with the frank simplicity so peculiar to her, the same old
smile lighted up his thin, pale face, and he truly seemed her guardian
once more. Assunta was for the moment surprised to see the cordiality with
which Mr. Carlisle took the hand of the young priest, and held it in both
his, as if a brother’s affection were in the pressure, and which was
returned as warmly. A comfortable arm‐chair was placed near the fire for
the guest; and while he seated himself, as if fatigued, he said:

“Augustine, have you kept my secret?”

“Most faithfully. I did not even betray that I had one, as a woman might
have done.” And Father Percival glanced at his sister, who pretended
indignation, but said nothing.

“Then,” said Mr. Carlisle, “I must tell my own story. Assunta, come and
sit by me.” And he pointed to the vacant chair beside him, while Assunta
obeyed at once, the words and manner were so like those of the old days.

“Forgive me,” Mr. Carlisle went on, “if I call you to‐night by the
familiar name. I could not say Miss Howard, and tell you what I have to
tell. And, Mrs. Lee, if I seem to address myself too exclusively to your
friend, I beg you will pardon me, and believe that, if my story interests
you, I am more than glad that you should know all. Assunta, put your hand
here.” And taking her hand in his, he laid it upon his brow. “In that
Roman sickness it has often rested there, and has soothed and healed. Tell
me, child, do you feel no difference now?”

Assunta looked at him wonderingly—still more so when she caught sight of a
meaning smile on Father Percival’s face.

“Mr. Carlisle, you puzzle me,” she said.

Again that peculiar and beautiful smile, as he continued:

“The sign of the cross has been there; do you understand now, my child?
No? Then, in one word, I will explain all. _Credo_—I believe! Not yet?
Assunta, you have, I know, prayed for me. Your prayer has been answered. I
am a Catholic, and, under God, I owe all to Augustine Percival.”

Assunta could not speak. For a moment she looked in his face with those
earnest blue eyes, as if to read there the confirmation of his words, and
then she bowed her head upon her hands in silence. Mr. Carlisle was the
first to break it.

“And so you are not sorry, _petite_, to welcome so old a sinner into the
fold?”

“Sorry!” exclaimed Assunta at last. “Life will not be long enough to thank
God for this happiness.”

“You are so little changed, child, after all these years, that I must look
at myself to realize how the time has gone. But shall I tell you how all
this has come about? Three months ago I was as miserable an unbeliever as
ever lived.”

“Please tell us all,” murmured Assunta.

“All the story of these five years would be long and wearisome. Life to me
has been simply an endurance of existence, because I dared not end it. I
have travelled a great deal. I have _stood_, not _kneeled_, in the Chapel
of the Holy Sepulchre, and have wandered as a sight‐seer through the holy
places in Jerusalem. I have been in almost every part of Europe. Need I
tell you that I have found satisfaction nowhere? And all this time I was
drawn, by a sort of fascination, to read much on Catholic subjects; so I
sneered and cavilled and argued, and read on.

“At last, about four months since, the same uneasy spirit which has made a
very Wandering Jew of me for the last five years possessed me with the
idea of returning home, and I started for Paris. I engaged my passage in
the next steamer for New York; and, though feeling far from well, left for
Havre. I reached the hotel, registered my name, and went to my room for
the night. The steamer was to sail the next morning. I knew nothing more
for three weeks. Fortunately, I had fallen into good hands, or I should
never have been here. They said it was brain‐fever, and my life was
despaired of. Assunta, child, you need not look so pale. You see it is I
myself who have lived to tell it.”

Father Percival here rose, and, excusing himself on the ground of having
his Office to say, left the room. As soon as he was gone Mr. Carlisle
exclaimed:

“There is the noblest man that ever lived. No words can tell what he has
been to me. It seems that, when I was beginning to give some hope of
recovery, Father Percival arrived at the same hotel on his way to America.
The landlord happened to mention the fact of the illness of a fellow‐
countryman, and showed the name upon his books. Father Percival at once
gave up his passage, and remained to perform an act of charity which can
only be rewarded in heaven.”

“You remember, Assunta,” said Mrs. Lee, “Augustine wrote that he was
detained a few weeks by the illness of a friend.”

“Yes,” said Assunta; “but how little we dreamed who the friend was!”

“And a most ungrateful friend he was, too, at first,” said Mr. Carlisle.
“When he came to see me, and I learned his name, and that he had become a
priest, it was nothing but weakness that prevented my driving him from the
room. As it was, I swore a little, I believe. However, with the tenderness
of a woman he nursed me day and night; and even when I was better, there
was still no word about religion, until one day I introduced the subject
myself. Even then he said but little. I was too weak to have much pride,
or that little would not perhaps have made the impression that it did. My
pride has always been the obstacle, and it is not all gone yet, _petite_,”
he added, looking at Assunta, who smiled in answer.

“One night, from what cause I do not know, I had a relapse, and death
seemed very near. Then Father Percival came to me as priest. I can hear
now the solemn tones in which he said: ‘Mr. Carlisle, I will not deceive
you. I hope that you will recover, but you may not. Are you willing to die
as you are now, unbaptized?’ I answered, ‘No.’ ‘Do you, then,’ he said,
‘believe the Catholic Church to be the infallible teacher of truth, and
will you submit to her teaching?’ Here I paused. The question was a
difficult one; the word _submit_ was a hard word. But death was very near,
and at last, with desperate energy, I said: ‘Yes; baptize me!’ He then
knelt beside me, and made for me an act of contrition—for I seemed to be
sinking fast—and in a moment more I was baptized, a Catholic. He then left
me instantly, and went for the parish priest, who came and administered
Extreme Unction to—as they supposed—a dying man. But the sacrament did its
work for life, and not for death. From the moment of receiving it the
scale turned. Of course much that I have told you I have learned since
from Augustine. I was conscious only of the one act—the _submission_.

“And how mean a specimen of a man I have since felt myself to have
been—resisting God year after year with all the strength of human pride
and that most powerful auxiliary of the devil—pride of intellect; and
then, when life was at its last gasp, and everything had slipped from
under me but that one foothold—then to say, ‘Life is going; the world has
already gone. I have lost everything else; now I, a sinner, will
condescend to receive the portion of the saints—God and heaven!’ Do you
think, Assunta, that the angels would have had much cause for rejoicing
over such an addition to their bright company?”

“That is a genuine drop of your old bitterness, Mr. Carlisle,” replied
Assunta, laughing, nevertheless, at his frankness.

“Oh! there is plenty of it left, _petite_. But to go on: when I found that
I was to live, I was determined, before leaving for home, to make my
profession of faith in the church, as a Christian should who is not
ashamed of his colors. Augustine would do nothing official for me after
the baptism, but he was ever the kindest friend, and I love him with a
real David and Jonathan affection. Oh! child, how often have I thought of
you and of how much you would have been amused to see me, Severn Carlisle,
meekly receiving instruction in Catholic doctrine and practice from that
simple French priest. Truly, I needed some one to identify me to myself.
Well, to bring this long story to an end, the day before sailing I made my
profession of faith and received Holy Communion in the quiet little parish
church. And now I am here, the same proud, self‐sufficient man as of old,
I fear, but with a peace of soul that I have never known before.”

“How good God is!” exclaimed Assunta.

“What does your sister say?” asked Mrs. Lee.

“My sister? I do not think she took in the idea. Her thoughts would have
to travel miles before they would approach a religious sentiment. Poor
Clara! I find her much changed. I spent two or three hours with her this
afternoon. She was very gay, even brilliant—too much so, I thought, for
real happiness. She did not imagine how transparent her mask was, and I
would not destroy her illusion. I did not see Sinclair at all. But,”
exclaimed he, looking at his watch, and rising hastily, “it is eleven
o’clock. I ordered the carriage for ten, and no doubt it has been waiting
a long time. I owe you ladies many apologies for my thoughtlessness and
egotism.”

“Mr. Carlisle,” began Assunta, placing her hand in his, as she bade him
good‐night; but the words would not come as readily as the tears.

Mrs. Lee had gone to summon her brother, so the two, so long parted, were
left alone.

“My child,” said Mr. Carlisle in a low voice, “I know all that you would
say, all the sweet sympathy of that tender, unchanged heart. I have much
to say to you, Assunta, but not to‐night—not in the presence of others.”

Then turning to Father Percival, who entered the room, “Augustine,” he
said, “I am going for a few days to my place in the country for rest, and
also that I may see how much it has suffered from my long neglect. Come
and see me there. It will do me good, heart and soul.”

“I will try to arrange my plans so as to give myself that pleasure,”
replied the priest, as he assisted Mr. Carlisle into the carriage.

What strange contradictions there are in human nature! How little can we
account for our varying moods and the motives which influence our actions!
And how often we seem to get at cross‐purposes with life, and only see how
far we have been wrong when a merciful Providence, overruling all, unknots
the tangled thread and straightens the crooked purpose!

Excepting the visit of a few hours paid by Father Percival to his friend,
two months passed by, and nothing was heard of Mr. Carlisle. Those two
months were to Assunta longer, more wearisome, than the five years that
had preceded them. We may talk of hopes that are dead, and may honestly
believe them buried deep down in the grave which duty has prepared and
time has covered. But hope is the hardest thing in this world to kill; and
thank God that it is so! Let but a gleam of sunshine, a breath of the warm
upper air, into that sepulchre, and the hopes that have lain buried there
for years will revive and come forth with renewed vigor. It is much more
difficult to lay them to rest a second time.

Assunta had borne her trial nobly; but, as she sat alone on Christmas Eve,
and her thoughts naturally dwelt upon that happy return, and then the
unaccountable disappearance of Mr. Carlisle, her courage almost failed
her, and her brave heart sank within her, as she thought how dreary the
future looked. She had excused herself from joining the others at a little
family party, and for an hour she had sat idle before the fire—a most
unwonted self‐indulgence for one so conscientious as Assunta Howard.

A ring at the door and a voice in the hall made her start and tremble a
little, as she had not done on that first evening of Father Percival’s
return. She had scarcely recovered herself when Mr. Carlisle entered the
room.

“I have come to account for myself,” were his first words. “I hoped that I
should find you alone to‐night.”

“Mrs. Lee has gone to her mother’s,” was the reply.

“Yes, I knew it. Assunta, what have you thought of me? Still more, what
will you think of me now? I have suffered much in these two months;
perhaps it is ungenerous in me to say this to you. Assunta, never for one
moment have I been unfaithful to the love I told you of so many years ago;
but I had given up the hope of ever possessing yours. Even when the
obstacle you know of had been removed, I thought that I could bear to see
you happy, as I believed you were, in a life in which I had no share. I
felt that it would not be right even to ask you to marry one so much older
than yourself, with broken health and darkened spirits. And your fresh
beauty, still so girlish, so all‐unchanged, confirmed my purpose. Ah!
child, time, that has silvered my hair, has not dimmed the golden aureola
which crowns your dear head. But in the many lonely hours that I have
passed since my return, my courage has grown faint. I have longed for your
sweet presence in my home, until an answering voice has urged me to come
to you. Assunta, once, beneath the shadow of the cross, in the moonlit
Colosseum, I offered you my love, and you put God between us. Again I
urged my suit, and again you erected the same impassable barrier. To‐night
I am so selfish that, even as I have described myself to be, I come to you
a third time with a love which years have but strengthened. My darling,
God no longer comes between us; can I ever hope to win that true, brave
heart?”

With a child‐like simplicity and a true womanliness Assunta put her hand
in his, and said:

“Mr. Carlisle, it has long been yours. ‘Unless he can love you _in God_,’
my mother said. I believe that the condition is now fulfilled.”

“And may God bless the love he sanctions!” said Mr. Carlisle solemnly.
After a silence—for where hearts understand each other there is no need of
many words—Assunta said in her own sweet tones:

“Do you regret now the decision of that night in Rome? Was I a true
prophetess?”

“But we have lost so many years,” said Mr. Carlisle.

“Yes, lost for time, but gained for eternity.”

When Mrs. Lee returned, she greeted the guest with surprise, as well as
pleasure; but both those emotions were lost in a still greater joy when
Mr. Carlisle, drawing Assunta towards him, said:

“Mrs. Lee, this is my Christmas gift—a precious treasure, is it not, to be
entrusted to one so undeserving?”

“Indeed it is a precious treasure,” echoed Mary enthusiastically; “but,
Mr. Carlisle, there is not a man in the world in whose possession I would
like to see it so well as in yours.”

“Bless you, Mrs. Lee, for your kind words! _Petite_, perhaps your taste is
not so much in fault after all.”

“And, Mary,” said Assunta archly, “he may yet recover his good looks, you
know.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Carlisle, “love and happiness are said to be great
beautifiers. I have no objection to trying the experiment.”

One bright morning, soon after Easter, there was a nuptial Mass at the
cathedral, celebrated by Father Percival, and after the ceremony and a
quiet breakfast, Mr. and Mrs. Carlisle drove in their private carriage to
the beautiful country residence which was to be their future home.

Just at sunset, as they entered the long avenue which with many windings
led towards the house, Mr. Carlisle said:

“My darling, we are at home. I have waited, like Jacob, almost seven years
for my Rachel. I cannot say, as he did, that the days have seemed _few_,
though I believe my love has been no less.”

“And suppose,” replied Assunta, with the happy confidence of a loving
wife—“suppose your Rachel should turn out a Lia after all?”

“In that case,” said her husband coolly, “I should insist that the
description of that much‐injured lady had done her great injustice. And I
should consider myself a lucky fellow to have been cheated into the
mistake, and be ready to wager my Lia against all the Rachels in the
world. And now, my precious wife, welcome home!”

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

Ten years later. It is not always a pleasure to look in upon loved friends
after a lapse of ten years. Sickness, sorrow, death, or disgrace may each
do a mighty work in even fewer years, and, at the best, time itself brings
about marked changes. But a glance at Carlisle Hall, on this tenth
anniversary of that happy wedding‐day, will only show that same happiness
ripened into maturity. In a marriage like that of Severn and Assunta
Carlisle, whatever life might bring of joy or sorrow would come to both
alike, and nothing could divide them. Even death itself would but _seem_
to part them, for their union was _in God_. In Assunta the added dignity
of wife‐hood and motherhood had taken nothing from the charm of earlier
years; and, if the beauty of the young girl had faded somewhat, the ever‐
growing grace and purity of soul more than supplied its want, even in her
husband’s eyes. And Mr. Carlisle? Noble by nature, and possessing the
finest qualities of mind and heart, his soul was now developed to the full
stature of its manhood. He was a proud man still, but with a pride which
S. Paul might have commended. He was so proud that he was never ashamed to
kneel beside the poorest villager in the little church. In his pride he
gloried in Jesus Christ, and him crucified. The beautiful church itself
had been erected as a thank‐offering, by Mr. Carlisle and his wife, in the
factory village two miles from their home; and for some years Father
Percival had been parish priest of the Church of the Assumption. And
Carlisle Hall resounded with the merry voices of three children at the end
of those ten years: Severn, the pride of his mother’s heart; Augustine,
Father Percival’s godchild and special favorite, already destined for the
priesthood by the wishes of the senior trio; and the baby, her father’s
darling, to whom he would give the name of Mary, and no other, “to show,”
he said, “how he had progressed in Mariolatry since his first lesson in
Sienna.”

Father Percival had been the only guest at this anniversary‐dinner,
except, indeed, the children, who must appear on this occasion, at no
matter how great a risk of noise and accident. They had now returned to
the nursery, but the others still lingered at the table.

“Father Augustine,” said Assunta—for she had learned to follow the little
ones in their name for the priest they loved so well—“I received a letter
yesterday from dear old Father Joseph. He is just as happy in our marriage
to‐day as he was when he first heard of it, and he blesses it, and us, and
the children so sweetly and kindly. How much I should like to see him
again!”

“I suppose,” said Father Percival, “he looks upon the marriage as a
striking illustration of the wonderful ways and goodness of God, as it
surely is. S. Ignatius ought to send Father Dupont here, to see for
himself the result of his direction, and, I must add, of your generosity
and faithfulness, Mrs. Carlisle.”

“I am so sorry, Severn,” said Assunta after a pause in the conversation,
“that Clara would not come to us to‐day. I think a glimpse of quiet
country life might be a pleasant change for her.”

“I fear,” replied her husband sadly, “that poor Clara has much to suffer
yet. It is my opinion that Sinclair has no intention of returning from
Europe at all. But who could have made her believe, in those sunshiny
days, that she would ever live to be a deserted wife? _Petite_, the
subject is a very painful one. I am going to change it for one of which I
am never weary. Augustine, it is not the custom, I believe, for a man to
toast his wife on such an occasion, but I am going to be an exception to
the rule to‐day. Lord Lytton has in that grand work of his, _My Novel_,
two types of women—the one who exalts, and the one who consoles. He
probably had never seen the combination of the two types in one person. I
now propose—and, my darling, you must drink and not blush—‘Assunta
Carlisle: blessed be the woman who both exalts and consoles!’ And let me
add that a happy man was I—unworthy—when, ten years ago, that woman became
my wife.”




Matter. V.


Although continuous matter cannot be proved to exist, yet its existence,
as every one knows, is still very commonly believed, even by philosophers,
on the ground that it was believed for centuries by all great men, and has
never been conclusively refuted. From some hints which we have given in
our previous article about the difficulties of this ancient doctrine, the
intelligent reader may have already satisfied himself that material
continuity is not merely “a philosophical mystery,” as Goudin confesses,
but a metaphysical absurdity. As, however, this last conclusion, owing to
its paramount importance in metaphysics and in natural philosophy,
deserves a more explicit and complete demonstration than we have yet
given, we propose to develop in the present article a series of arguments,
drawn from different sources, to show _the absolute and intrinsic
impossibility of continuous matter_. The prejudices of our infancy may at
first resist the demonstration, but it is to be hoped that they will
finally yield to reason.

_First argument._—We know, and it is conceded by the advocates of
continuous matter, that a _finite_ being cannot involve in its composition
an _infinite_ multitude of distinct terms; for evidently the infinite
cannot be the constituent of the finite. Now, we have shown in our
preceding article that, if there were a piece of continuous matter, it
should involve in its continuous constitution an infinite multitude of
distinct terms, every one of which should have its own distinct existence
independently of the others. Therefore continuous matter cannot exist.

_Second argument._—A primitive substance cannot absolutely be made up of
other substances. But if there were any continuous matter, a primitive
substance would be made up of other substances. Therefore no continuous
matter can exist. The major of this syllogism is quite evident; for a
primitive substance, if made up of other substances, would be primitive
and non‐primitive at the same time. The minor can be easily proved. For it
is plain that continuous matter, if any such existed, would necessarily
consist of continuous parts, substantially distinct from one another, and
therefore having their own distinct matter and their own distinct
substantial act, and ranking as distinct, complete, and separable
substances, as we have shown in our last article. Now, assuming that
either of these parts is a primitive substance, it is evident that the
primitive substance would be made up of other substances; for such a part,
being continuous, is itself made up of other parts, which are likewise
distinct and complete substances, as we have just remarked. And since a
continuum cannot be resolved into any but continuous parts, the conclusion
cannot be avoided that the primitive material substance would always be
made up of other substances. To elude this argument, the advocates of
continuous matter are compelled to deny that there is any _primitive_
material substance mathematically continuous. But, even so, their position
is not improved. For if there is no primitive material substance
mathematically continuous, the combination of such primitive substances
will never give rise to continuous matter, it being obvious that all the
elementary constituents of continuum must be continuous, as all
philosophers agree. Whence we again conclude that no continuous matter is
possible.

_Third argument._—No continuum can be made up of unextended constituents,
as we have just observed, and as our opponents not only concede, but also
demonstrate most irrefragably in their own treatises. Now, continuous
matter, if any such existed, would be made up of unextended
constituents—that is, of mere mathematical points. Therefore continuous
matter would be a formal contradiction. The minor of our syllogism is
proved thus. All the points which can be designated within the dimensions
of the continuum are _immediately_ united with one another, and therefore
no room is to be found between any two consecutive points; which shows
that in the constitution of the continuum we would have nothing but mere
points. For let there be a continuous plane and a continuous sphere. The
sphere, if perfect, cannot touch the plane, except in a single indivisible
point, as is proved in geometry; nevertheless, the sphere may move along
the plane, and, always touching the plane in a single point, may measure a
linear extension of matter, which, accordingly, would contain nothing but
mathematical points immediately following one another. In other terms, the
extended matter would be made up of indivisible points; and since all
admit that this is impossible, it follows that continuous matter is
impossible. Against this argument the objection is made that it proves too
much; as it would prove the impossibility of measuring space by continuous
movement. But this objection has no good foundation, as we shall show
after concluding the series of our arguments.

_Fourth argument._—All the points that can be designated in a material
continuum would necessarily touch one another in such a manner as to form
a continuous extension; hence their contact would necessarily be
_extensive_. But an _extensive_ contact of indivisible points is
intrinsically impossible. Therefore material continuity is intrinsically
impossible. The major of this syllogism is a mere corollary from the
definition of continuum; for, if there be no contact, the continuum will
be broken, and if the contact be not extensive—that is, such as to allow
each point to extend beyond its neighbor—no continuous extension will
result. The minor of our syllogism can be proved as follows:

The contact of a point with a point is the contact of an indivisible with
another indivisible; and, since the indivisible has no parts, such a
contact cannot be partial, but must needs be total. Accordingly, the
second point, by its contact with the first, will be _totally_ in the
first; the third, by its contact with the second, will be _totally_ in the
second, and consequently in the first; the fourth, by its contact with the
third, will be _totally_ in the third, and consequently in the second and
in the first, and so on. Therefore all the points which are in
mathematical contact will necessarily correspond to the same point in
space. Now, to be all in the same point, and to form a continuous
extension, are contradictories. And thus it is manifest that material
continuity is a mere contradiction.

Some will say that the contact is indeed made in the points, but that the
parts, which touch one another in a common point, are quite distinct. But
this appeal to the parts of the continuum, though much insisted upon by
many ancient philosophers, is of no avail against our argument. For the
existence of these parts cannot be assumed, without presupposing the
continuity of matter. Such parts are, in fact, assumed to be continuous;
and therefore, before we admit their existence, we must inquire whether
and how they can have intrinsic extension and continuity. And dividing
these parts into other parts, and these again into others without end, of
all these parts of parts the same question must be asked—that is, whether
and how they can have intrinsic extension and continuity. Hence one of two
things will follow: either we shall never find the intrinsic reason of
material continuity, or we shall find it only after having exhausted an
infinite division—that is, after having reached, if possible, a term
incapable of further division, viz., a mathematical point. But in the
mathematical point it is impossible to find the intrinsic reason of
material continuity, as we have just shown. And therefore the material
continuity of the parts has no formal reason of its constitution, or, in
other terms, the parts themselves are intrinsically impossible.

Moreover, the very distinction made by our opponents between the points of
contact and the parts which touch one another in those points, is
altogether irrational. For _a parte rei_—that is, considering the
continuum as it is in itself—there is no foundation for the said
distinction, it being evident that in a homogeneous continuum no place is
to be found where we cannot mark out a point. Hence it is irrational to
limit the designability of the points in order to make room for the parts.
In other words, the parts themselves cannot be conceived as continuous
without supposing that all the neighboring points which can be designated
in them form by their contact a continuous extension, which we have proved
to be inadmissible. The aforesaid distinction is therefore one of the
subterfuges resorted to by the advocates of material continuity, to evade
the unanswerable difficulties arising from their sentence; for it is true
indeed, as Goudin remarks, that material continuity is “a philosophic
mystery, against which reason objects more than it can answer,” though not
because in this question “reason proves more than it can understand,” but
because continuous matter is shown to be an absolute impossibility.

_Fifth argument._—It is a known metaphysical principle that “nothing can
possibly become actual, except by the intervention of an act”—_Impossibile
est aliquid fieri in actu nisi per aliquem actum_ (S. Thomas _passim_).
But no act can be imagined by which matter would become actually
continuous. Therefore no actually continuous matter can possibly exist.
The minor of our syllogism is proved thus. Acts are either substantial or
accidental; hence if any act could be conceived as giving actual
continuity to matter, such an act would be either substantial or
accidental—that is, it would give to its matter either its first being or
a mere mode of being. Now, neither the substantial nor the accidental act
can make matter actually continuous. For, first, no substantial act can
give to its matter a being for which the matter has no disposition. But
actuable matter has no disposition for actual continuity, for where there
are no distinct terms requiring continuation, there is no disposition to
actual continuity, as is evident; and it is not less evident that the
matter which is to be actuated by a substantial act involves no distinct
terms, and does not even connote them, but merely implies the privation of
the act giving it its first being, which act is one, not many, and gives
one being, not many, and consequently is incapable of constituting a
number of actual terms actually distinct, as would be required for actual
continuity. To say the contrary would be to deny one of the most
fundamental and universal principles of metaphysics, viz., _Actus est qui
distinguit_, which means that there cannot be distinct terms where there
are no distinct acts.

Moreover, continuity presupposes quantity; hence, if the substantial act
gives actual continuity to its matter, it must be conceded that a certain
quantity exists potentially in the actuable matter, and is reduced to act
by the first actuation of matter. This quantity would therefore rank among
the essentials of the substance, and could not possibly be considered as
an accident; for the immediate result of the first actuation of a term by
its substantial act is not a mere accident, but the very actuality of the
essence of which that act and that term are the principles. Whence it
follows that so long as quantity remains an accident, it is impossible to
make it arise from the substantial act; and, accordingly, no substantial
act can make matter actually continuous.

That actual continuity cannot arise from any accidental act is no less
evident. For the only accidental act which could be supposed to play a
part in the constitution of a material continuum would be some actual
composition. But as composition without components is impossible, and the
components of continuous matter, before such a composition, are not
continuous (since we must now consider continuity as a result of the
composition), our continuous matter would be made up of components
destitute of continuous extension—that is, of mere mathematical points.
But, as this is avowedly impossible, it follows that it is as impossible
to admit that matter becomes actually continuous by the reception of an
accidental act.

_Sixth argument._—In a philosophico‐mathematical work published in England
a few years ago,(108) from which we have already borrowed some plain
arguments concerning other questions on matter, the impossibility of
continuous matter is proved by the following argument: “A compound which
has no first components is a sheer impossibility. Continuous matter, if
admitted, would be a compound which has no first components. Therefore
continuous matter is a sheer impossibility. In this argument the first
proposition is self‐evident; for the components are the material
constituents of the compound; and therefore a compound which has no first
components is a thing which is constituted without its first constituents,
or a pure contradiction. The second proposition also is undeniable. And,
first, there can be no doubt that continuous matter would be a _compound_;
for continuous matter would be extended, and would have, accordingly,
parts distinct from parts; which is the exclusive property of compounds.
Now, that this compound would be _without first components_, can be proved
as follows: If continuous matter has any first components, these
components will either be extended or unextended. If they are supposed to
be _extended_, then they are by no means the _first_ components; since it
is clear that in this case they have distinct parts, and therefore are
themselves made up of other components. If they are supposed to be
_unextended_, then they are by no means the _components_ of continuum;
since all know and admit that no continuum can be made up of unextended
points. And, indeed, unextended points have no parts, and therefore cannot
touch one another partially; whence it follows that either they touch each
other totally, or they do not touch at all. If they do not touch at all,
they do not make a continuum, as is evident. If they touch totally, the
one will occupy exactly the same place which is occupied by the other, and
no material extension will arise. And for this reason geometrical writers
consider that a mathematical line cannot be conceived as made up of
points, but only as the track of a single point in motion. We see, then,
that a material continuum is a compound, of which the first components
cannot be extended, and cannot be unextended. And since it is impossible
to think of a third sort of first components which would be neither
extended nor unextended, we must needs conclude that continuous matter is
a compound which has no first components. And therefore continuous matter
is a mere absurdity” (p. 30).

This argument is, in our opinion, altogether unanswerable. Those
philosophers, in fact, who still venture to fight in favor of continuous
matter, have never been able to solve it. When we urge them to declare
whether they hold the first components of continuous matter to be extended
or unextended, they constantly ignore and elude the question. They simply
answer that the components of material substance are “the matter” and “the
form.” But if the matter which lies under the form has no distinct parts,
it is evident that the substance cannot be continuous. The composition of
matter and form does not, therefore, entail continuity, unless the matter
which is under the form has its own material composition of parts; and it
is with reference to the composition of these parts of matter, not to the
composition of matter and form, that we inquire whether the first
components of continuous matter be extended or unextended. To ignore the
gist of the argument is, on the part of our opponents, an implicit
confession of their inability to cope with it.

_Seventh argument._—Material substance, as consisting of act and potency,
like everything else in creation, is both active and passive, its activity
and passivity being essentially confined, as we have already
explained,(109) to the production and the reception of local movement.
Hence, so long as material substance preserves its essential constitution,
it is impossible to admit that matter is incapable of receiving movement
from natural causes. But continuous matter would be incapable of receiving
movement from natural causes. Therefore it is impossible to admit
continuous matter. To prove the minor of this syllogism, let there be two
little globes of continuous matter, and let them act on one another. Since
no finite velocity can be communicated by an immediate contact of matter
with matter, as shown in a preceding article, it follows that the velocity
must be communicated by virtual contact in accordance with the law of the
inverse squared distances. Hence, since some points of the two globes are
nearer to one another, and others are farther, different points must
acquire different velocities. Now, one and the same piece of matter cannot
move onward with different velocities, as is evident; it will therefore be
unable to move so long as such different velocities are not reduced to a
mean one, which shall be common to the whole mass. Such a reduction of
unequal velocities to a mean one would meet with no difficulty, if the
globes in question were made up of _free_ and _independent_ points of
matter; for in such a case the globes would be compressed, and each point
of matter would act and react according to known mechanical laws, and thus
soon equalize their respective velocities. But in the case of material
continuity the reduction of different velocities to a mean one is by no
means possible. For “in a piece of continuous matter,” to quote again from
the above‐mentioned work of molecular mechanics, “any point which can be
designated is so _invariably_ united with the other points that no impact
and no mutual reaction are conceivable; the obvious consequence of which
is that no work can be done within the continuous particle in order to
equalize the unequal velocities impressed from without. Moreover, in our
case the reduction ought to be rigorously instantaneous; which is another
impossibility. In fact, if distinct points of a continuous piece of matter
were for any short duration of time animated by different velocities, the
continuum would evidently undergo immediate and unavoidable resolution;
which is against the hypothesis. Since, then, the said reduction cannot be
made instantaneously, as we have proved above, nor, indeed, in any other
way, and, on the other hand, our continuous particle cannot move onward
before the different velocities are reduced to one of mean intensity, it
is quite evident that the same continuous particle will never be capable
of moving, whatever be the conditions of the impact. And since what is
true of one particle on account of its supposed continuity is true also of
each of the other particles equally continuous, we must conclude that
bodies made up of particles materially continuous are totally incapable of
receiving any communication of motion.”(110)

This argument, though seemingly proving only the non‐existence of
continuous matter in nature, proves in fact, also, the impossibility of
its existence. For, if a substance could be created possessing intrinsic
extension and continuity, that substance would essentially differ from the
existing matter, and would therefore be anything but matter. Hence not
even in this supposition would continuous matter exist.

_Eighth argument._—The inertia of matter, and its property of acting in a
sphere, might furnish us with a new argument against material continuity.
But we prefer to conclude with a mathematical demonstration drawn from the
weight of matter. The weight of a mass of matter depends on the number of
material terms to which the action of gravity is applied, and it increases
exactly in the same ratio as the number of the elementary terms contained
in the mass. This being the case, let us assume that there is somewhere an
atom of continuous matter. The action of gravity will find in it an
infinite multitude of points of application; for it is of the nature of
continuum to supply matter for an endless division. Hence if we call _g_
the action of gravity on the unit of mass in the unit of time, the action
of the same gravity on any of those infinite points of application will be


    _g_ ρ _dx dy dz_,


ρ being the density of the mass, and _dx_, _dy_, _dz_ the three dimensions
of an infinitesimal portion of it.

Now, since we know that gravity in the unit of time imparts a finite
velocity to every point of matter in the atom, we must admit that the
action exerted on the infinitesimal mass ρ _dx dy dz_ has a finite value;
and therefore, since the volume _dx dy dz_ is an infinitesimal of the
third degree, the density ρ must be an infinite of the third order. But a
continuous mass whose elements have an infinite density has itself an
infinite density; hence, if its volume has finite dimensions, the mass
itself (which is the product of the volume into the density) is
necessarily infinite, and will have _an infinite weight_. Hence the
assumption of continuous matter leads to an absurdity. The assumption is
therefore to be rejected as evidently false.

We will put an end to the series of our proofs by pointing out the
intrinsic and radical reason why matter cannot be continuous. The matter
which is under the form is _a potency_ in the same order of reality in
which its form is _an act_. Now, the only property of a potency is to be
liable to receive some determinations of a certain kind; and the property
of a potency whose form is an active principle of local _motion_ must
consist in its being liable to receive a determination to local
_movement_. Hence, as the matter receives its first being by a form of a
spherical character, and becomes the real central point from which the
actions of the substance proceed, so also the same matter, when already
actuated by its essential form, receives any accidental determination to
local movement; and, inasmuch as it is liable to local movement, it is in
potency to extend through space—that is, to describe in space a continuous
line; and when it actually moves, it actually traces a continuous
line—that is, it extends from place to place, continuously indeed, but
successively; whence it is manifest that its extension is nothing but
_Actus existentis in potentia ut in potentia_ Aristotle would say, viz.,
an actual passage from one potential state to another. Such is the only
extension of which matter is capable. Such an extension is always _in
fieri_, never _in facto esse_; always dynamical, never statical; always
potential and successive, never formal or simultaneous. We can, therefore,
ascribe to matter _potential_ continuity, just as we ascribe to its active
principle a _virtual_ continuity; for the passivity of the matter and the
activity of the form correspond to one another as properties of one and
the same essence; and whatever can be predicated actively or virtually of
a substance on account of its form can be predicated passively or
potentially of the same substance on account of its matter.

These remarks form a complement to our fifth argument, where we proved
that no substantial and no accidental act could make matter _actually_
continuous. For, since matter cannot receive any accidental act, except
the determination to local movement, and since this movement, although
continuous, is essentially successive, it follows that by such a
determination no actual and permanent continuity can arise, but a mere
continuation of local changes. Thus matter, according to its potential
nature, has only a potential extension; or, in other terms, it is not in
itself actually continuous, but is simply ready to extend through space by
continuous movement.

The preceding proofs seem quite sufficient, and more than sufficient, to
uproot the prejudice in favor of material continuity; we must, however,
defend them from the attacks of our opponents, that no reasonable doubt
may remain as to the cogency of our demonstration.

_First objection._—The globe and the plane, of which we have spoken in our
third argument, though destitute of proportional parts suitable for a
statical contact, become proportionate to one another, says Goudin, by the
very movement of the one upon the other; and thus our third argument would
fall to the ground. For a successive contact partakes of the nature of
successive beings. Hence, as time, although having no present, except an
indivisible instant, becomes, through its flowing, extended into
continuous parts, so also the contact of the globe with the plane,
although limited to an indivisible point, can nevertheless, by its
flowing, become extended so as to correspond to the extended parts of the
plane. For, according to mathematicians, a point, though indivisible when
at rest, can by moving describe a divisible line.

To this we answer that a globe and a plane cannot by the movement of the
one on the other acquire proportionate parts. For, although it is true
that a successive contact partakes of the nature of the successive being
which we call movement, it is plain that it does not partake of the nature
of matter. In fact, the material plane is not supposed to become
continuous through the movement of the globe, but is hypothetically
assumed to be continuous before the movement, and even before the
existence, of the said globe. The continuous movement is, of course,
proportionate to a continuous plane; but it is evident that it cannot
originate any proportion between the plane and the globe; because this
would be against the essence of both. No part of the plane can be
spherical, and no part of the globe can be plane; hence, whatever may be
the movement of the one upon the other, they will never touch one another,
except in a single point.

That time, although having no present, except an indivisible point,
becomes extended by flowing on, is perfectly true; but this proves
nothing. For, in the same manner as the act of flowing, by which time
flows, has nothing actual but a single indivisible instant, so also the
act of flowing, by which the contact of the globe with the plane flows,
has no actuality but in an indivisible point of space; and as an
indivisible instant by its flowing draws a line of time without ever
becoming extended in itself, so also an indivisible point by its flowing
draws a line in space without ever becoming extended in itself; and as the
instant of time never becomes proportionate to any finite length of time,
so also the point of contact never becomes proportionate to any finite
line in space.

That a line, therefore, arises from the flowing of a point in the same
manner as time from the flowing of an instant, is a plain truth, and there
was no need of Goudin’s argumentation to make it acceptable. To defeat our
argument, he should have proved that the _actual_ flowing of an instant
takes up a length of time. If this could have been proved, it would have
been easy to conclude that the flowing contact also extends through a
length of space. But the author did not attempt to show that an instant of
time flows through finite lengths of time. It is evident, on the contrary,
that an instant flows through mere instants immediately following one
another. And thus the objection has no weight.

_Second objection._—If a material continuum is impossible, all continuum
is impossible, and thus we are constrained to deny the continuity of both
space and time. For space and time—as, for instance, a cubic‐foot and an
hour—include within their respective limits an infinite multitude of
indivisible points, or indivisible instants, just as would continuous
matter include within its limits an infinite multitude of material points;
for it is clear that space and time cannot be made up of anything but
points and instants. Hence, if, in spite of this, we admit continuous
space and continuous time, we implicitly avow that our first argument
against continuous matter is far from conclusive.

We reply that there is no parity between the continuity of space and time
and the continuity of matter; and that the impossibility of the latter
does not show the impossibility of the former. The continuity of space and
of time is intimately connected with the continuity of local movement.
Movement, though _formally_ continuous, or rather owing to its formal
continuity, is necessarily successive, so that we can never find one part
of the movement coexisting with another part of the same movement; and
consequently there is no danger of finding in such a movement any _actual_
multitude, whilst we should necessarily find it in continuous matter. Time
also, as being nothing else than the actuality or duration of movement, is
entirely successive; and consequently no two parts of time can ever be
found together; which again prevents the danger of an _actual_ multitude
of coexisting instants. As to space, we observe that its continuity is by
no means formal, but only virtual, and that space as such has no parts
into which it can be divided, whatever our imagination may suggest to the
contrary. We indeed consider space as a continuous extension, but such an
extension and continuity is the property of the movement extending through
space, not of space itself. Space is a region _through which movement can
extend in a continuous manner_; hence the space measured, or mensurable,
is styled _continuous_ from the continuity of the movement made, or
possible. We likewise consider the parts of the extension of the movement
made or possible as so many _parts of the space measured or mensurable_.
And thus space is called _continuous_, _extended_, and _divisible into
parts_, merely because the movement by which space is, or can be, measured
is continuous, extended, and divisible into successive parts; but space,
as such, has of itself no _formal_ continuity, no _formal_ extension, and
no _formal_ divisibility, since space, as such, is nothing else than the
virtuality, or extrinsic terminability, of divine immensity, as we may
have occasion hereafter to show.

Hence neither space, nor time, nor movement is made up by composition of
points or of instants; but time and movement owe their continuous
extension to the flowing of a single instant and of a single point, whilst
space, which is only virtually continuous, owes its denomination of
continuous to the possibility of continuous movement through it. But if
there were any continuous matter, its formal extension would arise from
_actual_, _simultaneous_, and _indivisible_ points constituting a _formal
infinite multitude_ within the limits of its extension. Hence there is no
parity between continuous matter and continuous space or time; and the
impossibility of the former does not prove the impossibility of the
latter.

_Third objection._—Accelerated movement is a movement the velocity of
which increases by continuous infinitesimal degrees—that is, by
indivisible momenta of motion. It is therefore possible for a quantity of
movement to arise from the accumulation of indivisibles. Why, then, should
not the quantity of matter arise in a like manner from the accumulation of
indivisible points? That which causes the acceleration of movement is, in
fact, continuous action—that is, a series of real, distinct, and
innumerable instantaneous actions, by which the movement is made to
increase by distinct infinitesimal degrees; which would show that it is
not impossible to make a continuum by means of indivisibles.

We reply, first, that there is no degree of velocity which can be styled
indivisible; for however small may be the acceleration of the movement, it
may become smaller and smaller without end, as we shall presently explain.

But, waiving this, we reply, secondly, that intensive and extensive
quantity are of a very different nature, and, even if it were true that
intensive quantity can arise from an accumulation of indivisibles, the
same would not be the case with extension. The degrees of intensity never
unite by way of composition; for all intensity belongs to some _form_ or
act, whilst all composition of parts regards the _material_ constituents
of things. Hence movement, though increasing or decreasing, by continuous
degrees, is not _composed_ of them; whereas the continuum of matter, if
any such existed, should be _composed_ of its indivisible elements. In
movement the increased velocity is not a multitude of distinct acts, but a
single act, equivalent to all the acts which we may distinguish under the
name of degrees of velocity. Hence such degrees are only virtually
distinct, and do not constitute a formal multitude; whence it follows that
there is no absurdity in the notion of accelerated or retarded movement.
But with a material continuum the case is entirely different; for such a
continuum would be an extensive, not an intensive, quantity, and would
have parts not only mentally or virtually, but entitatively and formally,
distinct, and making an actual infinite multitude within the limits of a
finite bulk.

As to the continuous action which causes the acceleration of movement, it
is not true that it consists of a sum of distinct instantaneous actions.
The action may be considered either _in fieri_ or _in facto esse_. The
action _in fieri_ is the exertion of the agent, and the action _in facto
esse_ is the determination received by the patient. Now, the exertion of
the agent is successive; for its continuity is the continuity of time, and
is therefore _continuation_ rather than _continuity_. Hence nothing exists
of the action _in fieri_, except an instantaneous exertion corresponding
to the moment of time which unites the past with the future. All the past
exertions have ceased to be _in fieri_, and all the future exertions have
still to be made. Accordingly, continuous action is not made up of other
actual actions, and, though passing through different degrees of
intensity, is not an actual multitude.

On the other hand, if we consider the action _in facto esse_—that is, the
determination as received in the patient—we shall find that, although such
a determination is the result of a continued exertion, and exhibits its
totality under the form of velocity, nevertheless this result consists of
intensity, not of continuity, and therefore contains no formal multitude,
but is, as we have said, a simple act equivalent to many. Hence
accelerated movement is one movement, and not many, and a great velocity
is one velocity, and not a formal multitude of lesser velocities. In a
word, there is not the least resemblance between continuous acceleration
and continuous matter.

Although the preceding answer sufficiently shows the flimsiness of the
objection, we may yet observe that actions having an infinitesimal
duration are indeed infinitesimal, but are not _true indivisibles_. For
the expression of an accelerating action, in dynamics, contains three
variable functions—that is, first, the _intensity_ of the action at the
unit of distance in the unit of time; secondly, its _duration_; thirdly,
the _distance_ from the agent to the patient. Hence, in the case of an
action of infinitesimal duration, there still remain two variables, viz.,
the _intensity_ of the power, and the _distance_ from the patient; and
their variation causes a variation of the action in its infinitesimal
duration. Thus it is manifest that actions of infinitesimal duration can
have a greater or a less intensity, and therefore are not _true
indivisibles_ of intensity. If, for instance, two agents by their constant
and continuous action produce in the same length of time different
effects, it is evident that their actions have different intensities in
every infinitesimal instant of time; hence such infinitesimal actions,
though bearing no comparison with finite quantities, bear comparison with
one another, and form definite geometric ratios.

_Fourth objection._—If the contact of one indivisible with another cannot
engender a continuum, we must deny the existence of time and of local
motion. For time is engendered by the flowing of an instant towards the
instant immediately following, and movement is engendered by the flowing
of a point in space towards the point immediately following. If, then,
indivisibles cannot, by their contact, give rise to continuous extension,
neither time nor local motion will acquire continuous extension.

Our answer to this objection is that time and movement are not engendered
by a formal contact of a real instant with the instant following, or of a
real point with the point following. Duration is not a sum of indivisible
instants formally touching one another, nor is the length of space a sum
of indivisible points touching one another. We may have points _in space_,
but not points _of space_; and in like manner we have instants _in
succession_, not instants _of succession_, though in common language we
usually confound the latter with the former. Yet, when we talk of a point
of space, our meaning is not that space is made up of points, but simply
that a point of matter existing in space marks out its own ubication, thus
lending to the space occupied the name of _point_. Hence no movement in
space can be conceived to extend by successive contacts of points, or by
the flowing of a point towards other points immediately following; for
these _points immediately following_ exist only in our imagination. Nor
does a flowing point engender a line of space, but only a line of
movement; and even this latter is not properly _engendered_, but merely
_marked out_ in space; for all possible lines are already virtually
contained in space, and therefore they need no engendering, but simply
marking out by continuous motion.

The same is to be said of the origin of time. Time is not a formal sum of
instants touching one another. The instant just past is no more, hence it
cannot touch the instant which is now; and the instant which is to follow
is not yet, hence it cannot be touched by the instant which is now.
Accordingly, as the movement of a single point marks out a continuous line
in absolute space, so also the flowing of a single instant extends a line
in absolute duration. For, as S. Thomas teaches, in the whole length of
time there is but a single instant _in re_, though this same instant
becomes virtually manifold _in ratione prioris et posterioris_ by shifting
from “before” to “after.” And in the same manner, in the whole length of a
line measured in space by continuous movement, there is but a single point
_in re_ actually shifting its ubication from “here” to “there,” and thus
becoming virtually manifold in its successive positions. And for this
reason both movement and time are always and essentially developing (_in
fieri_), and never exist as developed (_in facto esse_); since of the
former nothing is actual but a point, and of the latter nothing is actual
but an instant.

It is scarcely necessary to repeat that, if there were any continuous
matter, its parts would all be actual and simultaneous. Its continuous
extension would therefore be properly engendered by the contact of
indivisible points, not by the shifting of a point from one end of its
dimensions to another. This sufficiently shows that from the continuity of
movement and of time nothing can be concluded in favor of continuous
matter.

_Fifth objection._—Between two given points in space infinite other points
can be placed. Now, what is possible can be conceived to be done; and thus
we can conceive an infinite multitude between the two points. Accordingly,
an infinite multitude can be contained within limits; and if so,
continuous matter is not impossible, and our first argument has no weight.

We answer that, although an infinite multitude of points can be placed
between any two given points, yet nothing can be inferred therefrom in
favor of continuous matter. For those innumerable points either will touch
one another or not. If they do not touch, they will not make a continuum;
and if they touch, they will, as we have shown, entirely coincide, instead
of forming a continuous extension. It is plain, therefore, that the
distance between the two given points cannot be filled _continuously_,
even by an infinite multitude of other points. And therefore the objection
has no force.

Nor is it true that by the creation of an infinite multitude of points
between two given points such a multitude would be an infinity _within
limits_. For the two given points are limits, or rather terms, of a local
relation, but they are no limits of the multitude, or discrete quantity,
which can be placed between them; for, without altering the position of
those two points, we can increase without end the number of the
intervening points. As volume is not a limit of density, so the distance
of two points is not the limit of the multitude that can be condensed
between them.

_Sixth objection._—All the arguments above given against the continuity of
matter are grounded on a false supposition; for they all take for granted
that _a continuum must be made up of parts_—an assumption which can be
shown to be false. For, first, in the geometric continuum there are no
actual parts; for such a continuum is not made up by composition, but is
created, such as it is, all in one piece. Whence it must be inferred that
the primitive elements of matter, though exempt, as primitive, from
composition of parts, and really simple, may yet possess extension.
Secondly, who can deny that God has the power to create a solid body as
perfectly continuous as a geometric volume? Such a body, though divisible
into any number of parts, would not be a compound; for its parts would be
merely possible, not actual; and therefore it would be simple, and yet
continuous. Thirdly, those who deny the possibility of continuous matter
admit a vacuum existing between simple points of matter. Such a vacuum is
a continuous extension intercepted between real terms, and is nothing else
than the possibility of real extension. But the real extension, which is
possible between real terms, is not, of course, a series of points
touching one another, for such a series, as all admit, is impossible. It
is, therefore, an extension really continuous, not made up of parts, but
only divisible into parts. Hence matter may be continuous and simple at
the same time.(111)

This objection tends to establish the possibility of _simple‐extended_
matter. Yet that simplicity and material extension exclude one another is
an evident truth; in other terms, material continuity, without composition
of parts, is utterly inconceivable. If, therefore, we persist in taking
for granted that a material continuum must be made up of actual parts, we
do not make a gratuitous supposition.

The three reasons adduced in the objection are far from satisfactory. The
first makes an unlawful transition from the geometric extension of volumes
to the physical extension of masses. Such a transition, we say, is
unlawful; for the geometrical extension is only _virtually_ continuous,
and therefore involves no actual multitude of parts; whereas the physical
extension of the mass of matter would be _formally_ and _materially_
continuous, thus involving a formal multitude of actual parts perfectly
distinct from one another, though united to form one continuous piece. The
geometric extension is measured by three linear dimensions, and has no
density. Now, a geometric line is nothing else than the trace of the
movement of a point; and accordingly its continuity arises from the
continuity of the movement itself, which alone is _formally_ continuous;
for the space measured by such a movement has no formal continuity of its
own, as we have already explained, but is styled “continuous” only
inasmuch as it is the region of continuous movement. There is no doubt,
therefore, that geometric extension is merely virtual in its continuity;
and for this reason it is not made up of parts of its own, but simply
corresponds to the parts of the movement by which it can be measured.
Material extension, on the contrary, would be densely filled with actual
matter, and therefore would be made up of actual parts perfectly distinct,
though not separated. To apply, as the objection does, to material
extension, what geometry teaches of the extension of volumes, is therefore
a mere paralogism. It amounts to saying: _Vacuum is free from composition;
therefore the matter also which would fill it is free from composition._

We may add that even geometric extension, if real, involves composition.
For, evidently, we cannot conceive a geometric cube without its eight
vertices, nor can we pretend that a figure requiring eight distinct points
as the terms of its dimensions is free from composition. Now, if an empty
geometric volume cannot be simple, what shall we say of a volume full of
matter? Wherever there is real extension, there are real dimensions, of
which the beginning, and the end, and all the intermediate terms are
really distinct from one another. Hence in a material extension there
should be as many distinct material terms as there are geometric points
within its limits. And if this is _simplicity_, we may well ask what is
_composition_?

The second reason adduced in the objection is a mere _petitio principii_.
For he who says that God can create “a solid body as perfectly continuous
as a geometric volume” assumes that such a continuous body involves no
contradiction; he therefore begs the question. On the other hand, to
affirm that God can create a solid body as perfectly continuous as a
geometric volume, is to affirm that God can create a body of infinite
density—that is, an infinite mass within finite dimensions. For the mass
of a body of matter is the product of its volume into its density; hence,
if its volume be finite, and its density infinite, the mass will be
infinite. Now, a body materially continuous implies infinite density; for
it excludes porosity, and it supplies matter for an endless division.
Hence a continuous mass of matter filling a finite volume would be _an
infinite mass contained within limits_. We think we are not presuming too
much when we say that God cannot create such a metaphysical monstrosity.

“Such a body,” says the objection, “though divisible into any number of
parts, would not be a compound.” This is evidently false; for all that is
divisible into parts has parts, and therefore composition. Nor is it true
that the parts of a continuous body “would be merely possible, not
actual”; for if such parts are not actual, how can the body be actual? No
actual continuum can exist without actual parts. The divisibility of
continuum is not the possibility of actual parts, but the possibility of
their actual separation.

The third reason is based on our admission of a vacuum between material
points. Such a vacuum, it is objected, is a continuous (virtual)
extension, founding the possibility of some other (formal) extension. This
we concede; but when it is argued that this other extension which is
possible between the material terms is the extension of continuous matter,
we deny the consequence. It is only continuous local movement, not
continuous matter, that can formally extend from term to term, as we have
proved. When two real points of matter have a distinct ubication in space,
the interval between them cannot be estimated otherwise than by the extent
of the movement which can be made from one point to the other. We cannot
perceive the distance between two terms, except by drawing, at least
mentally, a line from the one to the other; and for this reason, as we
have remarked elsewhere, the relation of distance is conceived by us as a
quantity measured by movement, not by matter, and representing the
extension of continuous movement, not of continuous matter. Hence a vacuum
intercepted between real points is a _real_, though only _virtual_,
extension; and that other _real_ and _formal_ extension, which is possible
between the same real points, is the extension of local movement. Our
opponent concedes that “the real extension possible between real terms is
not a series of points touching one another; for such a series, as all
admit, is impossible.” Now, this suffices to show that the real extension
possible between such real terms is not the extension of continuous
matter; for such an extension, as we have abundantly proved, would be made
up of nothing but of a series of points touching one another.

Nothing, perhaps, more evidently shows the unquestionable solidity of the
thesis we have undertaken to defend than the necessity felt by our
opponents of admitting in matter _an extended simplicity_ and a
_simplicity divisible into parts_, as witnessed by this last objection,
which we have transcribed from a grave and learned professor of
philosophy. _Extended and simple matter_ is such an absurdity as few would
admit to be a corollary of their own theories; yet it cannot be escaped by
those who consider the _first_ elements of matter as endowed with bulk.
For physical simplicity is an essential attribute of all primitive beings;
and, if primitive elements are nevertheless supposed to be intrinsically
extended, it is plain that their simplicity will be an extended
simplicity.

The main reason why some philosophers still cling to material continuity
is their fear of _actio in distans_. We have already shown that such a
fear, though very common, cannot be justified. We grant that, owing to
popular prejudice and an incorrect notion of things, many are apt to dread
action at a distance as a dangerous shoal; but when they resort to an
“extended and divisible simplicity,” they steer their ship directly
against the reefs.

To Be Continued.




Christmas In The Thirteenth Century.


Few are the hearts that do not feel the benign and joyful influence of
Christmas. It is the one feast that neither the all‐destroying zeal of the
Reformation nor the cold indifferentism of the present age has dared to
abolish or desecrate. To how many is it the sole remaining word that
reminds them of the sacred name of Christ! There _was_ a time when
Christmas was but one of the many holydays that with each succeeding month
recalled to Christian hearts some great event in the life of their divine
Master; but heresy has swept away one by one those sacked days of repose
and prayer. Even in Catholic countries the church has found it necessary
to reduce the number of Days of Obligation, so cold have grown both faith
and devotion.

Wealth and material prosperity—these are the sole ends for which a
heartless world would have us exert all our energies, and it would fain
clog with the sordid love of gain all the higher aspirations of the soul.

But we are forgetting that this is Christmas time—a time for innocent
pleasure, and not for moralizing; so, leaving the present age, with all
its faults, we will ask our readers to transport themselves with us, in
imagination, some six centuries back, and witness how was celebrated in
those Ages of Faith the holy night of the Nativity of our Lord.

The period selected is about the middle of the XIIIth century. Religion
was then in the fullest splendor of its power. It was the light of
civilization, the custodian of all learning. Every art had combined to
render its outward expression worthy of the great and holy mysteries it
taught. Gothic architecture had at this date attained its highest
perfection; painting and sculpture were almost exclusively devoted to the
decoration of God’s temples; poetry and music were united to render
attractive the sublime and rarely‐interrupted Offices of the church. The
liturgical works of the period are mines of poetic and musical riches that
for the most part lie hidden and uncared for in their musty tomes.

Some will doubtless smile when we speak of the Latin poetry of the middle
ages, and certainly those who seek in it the polished and classical verses
of a Horace or a Virgil will be disappointed. They will, however, find
that, despite their somewhat strange Latinity, these productions of a so‐
called barbarous age contain a depth of feeling, a strength and freshness
of expression, quite unknown to the pagan poets, and were as appropriate
to those grand old cathedrals under whose roofs they were to resound as
were the classic odes and songs to the luxurious banquet‐halls of Rome or
the effeminate villas of Naples. In fact, to adequately judge of the
poetry contained in the Offices of the mediæval period, we must place
ourselves amid the surroundings in which they were performed; we must
_not_ view it from the stand‐point of the present age, with its entirely
different ideas of both religious life and religious art.

It will be, then, in an old French cathedral that we shall ask our readers
to spend this Christmas night; for the office, or rather religious drama,
at which we intend to make them assist, is taken from a Roman‐French
missal of the XIIIth century.

The night has closed in. Within the city walls the tortuous and narrow
streets are nearly deserted; but lights gleam from many a diamond pane,
for inside joyous circles are gathered around the glowing logs that
brightly sparkle in the ample chimneys. Old stories are repeated by
venerable grandfathers to merry grandchildren, who in return sing with
silvery voices quaint old carols. Suddenly a well‐known sound fills the
air; from the high cathedral towers burst forth the joyous chimes that
herald the approach of Christ’s natal hour. The notes that ring out so
clearly in the cold December air are those of the familiar Christmas hymn,
_Christe Redemptor omnium_.(112) Soon a hurrying throng begin to fill the
streets, all wending their way towards the same point, through narrow and
winding streets. By gabled house and arched doorway, by mullioned window
and jutting tower, they press forward until they reach the central square,
where rises, in all its splendor, the old cathedral church.

Beautiful and imposing at all times is a Gothic cathedral, but never more
so than when the trembling light of a winter moon throws around it a soft
halo, just enough to make its grand proportions visible amid the
surrounding gloom, while leaving all the finer details wrapt in sombre
mystery. Doubly lofty appear tower and spire, and strangely weird each
fantastic gargoyle, as a stray moonbeam falls athwart its uncouth
countenance.

Let us follow the crowd, and enter beneath the richly‐sculptured doorway.
Dim is the light within, only just sufficient to find your way among the
throng that now begins to fill every part of the vast edifice. The
numerous assemblage of priests and choristers are singing the Office of
Matins, the grand old melodies of S. Gregory resounding beneath the
vaulted roof with that wonderful effect that makes them, when sung by
choir and congregation, the most truly religious music that exists. As the
last solemn notes of the _Te Deum_ die out, a white‐robed chorister‐boy
representing an angel advances into the centre of the choir, and in sweet,
clear accents chants the words of the angelic message, “Nolite timere:
ecce enim evangelizo vobis gaudium magnum, quod erit omni populo, quia
natus est vobis hodie Salvator mundi, in civitate David. Et hoc vobis
signum: Invenietis infantem pannis involutum, et positum in
præsepio”—“Fear not: for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy,
that shall be to all the people: for this day is born to you a Saviour,
who is Christ the Lord, in the city of David. And this shall be a sign
unto you: You shall find the infant wrapped in swaddling‐clothes, and laid
in a manger.”

Then from the high triforium‐gallery seven pure young voices ring out, as
if from heaven, the words sung by the angel‐host on the first Christmas
night: “Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax hominibus bonæ
voluntatis.” These familiar words that herald the pious representation of
the holy scenes whose reality centuries ago hallowed this night in the
mountains of Judæa, are listened to by the vast congregation with rapt and
devout attention. In their simple and earnest faith the assistants feel
themselves transported back to the days of Herod and to the village of
Bethlehem, as they behold emerging from the western porch, and slowly
advancing up the nave, a train of shepherds with staves in their hands,
singing, as they proceed in search of their newborn King, the following
hymn. Both words and music are full of beauty, and the cadence is well
suited to a Christmas carol:


    Pax in terris nunciatur,
    In excelsis gloria.

    Terra cœlo fœderatur,
    Mediante gratia.
    Mediatur homo Deus
    Descendit in propria,
    Ut ascendat homo reus
    Ad amissa gaudia.
    Eia! Eia!

    Transeamus, videamus
    Verbum hoc quod factum est
    Transeamus, ut sciamus
    Quod annunciatum est.

    In Judea puer vagit,
    Puer salus populi,

    Quo bellandum se præsagit
    Vetus hostis sæculi.

    Accedamus, accedamus
    Ad præsepe Domini,

    Et dicamus:
    Laus fecundæ Virgini.

    (Peace on earth is announced, and in heaven glory,

    Earth is reconciled through divine grace. The Mediator God‐Man
    descends amongst his own, that guilty man may ascend to lost joys.

    Let us go over, let us see this word that is come to pass.

    Let us go over, that we may learn what has been announced.

    In Judæa an infant cries

    An Infant, the salvation of his people,

    By whom the ancient enemy of the world foresees he must be warred
    upon.

    Let us approach, let us approach the cradle of our Lord,

    And let us sing: Praise to the fruitful Virgin.)


A crib has been arranged at the extreme end of the choir, containing the
figure of the divine Infant and our Blessed Lady. It is surrounded by
women, to whom naturally is given the charge of watching over the Virgin
Mother and her new‐born Babe. Towards this crib the shepherds wend their
way, passing beneath the carved rood‐screen through the open portals of
the choir. Two priests advance to meet them, and greet them with the
following versicle: “Quem quæritis in præsepio, pastores, dicite?”—“Whom
seek ye in this manger, shepherds, tell us?”

They reply: “Salvatorem Christum Dominum infantem pannis involutum
secundum sermonem angelicum”—“Christ our Lord and Saviour, an infant
wrapped in swaddling‐clothes, according to the word of the angel.”

The women around the crib now draw back the curtains that have, until this
moment, kept it concealed from view, and, showing to the shepherds the
divine Infant reclining in the manger, sing these words: “Adest hic
parvulus cum matre sua de quo dudum vaticinando Isaïas dixerat propheta:
Ecce virgo concipiet et pariet filium: euntes dicite quod natus est”—“Here
is the little Child and his Mother of whom of old Isaias prophesied:
Behold, a Virgin shall conceive and bring forth a son; go forth and
announce that he is born.” The shepherds salute the Virgin and Child, and
sing the following charming little carol in honor of the Virgin Mother:


    Salve Virgo singularis;
    Virgo manens, Deum paris,
    Ante sæcla generatum
    Corde patris;

    Adoremus nunc creatum
    Carne matris.

    Nos, Maria, tua prece
    A peccati purga fece;
    Nostri cursum incolatus
    Sic dispone,
    Ut det sua frui natus
    Visione.

    (Hail, O Virgin incomparable! remaining a Virgin, thou hast
    brought forth the Son of God, begotten of his Father before all
    ages.

    Now we adore him, formed of the flesh of his Mother.

    O Mary! purify us from all stain of sin; our destined course on
    earth so dispose, that thy Son may grant us to enjoy his blessed
    vision.)


After this hymn they fall on their knees and adore the divine Babe; then,
turning towards the choir, they with joyful accents exclaim, “Alleluia,
Alleluia. Jam vere scimus Christum natum in terris, de quo canite omnes
cum prophetis dicentes”—“Now we truly know that Christ is born on earth,
let all sing of him with the prophet.” Answering to this invitation, the
choir intone the prophetic words of the introit of the midnight Mass: “The
Lord has said to me, Thou art my Son; this day I have begotten Thee.”

The priests and assistants advance slowly in procession to the foot of the
altar, and the solemn celebration of High Mass commences.

The lessons conveyed by this beautiful and symbolic representation are
happily continued when the reality of the divine mysteries has taken its
place. The priests who represented the shepherds, quitting the crib where
they were the first to do homage to the Child‐God, proceed to occupy the
most exalted places in the choir, and to take the leading parts in the
chants that accompany that Holy Sacrifice in which the same Child‐God once
more descends on earth.

Among the many impressive ceremonies of the Catholic Church, there is none
more touching than the celebration of the midnight Mass. Whether it be in
a vast cathedral or in a modest village church, it never fails to bring
home to the heart, in a wonderful manner, the realization of the two great
mysteries of the Incarnation and the Eucharist, awakening in the soul a
lively devotion towards them. If such be the effect of the sacred rite on
men who have only just quit the bustle and turmoil of life, as they enter
the church, what must it have been on minds prepared by so graphic a
representation of those very mysteries that the Mass not only
commemorates, but actually reproduces in a manner far more perfect, if
less perceptible to the outward senses.

How conspicuous, then, was the wisdom of the church in encouraging the
performance of these pious dramas—not only as affording an innocent
pleasure to the spectators, but as a preparation for the better
understanding of the sacred mysteries that were commemorated in each
succeeding feast; for on the popular mind how far more powerful than the
most eloquent sermon is the effect of any ceremony that appeals directly
to the senses!

At the termination of the Mass the officiating priest, turning towards the
shepherds, intones the following anthem: “Quam vidistis, pastores? dicite,
annunciate nobis in terris quid apparuit”—“Tell us, O shepherds, whom you
have seen? Announce to us who has appeared on earth.” To which they reply:
“Natum vidimus et choros angelorum collandantes Dominum. Alleluia,
alleluia”—“We have seen the Lord, who is born on earth, and the choirs of
angels praising him.”

The office of Lauds, which terminates the night‐office, then commences.
The shepherds, still occupying the places of honor, but divided in two
choirs, sing the poetic paraphrase which on all solemn feasts in those
days took the place of the Benedicamus and Deo Gratias. After which they
all unite in chanting the following antiphon, which forms a fitting
termination to the ceremonies of the night: “Ecce completa sunt omnia quæ
dicta sunt per angelum de Virgine Maria”—“Behold, all things are
accomplished that were announced by the angel concerning the Virgin Mary.”

Such were the pious festivities that six hundred years ago filled with joy
and devotion many a vast congregation in cathedral and church throughout
France on Christmas night. We have described them as far as they can be
gathered from the Office‐books of the period; but how many beautiful
details, handed down by tradition and introduced from time to time, must
necessarily have escaped us at this distant period! We venture to hope,
however, that we have succeeded in giving our readers at least a slight
idea of the deep religious feeling, and at the same time poetic beauty,
that characterized these sacred dramas of the middle ages.




The Civilization Of Ancient Ireland.(113)


The greatest difficulty experienced by students of Irish history, whether
foreigners or to the manner born, arises out of the crudeness of the mass
of fables and myths, contradictions and harsh criticisms, which confuse
and disfigure many histories of the country. Unfortunately, native Irish
historians and annalists have been wont to indulge much too freely in
exaggeration and romance, substituting the airy creations of the poets for
authenticated facts, and dogmatically putting forward the most minute
details of remote, and therefore necessarily indistinct, actions in a
manner to overtax our credulity and weaken our faith even in well‐
established authorities. English writers, on the contrary, from Giraldus
Cambrensis downward, have erred on the other side. Always ignorant of the
Gaelic tongue, and generally of the customs, laws, and religion of the
people whose history they assumed to chronicle, they invariably attempted
to conceal their defective knowledge by ignoring the claims of the Irish
to a distinctive and high order of civilization, not only before the
advent of the Anglo‐Normans, but anterior to the introduction of
Christianity. The want of adaptability of the English mind to historical
composition, even in relation to domestic matters, may account for much of
this unfair method of treating those of a subjugated nation. National and,
of late centuries, sectarian animosity has been, however, the leading
motive of the British historiographers, with one exception, for falsifying
the records of the past, no matter to what country they belong. To have
acknowledged that S. Patrick preached the Gospel to a race possessing
considerable social refinement and mental culture; that, under Providence,
an entire people were converted to Christianity without any material
change in their civil polity or disruption of their general domestic
relations; and that, even in his lifetime, he had the happiness to see his
work completed, and to feel that he would leave behind him a native
priesthood, whose piety and learning were for ages afterwards to edify and
astonish Europe, was to concede the glory and the wisdom of the church in
introducing and perpetuating the faith of her divine Founder at that early
period of her existence.

With the Irish historians, who fully admitted this great central fact in
the annals of their country, it was different. They knew the language,
laws, and habits of their countrymen, but the circumstances by which they
were surrounded rendered it impossible for them to consult freely the
original records then existing, or to compare and collate them with that
scrutiny and care with which documents of such antiquity ought to be
regarded. Thus, Dr. Keating wrote his work in the recesses of the Galtee
Mountains, while hiding from the “Priest‐hunters” of James I.; and the
Abbé McGeoghegan composed his while in Paris, a fugitive from William of
Orange’s penal laws, where at best he could only consult second‐hand
authorities. As for Moore, though illustrious as a poet, his knowledge of
his native country was of the most meagre and inaccurate description, and
his ignorance of its language and antiquities, as he subsequently
confessed, is apparent in every page of his book.

At the time of the Norman invasion, and for two or three centuries
afterwards, the number of Irish MSS. in Ireland, including histories,
annals, genealogies, poems, topographical and otherwise, historical tales,
and legends, was immense. Many of them, fortunately, are still extant,
bearing date from the Xth, XIth, and XIIth centuries; but the greater
portion are either destroyed or hidden in inaccessible places. As the
civil wars progressed, and the ancient nobility were slaughtered or driven
into exile, the cultivation of native literature gradually ceased, and
consequently many of the most valuable national records were ruined or
lost, so that their titles only remain to us; while others, escaping the
general spoliation, became scattered among the libraries of the Continent,
or found their way into careless or hostile hands. At the present day
several are in the British Museum; the Bodleian Library, Oxford; in Paris
and Brussels; St. Gall, in Switzerland; and St. Isidore’s, in Rome. One
hundred and forty are yet preserved in the library of Trinity College,
Dublin; while many of the most valuable are the property of the Royal
Irish Academy and of private collectors.

The decline of learning in Ireland, like so many of her other calamities,
can be dated from the period of the “Reformation,” as its revival may be
said to have been contemporary with the uprising of the people, which led
to the partial emancipation of the Catholics, less than half a century
ago. Then it was that the Irish, breathing something like the air of
freedom, began in earnest to gather up the broken threads of their ancient
history, and to demonstrate to the world that, though long enslaved and
silenced, the spirit of true nationality was as indestructible in their
hearts as was the faith for which they had so long and heroically
suffered. In 1826 appeared O’Conor’s translation of the first part of the
_Annals of the Four Masters_; some years after Dr. Petrie published his
masterly work on the _Round Towers_, and in 1851 Dr. O’Donovan issued the
entire _Annals_, the great vertebræ of Irish chronology, in seven large
volumes, containing more than four thousand pages; the text in Irish
characters, the translation and copious, critical notes in English. Late
in the next year a commission of Irish scholars was appointed by the
government to collect, transcribe, translate, and publish the _Ancient
Laws and Institutes of Ireland_, which, after a great deal of labor and
expense, has now been accomplished. The first volume of this most valuable
work appeared under the title of _Senchus Mor_, in 1865, the second four
years later, and the third, we learn, has recently been issued from the
press in Dublin. Meanwhile, the Celtic and the Archæological Societies,
separately and combined, for many years past have been publishing several
valuable detached works on Ireland, which have attracted much attention in
literary circles in Europe, and quickened at home the popular desire for
productions of a similar character. In 1867 Dr. Todd’s _Wars of the
Gaedhil with the Gaill_, a translation of all the original documents
extant bearing on the wars of the Danes and other Norsemen in Ireland
during the two centuries preceding the battle of Clontarf, A.D. 1014, was
added to the collection of historical records.

But the merit of elevating the study of Irish history to the dignity of a
profession belongs to the Catholic University of Ireland; thus
constituting a claim on the affections of the Irish people in every clime
which will long remain among the foremost of its many distinctions. At its
foundation a chair of Irish History and Archæology was established, and
the late Eugene O’Curry, of all men then living the most fitted for the
position, was selected to fill it. In 1855‐56 Prof. O’Curry delivered
before the students a course of twenty‐one lectures, afterwards published
at the expense of the University under the title of _Lectures on the MS.
Materials of Ancient Irish History_. This work, including a valuable
appendix, embraces six hundred and sixty pages, and contains a full and
most interesting account of all known documents relating to Irish history.
These lectures were followed by a series _On the Manners and Customs of
the Ancient Irish_, delivered during the years 1857‐62, and recently
published in two handsome volumes, with an introduction and explanatory
notes by the editor, W. K. Sullivan, in an additional volume of six
hundred and forty‐four pages. The value of O’Curry’s last work, as well as
of the very profound introduction by Prof. Sullivan, can hardly be over‐
estimated. In them are contained a complete, vivid, and harmonious series
of pictures of the laws, religion, territorial and class divisions,
literature, art, social habits, weapons, dress, and ornaments of the
people of ancient Ireland from the remotest times to the Xth or XIth
century. The style of O’Curry in presenting these instructive historical
tableaux is clear, concise, and sufficiently varied to attract the
attention of the least diligent student; while any of his statements which
may appear to savor of an over‐fondness for the things of antiquity, or
undue reverence for the past, find an efficient corrective in the critical
and exhaustive commentaries of the editor, who, in addition to being a
distinguished chemist, is evidently an excellent philologist and
ethnologist; as familiar with the genius of the continental languages and
antiquities as he is with those of his own country.

With the results of the labor of two such men before him, the student of
Irish history, though unacquainted with Gaelic, and beyond the reach of
the original documents, has now no excuse for not becoming as familiar
with Gaelic historical and archæological lore as with those of the other
races of the Old World. He will be rewarded, also, in his studies, by the
contemplation of a system of civilization without a parallel in the
records of any other nation of which we have a knowledge; equally removed
from the elaborate, artificial life of the Greeks and the oligarchical
paganism of Rome, as it was from the rude barbarism of the Northmen and
the refined sensuality of the East.

Before the commencement of our era the history of the various tribes who
are said by tradition to have visited Ireland as colonists or invaders is,
of course, obscure, and can be traced only through the legend‐tales of the
poets and story‐tellers of more recent but still very remote times. There
is no doubt, however, that about the middle of the first Christian century
the island was peopled by two distinct and to some extent hostile tribes;
one described as a tall, red or golden haired, blue‐eyed, and fair‐
complexioned people; the other dark and small of stature—evidently the
subject race. About this time a revolution, or rather a series of revolts,
by those known by the name of the _Aithech Tuatha_, or rent‐paying tribes
(the _Atticotti_ of continental writers), broke out, and resulted in the
temporary success of the servile race and the annihilation of the greater
part of the nobility. The aristocracy, however, regained their power after
some years of violent and varying struggle, and to prevent the recurrence
of such bloody scenes, as well as to disunite their enemies, they
redistributed them throughout the island, while at the same time they
built a number of duns, or forts within easy supporting distance of each
other, the better to consolidate their authority and ensure the protection
of their families.

The leader of the restored nobles was Tuathal, “the Legitimate,” who,
having been declared King of Ireland, reorganized the government, founded
the Irish Pentarchy, established great national and provincial fairs, and
enacted the greater part, at least, of the body of laws known as the
_Senchas Mor_. He was in fact the first able soldier, as well as law‐
giver, of whom we have any definite and well‐authenticated account in
Gaelic history. As the country at that time, and for centuries after, was
essentially agricultural, we naturally find that the laws of Tuathal and
his successors are mainly devoted to agrarian matters; the divisions,
rights, and duties of the various classes of occupants of the soil being
set forth with a minuteness and exactness rarely to be found in modern
codes. Politically, the island was divided into five subordinate kingdoms,
nearly corresponding with the present four provinces, except that the
fifth, which was called Meath, embraced not only that county, but
Westmeath and a portion of the surrounding territory. Here were situated
Tara, the principal palace of the _Ard‐Rig_, or supreme monarch, and the
mensal land set apart for his use. Sometimes the _Ard‐Rig_ was also King
of Meath, but generally, as in the cases of Con “of the Hundred Battles,”
Nial, “of the Nine Hostages,” and Brian, “Boru,” he was the head of some
of the great northern or southern septs. In theory the sovereignty was
elective, and by the law of Tanistry the king’s successor was designated
during his lifetime; but in practice, when the crown did not descend
hereditarily, it was most frequently the prize of successful warfare. The
same may also be said of the provincial kings. There appears to have been
no such thing known in that age as a Salic law for the exclusion of women
from a participation in the affairs of government; for we find numerous
instances of kingdoms being swayed and armies led into action by the
gentler sex, notably the celebrated Meave, the Queen of Connaught, and the
darling heroine of Irish fiction.

The provincial kingdoms were divided into _Mor Tuaths_, each of which
comprised several _Tuaths_, and these again were sub‐divided into _Bailé
Biatachs Caethramhadhs_, or quarters; _Seisreachs_, or ploughlands; and
_Bailé‐boes_, or cow‐lands, each of the latter containing about sixty
acres. According to a poem of the VIth or VIIth century, there were in
Ireland at that epoch 184 Tuaths; 5,520 Bailé Biatachs; 22,080 Quarters;
66,240 Plough‐lands; and 132,480 Ballyboes—equal to about 7,948,000 acres.
The lowest rank in the nobility was that of _Flath_, or lord of a _Tuath_;
the highest in the commons were the _Bo‐aires_, or farmers who, though
they held lands from the _Flath_, were freemen, entitled to all the rights
and privileges of witnesses, jurors, bails, and local courts. Next beneath
them were the _saer_ and _daer Ceiles_, or free and base tenants. As there
were no towns or villages of any importance, the rules of the agrarian
laws were applied to all classes, and hence skilled workmen, such as
goldsmiths, blacksmiths, dyers, and other mechanics, were, equally with
the smaller tenant farmers, called free _Ceiles_, holding by contract from
the _Flaths_, and paying in labor or kind a determined equivalent. The
base _Ceiles_ were of two kinds—one who held lands by uncertain tenure, or
as tenants at will; and the other, who performed personal service as
mercenary soldiers or laborers upon the mensal lands of the lord. “Though
the free _Ceiles_ were all freemen,” says Sullivan, “and consequently
possessed some political rights, it is evident that the extent of those
rights differed. In some cases they must have been confined to bearing
arms and obtaining a share of the common land. All _Ceiles_, whether free
or base, had certain definite rights in the territory, such as the right
to have a habitation and the usufruct of the land; but besides these were
several other classes, who possessed either very few rights, or occupied
so low a position in the social scale as to have been practically in a
state of complete servitude; these were the _Bothachs_, _Sencleithes_, and
_Fuidirs_.” The _saer_ or free _Bothachs_ were simply occupiers of cabins,
and the _daer Bothachs_ were menials; while the _Sencleithes_ included all
sorts of poor dependents, generally the descendants of strangers,
mercenaries, or prisoners of war. The _Fuidirs_, to whom S. Patrick in his
captivity belonged, were absolutely serfs attached to the land, and in
some respects the property of the chief. It was only a _Flath_, however,
who was entitled to retain those belonging to the three servile classes;
and where the condition grew out of mutual compact, it could be ended by
either at any time. Prisoners of war, malefactors, and non‐paying debtors,
similar to peons, were of course excluded from this privilege. Those
various classes and sub‐divisions did not constitute perpetual castes; on
the contrary, a member of the lowest order, through lapse of time,
undisturbed possession, and the accumulation of property, could ascend,
not only to the highest place in the commons, but enter the charmed circle
of aristocracy itself.

It must not be supposed, however, that the entire ownership of the soil
was vested in the _Mor‐Flaths_, or great chiefs; in fact, they only owned
their proper estate and the mensal lands attached to their office, upon
which were employed their _Ceiles_ and _Fuidirs_, who tilled the farms and
paid rent by supplying their masters’ tables, and by other tributes. In
like manner the subordinate _Flaths_ and _Airés_ held their own proper
lands in fee, paying their superior a tax, or _Bes‐Tigi_, in
acknowledgment of his authority, and exacting labor and service in turn
from their _Bothachs_, _Sencleithes_, and base _Fuidirs_. The remainder of
the land belonged to the freemen of the _Tuath_ in common, subject only to
the dominion of the chief, though on certain conditions the usufruct could
be devised or alienated. “In process of time,” says Sullivan, “estates
were carved out of this public land, as appanages of offices, as rewards
for public services, or by lapsing into prescription. The holders of such
estates were the _Aires_, and as such were in an especial manner the
_Céiles_ of the _Rig_. The king, with the consent of his council, might,
however, grant a portion of it as allodium at once. It is probable that
Magh Aié, now the plains of Boyle, in Roscommon, was public land.” Around
the duns or fortified residences of the chiefs their retainers and menials
built their wattled huts for the sake of convenience and protection, and
thus were formed the nuclei of so many towns and villages still marked on
the map of Ireland, of the names of which _Dun_ forms a part; just as in
later times the early Irish Christians crowded round the churches and
monasteries, and, thus forming new communities, took the names of their
patrons with the prefix _Kil_, derived from _Cill_, church. Another class
of subjects, artisans, farmers, and teachers, were to be found in the
neighborhood of the courts of law and permanent places for elections, who,
forming corporations or guilds, gradually laid the foundation of boroughs
and privileged towns, under the management of _Brugfers_, or magistrates.

There were several degrees of rank among these officials. Some, whose duty
was confined to the regulation of copartnerships in farms and the fixing
of metes and bounds; others who held courts in their own houses,
entertained guests, and presided over the election of the chiefs and their
_Tanistes_. This class belong to the _Airé_ rank, and every freeman had
the right to vote at the assembly of the _Tuath_, and appear as a witness,
juror, or bail in court. The _Brughfer_ of a province held six different
courts, and superintended the choice of the provincial king and his
successor. On these occasions the voters were all of the _Flath_ rank, and
were supposed to represent their clans or _Finés_. This term, though
literally meaning a house or family, was in law used in three different
senses: first, as applied to all relations by consanguinity to the
seventeenth degree, who were entitled to inherit property, as well as
being liable for fines and mulcts; secondly, to the lord and his
dependents; and, thirdly, to all the inhabitants of a _Tuath_, no matter
of what condition. So, also, the word _Cland_, or clan, which, in its
restricted meaning, was applied only to the nobles and their immediate
families, was in its territorial application interpreted to signify all
the people of the same district, who usually assumed the surname of the
chief, though no relationship existed between him and them. There is
therefore no more reason to suppose that an O’Brien or a Murphy of to‐day
is descended from the victor of Clontarf or the traitor of Ferns, than
that his ancestors were _Fuidirs_ under either of those kings. In fact,
family names were only generally introduced into Ireland in the XIth
century.

With few exceptions, the punishment of crime under the ancient laws of the
country was by fine, so that jails and penitentiaries were unknown. This
fine, or _eric_, was paid by the criminal, or by his _Finé_ or clan, to
the party aggrieved or his representative, and upon failure thereof the
culprit was reduced to the condition of a _Fuidir_. The servile classes,
who had no goods, could not, of course, be fined or further degraded; but
their lords were compelled to respond in damages, and in case of injury
done to his defenceless tenants the landlord was entitled to compensation.
In the _Senchus Mor_, “every nice offence bears its comment,” according to
the enormity of the crime and the rank of plaintiff and defendant; so, in
one sense at least, every man in Erinn may be said to have had his price.
The courts in which those _erics_ were levied seemed to have been
organized on a very just plan, and their procedure exhibits marked germs
of our present jury system—or trial by a certain number of neighbors and
equals.

Minor causes were tried in the courts of the _Tuaths_ or _Aires_, but
greater ones were determined at the provincial assemblies, which appear to
have exercised both legislative and judicial functions. The absence of
cities or stationary places of barter was supplied by the institution of
vast provincial fairs, held at stated times and in central localities. The
most famous of these were that of _Tailté_ in Meath, _Ailech_ in Derry,
and _Carman_ at Wexford. The latter, which took place in August of every
third year, was the most extensive, as well as the most ancient; its
origin lying far back in the mythical ages, and its discontinuance dating
so late as the XIth century. For some strange reason these great national
fairs were invariably held in pagan cemeteries, and in ante‐Christian
times were always commenced with games and funeral ceremonies, closing
with horse‐racing, martial and athletic sports. According to the ancient
chronicle, there were three markets at each fair, viz.:

“A market for food and clothes; a market for live‐stock, cows and horses,
etc.; a market of foreigners and exiles, selling gold and silver, etc. The
professors of every art, both the noble arts and the base arts, and non‐
professionals, were there, selling and exhibiting their compositions and
their professional works to kings, and rewards were given for every work
of art that was just or lawful to be sold or exhibited or listened to.”

The most important business of the assembly, however, consisted of the
making of new laws and the revision of old ones for the province for the
three succeeding years; and, as the _Rig_ and his officers were always in
attendance, the hearing and decision of serious causes on appeal from the
inferior courts. In the presence of the sovereign and his court the
greatest order and decorum were enjoined, and whoever was found to disturb
the public peace by violence or fraud was summarily condemned to death;
the offence being in some sort adjudged treason, and not condonable by
_eric_ fine. The time not devoted to law‐making, trials, and traffic was
occupied in amusement and various sorts of pastimes; and if the ancient
people of Erinn had as much relish for fun and frolic as their
descendants, we can well imagine what mirth, sociability and interchange
of opinions must have prevailed among such a light‐hearted multitude,
whose only opportunity for enjoyment and mutual recognition occurred every
third year. An old poem, “which,” says O’Curry, “I believe to have been
contemporary with the last celebration of the feast, if not of even a more
ancient date,” thus enumerates the different classes of persons who
attended on such occasions, and the intellectual wares they brought with
them for the delectation of the gathering:


    “Trumpets, _Cruits_,(114) wide‐mouthed horns,
    _Cusigs Timpanists_, without weariness,
    Poets and petty rhymesters;

    “Fenian tales of Find(115)—an untiring entertainment—
    Destructions, cattle‐preys, courtships,
    Inscribed tablets and books of trees,(116)
    Satires and sharp‐edged runes;

    “Proverbs, maxims, royal precepts,
    And the youthful instruction of Fithal;
    Occult poetry, topographical etymologies,
    The precepts of Cairpri and of Cormac;

    “The Feasts, and the great Feast of Teamar;
    Fairs, with the fair of Emania,
    Annals there are verified,
    Every division into which Erin was divided.”


The Feast of _Teamair_, or Tara, here alluded to as having constituted one
of the subjects of the recitations at _Carman_, was also triennial, but of
a different nature, and involving much higher occupations than those of
the provincial fairs or feasts. It was an assembly of the subordinate
kings and the nobles for elective, legislative, and judicial purposes;
but, though nominally held every three years, was in reality celebrated as
often as a new king was to be crowned, a general public law to be
promulgated, or when some extraordinary occasion demanded the presence of
the chiefs and _Rigs_ before the supreme monarch. Again, many years are
known to have elapsed without an assembly or _Feis_, owing to the
existence of internal dissensions or foreign invasions. This assembly is
said to have owed its origin to _Tuathal_ the Legitimate, and it is
certain that it only ceased to be held when Tara was abandoned as a royal
residence in the VIIth century. The court of the _Ard‐Rig_ on such
occasions was not only attended by the provincial magnates and, in pagan
times, by the chief Druids, but by their followers, poets, doctors, and
historians, with their respective household guards. It was a knowledge of
this custom, doubtless, that led S. Patrick to select the hill of Tara as
the place, and the assembly of the _Feis_ as the fitting occasion, upon
which to disclose to the darkened minds of the whole people the splendid
truths of Christianity.

The palace and adjoining houses of ancient Tara, judging by the extensive
traces of their foundations yet remaining, must have been built on a very
large scale; but as they were constructed entirely of wood, the buildings
proper have long since disappeared. Still, we have accounts, more or less
authentic, that collectively they were able to afford shelter and
accommodation to many thousands of visitors, and that the barracks alone
allowed quarters for twenty‐four thousand soldiers. Of the style of
architecture of the king’s house we have no description, save that it was
rectangular, and that its principal room or hall, which was used for
deliberations as well as for feasts, was profusely ornamented with
carvings in gold, silver, and bronze. Before the introduction of
Christianity all buildings were of wood, some square or rectangular,
others oval or round. Those of the higher classes were made of solid logs,
but the smaller farmers and laborers dwelt in huts made of interlaced
wattles or twigs, the interstices closed by mortar made with wet earth and
straw. Stone structures were unknown before S. Patrick’s time; for, though
lime was used as a wash for the interior and exterior of houses, its
employment as a cement dates from the Christian ages. Hence there are no
pagan ruins to be found in the country. The Round Towers, now proven
beyond doubt to have been church belfries, are the most ancient stone
memorials existing. It may be also remembered that the Druids had no such
places of worship as temples or covered sanctuaries, and whatever rites
they performed must have been celebrated in the open air. Indeed, our
knowledge of those mysterious people and of their equally occult religious
system is merely of a negative character; for, as O’Curry says:


    “We only know that they worshipped idols from such examples as
    that of the idol gods taken into the Druid’s bed, so as to
    influence his visions, as described in Cormac’s _Glossary_, and
    that of the invocation of the idols in the case of the _Teinm
    Laeghdha_; and we know that in certain ceremonies they made use of
    the yew‐tree, the quicken or roan‐tree, and of the black‐thorn, as
    in the instance of the ordeal or test of a woman’s character by
    means of fire made of these sacred woods. That the people of
    ancient Erinn were idolaters is certain, for they certainly adored
    the great idol called _Crom Cruagh_, in the plain called _Magh
    Slecht_, as I showed on a former occasion. But it is remarkable
    that we find no mention of any connection between this idol and
    the Druids, or any other class of priests or special idol‐servers.
    We have only the record of the people, generally, assembling at
    times to do honor to the idol creation. As little, unfortunately,
    do we know of the organization of the order of the Druids, if they
    were indeed an order. They certainly were not connected as such
    with the orders of learned men or profession of teachers, such as
    before explained. The Druids were often, however, engaged in
    teaching, as has been seen; and it would appear that kings and
    chiefs, as well as learned men, were also frequently Druids,
    though how or why I am not in a position to explain with certainty
    at present.... I have refrained from suggesting any theory of my
    own on the subject. This negative conclusion, nevertheless, I will
    venture to draw from the whole: that, notwithstanding the
    singularly positive assertions of many of our own as well as of
    English writers upon the subject, there is no ground whatever for
    believing the Druids to have been the priests of any special
    positive worship; none whatever for imputing to them human
    sacrifices; none whatever for believing that the early people of
    Erinn adored the sun, moon, or stars, nor that they worshipped
    fire; and still less foundation for the ridiculous inventions of
    modern times (inventions of pure ignorance), concerning honors
    paid to brown bulls, red cows, or any other cows, or any of the
    lower animals.”


Next in rank and social importance, if not the equals or superiors of the
Druids, were the _Ollamhs_, or doctors, the _Files_, or poets, and the
_Brehons_ or judges. In the earliest ages these three classes were all
included under the term _Fileadh_, poets, who not only professed
philosophy, such as it then was, but recorded history and chronology in
verse, and expounded the laws so preserved, in the various local courts
and tribunals. A tendency, however, to mystify and confuse the statutes of
Tuathal and his successors, led to the expulsion of the children of song
from the forum, while the offices about the sovereign, when grave matters
were to be considered, fell to the lot of the philosophers. This latter
class had also an especial charge of educational matters, and usually
superintended personally the training of the children of the _Rigs_ and
chiefs. The _Ard‐Rig_, the provincial kings, and the _Flaths_ had their
own philosophers, poets, and judges, with their special duties assigned
them. Of the first, besides making and preserving regular records, “they
were bound by the same laws,” says O’Curry, “to make themselves perfect
masters of that history in all its details, and to teach it to the people
by public recitals, as well as to be legal referees upon all subjects in
dispute concerning history and the genealogies.” No person could be a
_Brehon_ without first becoming an _Ollamh_, and twelve years’ study was
required for that honor. But the poets, like their tribe in every land and
age, were the nobly honored and the most privileged of any order in the
government. They flattered kings and satirized them with impunity, charmed
the masses with the melody of their songs and the fertility of their
imagination; but, while they were generally on the side of popular liberty
in their verses, they were always to be found at the tables of the nobles,
where good cheer and rich largesses awaited them. However, as their poems
were the only vehicles through which the history, traditions, and even
laws of the nation could possibly have been transmitted to us, we owe them
too much to blame their amiable weaknesses. Like the teacher, when the
_File_ travelled about the country he was accompanied by his pupils, and
every hospitality was shown to him and them, partly from love of his
calling, and not seldom through dread of his satires. Many instances are
recorded in popular tales of the dire effects of the poet’s wrath, of
which sickness, loss of property and reputation, were among the least.

In connection with the courts we find two classes of paid advocates, one
the _Ebe_, attorney, and the other the _Aighne_, or counsellor. When it is
remembered that slander and libel were offences severely punished in the
Brehon courts by _eric_ fine, we can admire the grim humor which
discriminated against the attorneys, who, as the wise law‐givers of old
argued, being professional libellers of other men, had no right to exact a
fine when their own characters were assailed.

The custom of fosterage, about which so much unfavorable comment has been
made by modern ill‐informed writers, is fully and clearly explained by
O’Curry, who classes it as a part of the educational system of the
country, and not, as some erroneously suppose, the partial desertion of
children by their parents. In Lecture XVII. he asserts:


    “We have ample proof that this fosterage was not a mere
    indiscriminate custom among all classes of the people, nor in any
    case one merely confined to the bare physical nurture and rearing
    of the child, which in early infancy was committed to the care of
    a nurse and her husband; but that the fosterhood was generally
    that of a whole family or tribe, and that in very many cases it
    became a bond of friendship and alliance between two or more
    tribes, and even provinces. In those cases the fosterers were not
    of the common class, poor people glad to perform their nursing for
    mere pay, and whose care extended to physical rearing only. On the
    contrary, it is even a question, and one not easily settled,
    whether the term nursing, in the modern acceptation of the word,
    should be applied at all to the old Gaelic fosterage, and whether
    the term pupilage would not be more appropriate.... The old Gaelic
    fosterage extended to the training and education, not only of
    children up to the age of fourteen, but sometimes of youths up to
    that of seventeen years.”


One of the chief duties of the foster‐father was the military training of
the young chieftains. This consisted principally of the management of the
horse, either in pairs for the chariot or singly for riding, the use of
the casting spear and sling, and the sword exercise. Of strategy the
ancient Irish soldiers had no idea, and very little of tactics; so that
their battles were hand‐to‐hand combats, and therefore bloody and
generally decisive. Their weapons of bronze or iron, many fine specimens
of which we examined years ago in the museum of the Royal Irish Academy,
still exhibit evidences of high finish and excellent temper. We do not
find any mention of cavalry in the accounts handed down to us of the
various battles fought in the earlier centuries, and very slight allusions
to defensive armor. Ornaments of gold and other precious metals, such as
crowns, collars, torque rings, and shield‐bosses, were worn in great
profusion and variety, not only by nobles and generals, but by ordinary
officers; in fact, so gorgeous are the poets’ descriptions of the
decorations of their favorite heroes that we might be inclined to accuse
them of gross exaggeration had we not also been shown some magnificent
antiques of this description, in a perfect state of preservation, by the
gentlemen of the academy during several visits made to that depository of
Irish antiquities. Some of these valuable decorations are made of native
ore, but by far the greater number were manufactured out of the spoils of
war—the plunder wrested from the adjacent islands and the coast of France
by the numerous expeditions that were fitted out in Ireland in the three
or four centuries preceding S. Patrick’s mission.

The dress of the higher classes was, it seems, equally magnificent, and
each rank was distinguished, not only by the peculiar shape of its
garments, but by the number of colors allowed to be worn. Thus, servants
had one color; farmers, two; officers, three; women, four; chiefs, five;
_ollamhs_ and _files_, six; kings and queens, seven; and, according to the
ancient records, bishops of the Christian Church were afterwards allowed
to use all these combined. Red, brown, and crimson, with their shades and
compounds, were the colors generally used; green, yellow, blue, and black
sometimes, but not frequently. Prof. Sullivan, in that part of his
introduction treating of the various dye‐stuffs used in ancient Ireland,
takes occasion to dissipate some popular errors with regard to national
colors. He says:


    “Garments dyed yellow with saffron are constantly spoken of by
    modern writers as characteristic of the Irish. There is no
    evidence, however, that saffron was at all known by the ancient
    Irish, and _Lenas_ or _Inars_ of a yellow color are only mentioned
    two or three times in the principal tales. From what has been
    shown in the _Lectures_ and in this _Introduction_ about the color
    of the ancient Irish dress, it will be evident that there was no
    national as distinguished from clan color for the _Lena_; a
    saffron‐dyed one, if at all used in ancient times, would be
    peculiar to a single clan.”


The _Lena_ here spoken of was an inner garment which hung down to the
knees like a modern kilt, usually made of linen, and sometimes interwoven
with threads of gold. In addition to this were worn a shirt, or _Leine_; a
cloak (_Brat_); an _Inar_, or jacket; _Triubhas_, or trowsers; a _Bor_, or
conical hat; and _Cuarans_, or shoes made of raw‐hide. The costume of the
women differed little from that of the men, except that they discarded the
_triubhas_, and wore their _lenas_ and _leines_ longer. “They were,
however,” says Sullivan, “distinguished from the men by wearing a veil,
which covered the head. This veil was the _Caille_, which formed an
essential part of the legal contents of a lady’s work‐bag. In a passage
from the laws, quoted in the _Lectures_, it is called ‘a veil of one
color’; as if variegated ones were sometimes used.... The white linen
cloth still worn by nuns represents exactly both the Irish _Caille_ and
the German _Hulla_.” In many other respects, besides the matter of dress,
women were placed on a footing nearly equal to that of men in those remote
times; and if their liberal and respectful treatment may be considered one
of the tests of civilization, the old Gaels were in refinement far in
advance of any other race in pagan Europe, and indeed of many of our own
times. We find women not only taking part in public affairs as rulers and
generals, but as Druidesses, judges, poets, and teachers. At Tara and the
great provincial fairs a separate portion of the grounds was assigned
them, so that they could observe the games and enjoy the amusements
without interruption; while in the homes of the _Rigs_ and chiefs the best
rooms, and sometimes an entire building, called _Grianan_, or sunny house,
was exclusively reserved for their use. Most of the principal places in
the country, such as the locations of the great fairs and the sites of
royal palaces, were named in their honor, as well as the mountains and
rivers and other objects in nature suggestive of symmetry, beauty, and
elegance. We also read in the _Senchus Mor_ several very minute and
stringent laws protecting their rights of person and property, assigning
their dowry before marriage and their separate ownership of property
afterwards. They were, in fact, to a great extent pecuniarily independent
of their husbands; and though polygamy was tolerated and divorce allowed
in pagan times, they were so hedged in by restrictions and conditions that
it is more than probable little advantage was taken of the latitude thus
afforded both parties.

Being almost exclusively an agricultural people, with very little commerce
with the outward world, the food of the ancient Irish was confined to the
natural productions of the soil, flesh‐meat, milk, and fish. Wheat, spelt‐
wheat, barley, and oats were produced in abundance, while cattle were so
plentiful and so general an article of traffic that in the absence of coin
they formed the currency of the country, and in them fines were paid and
taxes levied. Butter, milk, and cheese were luxuries, but vegetables, such
as leeks, onions, and water‐cresses, were to be found growing in the
garden of the lowest _Fuidir_. Beer, likewise, appears to have been the
popular drink. Imported wine and native mead, distilled from honey, were
considered the aristocratic beverages of the period. That large quantities
of the latter were consumed at the triennial feasts there can be no doubt,
judging from the tales of the poets; and it was on occasions when it was
circling round the board that the _Cruits_ (harps), _Timpans_, or violins,
and _Cruiscach_, or pipes, the three principal musical instruments of the
Gaels, came into play. The poets, too, were there to sing their songs of
love and war, and the historians to recite the traditions of the tribes of
Erinn. It is not positively known whether the pagan Irish had a written
language or alphabet. O’Curry is disposed to believe they had, while
Sullivan is of opinion that letters and writing were introduced with
Christianity, and that previous to S. Patrick’s time all teaching in the
ancient schools was oral, and the genealogies and histories were committed
to memory and transmitted from father to son. They both, however, agree
that there was a system of writing known only to the initiated, now called
_Ogham_, which was inscribed on prepared wood, and engraved on monuments
and tombstones, many of which latter, though still well preserved, are
illegible to the best antiquarian scholars. The ancient Gaels, like their
descendants, had a special reverence for their dead, and indulged in
protracted wakes, as well as extensive funerals. In pagan days their
funeral ceremonies were most elaborate, but in Christian times these gave
way to the solemn offices of the church. Each person was buried according
to his rank while living; the corpse was deposited deep in the ground, and
a cairn or mound of earth and stone was erected over the grave to mark the
spot. We have no reason to suppose that they had even the faintest notion
of a future life or of the immortality of the soul, their mythology
limiting the supernatural to celebrated _Tuatha da Danians_, real
personages, who had left the surface to inhabit the bowels of the earth,
and to fairies, the “good people” of the modern peasantry.

Those, then, were the people, computed to have been about three millions
in number in his time, to whom S. Patrick preached the New Law, and whose
complete conversion and subsequent undying attachment to Catholicity have
puzzled as well as confounded the enemies of the church. Though pagans,
they were neither barbarous nor over‐superstitious, and their ready
appreciation and acceptance of God’s mysterious and elaborate Word is the
best proof that their hearts were pure and their minds active and
comprehensive.




Robespierre.


The father of the great revolutionary demagogue was an advocate at Arras,
a peaceful citizen, who had nothing about him in character or manners to
suggest that he was to be the parent of the monster known to history as
the tiger‐man. Nay, so little of ferocity was there about the worthy
advocate that, when his wife died, he nearly went melancholy‐mad for
grief, and in his despair left his native town, and took to wandering
about France, then beyond it to Germany and England, where he finally
died. There are, it is true, some ill‐natured local chronicles extant
which pretend that it was not so much grief as debt that drove the
disconsolate widower into exile; and this harsh and unpoetic version is
supported by the fact of his having, by his flight, abandoned to
loneliness and utter destitution the three little children, two boys and a
girl, whom the wife he so bitterly lamented had left to his paternal care.
Maximilien Marie Isidore, the eldest of the three, was born on the 6th of
April, 1760. The solitary position and the poverty of the deserted
children attracted the compassion of some kind persons of the town, and
notably that of the _curé_ of the parish, who sent Maximilien to school,
where soon, by dint of hard work and intelligence, the boy shot ahead of
all his class fellows, and justified the predictions of friends that he
would make a name for himself in whatever trade or calling he embraced.
The Bishop of Arras, Mgr. de Conzié, was also interested in the little
fellow; his industry and desolate poverty making a claim on the prelate’s
paternal notice. He used his influence with the abbot of the famous Abbey
of Waast to grant Maximilien one of the abbatial _bourses_ at the College
of Louis le Grand, in Paris. The very first steps in life of the future
persecutor of priests and religion were thus guided by the hand of the
church, his poverty enriched, his orphanhood fathered, by her charity. The
Abbé Proyart, then president of Louis le Grand, continued to the poor
provincial student the fostering kindness of those worthy ecclesiastics
who had placed him under his charge. Maximilien was also at this time
largely assisted and most kindly befriended by the Abbé de la Roche, a
canon of Notre Dame, who, all through the period of the young man’s
studies in Paris, kept watch over him, and showed him the most sincere and
delicate affection. When at the age of nineteen, Maximilien left the
college, the Abbé de la Roche used his influence to secure the vacant
_bourse_ for the younger brother, Augustin Robespierre, and succeeded.
Maximilien was called to the bar very soon after leaving Paris, and began
at once to excite attention by his talent as a speaker. The first mention
we find of his forensic success is in 1783, when he was engaged in a case
against the corporation of St. Omer, a small town near Arras, in behalf of
a gentleman who had erected a lightning‐conductor on his house, and been
prosecuted on account of it, and condemned by the corporation. He appealed
to the higher court of Arras. Robespierre pleaded his cause, and won a
triumphant reversal of the first verdict. We find a note of this incident
in the _Memoires de Bachaumont_: “The cause about the _paratonnerre_ has
been before our court three days, and has been pleaded by M. de
Robespierre, a young lawyer of extraordinary merit; he has displayed in
this affair—which was, in fact, the cause of art and science against
prejudice—a degree of eloquence and sagacity that gives the highest idea
of his talents. He had a complete triumph; on the 31st day of May the
court reversed the sentence, and permitted M. de Boisvale to re‐erect his
_paratonnerre_.” Robespierre was just three‐and‐twenty at this date. He is
styled _de_ Robespierre by the writer, and had assumed the _particule
noble_ at a much earlier date; he is entered at college with it, and at
the bar, and was elected to the States‐General as _de_ Robespierre. The
pretentious prefix cost him dear, as we shall see; it afforded a poisoned
shaft to Camille Desmoulins long after the Regenerator of the people had
erased the feudal particle from his signature. But these were sunny days,
when he might use it with impunity, and even to some advantage. The young
advocate was courted and admired, and made welcome in clubs and drawing‐
rooms; he wrote essays and won prizes from learned societies, thus
establishing a literary as well as legal reputation. He even aspired to be
a poet, and addressed sonnets to ladies of fashion at Arras, which gained
him the smiles of the Ariadnes and Arachnes that he sang to, and caused
him to be rallied as a squire of dames. This time of merry dalliance,
however, soon came to an end, and graver ambitions began to open out
before Robespierre. He was elected member of the States‐General. M.
Dumont, the distinguished journalist, gives a lively description of the
figure made by the “avocat, de Robespierre,” in one of the earliest
sittings of that Assembly: “The clergy, for the purpose of surprising the
Tiers Etat into a union of the orders, sent a deputation to invite the
Tiers to a conference on the distresses of the poor. The Tiers saw through
the design, and, not willing to acknowledge the clergy as a separate body,
yet afraid to reject so charitable and popular a proposition, knew not
what answer to make, when one of the deputies, after concurring in the
description of the miseries of the people, rose and addressed the
ecclesiastical deputation: ‘Go tell your colleagues that, if they are so
anxious to relieve the people, they should hasten to unite themselves in
this hall with the friends of the people. Tell them no longer to retard
our proceedings and the public good by contumacious delays, or to try to
carry their point by such stratagems as this. Rather let them, as
ministers of religion, as worthy servants of their Master, renounce the
splendor which surrounds them, the luxury which insults the poor. Dismiss
those insolent lackeys who attend you; sell your gaudy equipages, and
convert those odious superfluities into food for the poor.’ At this
speech, which interpreted so well the passions of the moment, there arose,
not applause—that would have appeared like a bravado—but a confused murmur
of approbation much more flattering. Every one asked who was the speaker.
He was not known, but in a few minutes his name passed from mouth to
mouth; it was one which afterwards made all France tremble—it was
_Robespierre_!”

One is at a loss which to admire most in this brilliant _sortie_, the
skill and power of the speaker in playing on the passions of his hearers,
or the dastardly ingratitude which led him to use the eloquence he owed in
so large a measure to the clergy for the purpose of stigmatizing his best
benefactors. The first time Robespierre’s voice was raised in the tribune
it was to vituperate the men to whom he owed his education, almost, it may
be said, his existence. The reward of this treachery was not delayed; he
electrified his audience, and henceforth became known to fame, though not
yet to infamy. It is only just to Robespierre to admit that when he
entered on his public life, his character was unstained by any of the
vices which it developed later; he was in private life held to be
virtuous, and suspected of no vice beyond the honorable one of ambition.
Probably he would have lived and died amongst his fellow‐citizens without
earning a worse reputation than the rest of them, if this latent ambition
had not led him to seek to rise above them, and if his ability had not
seconded the aspiration. Even in his demagogic career he kept his
reputation for integrity, and gained the surname of the Incorruptible.
Incorruptible by money he certainly was, while the instinct of either
cowardice or sagacity induced him to disavow all personal ambition. Power
was what he thirsted for; wealth and pageant he despised. These
principles, aided by his fiery talent as any orator and his shrewd
knowledge of the times, soon lifted him above all competitors, and made
him a kind of uncrowned monarch long before he became so in reality as
dictator of the republic. It is interesting to note the various decrees he
passed while reigning in the National Assembly. One of the first was the
turning of the Church of S. Geneviève into a Pantheon for the ashes of
great men, and the inauguration of the paganized Christian temple by the
entombing of Mirabeau’s remains there. Then we see him ardent in
endeavoring to carry the abolition of capital punishment—an instance of
that strange paradox so common to Frenchmen, who shrink with morbid
sentimentality from inflicting death on the vilest malefactor by the hand
of justice, while so ready to shed the blood of innocent men without
remorse, nay, with exultation, the moment their passions are roused.

The flight of the royal family to Varennes wrought a sudden and decisive
change in the state of public affairs. Robespierre was just then at the
summit of his reputation as an orator, admired as the most prominent
figure in Mme. Roland’s coterie, which numbered all the cleverest men of
the new school, though the gifted and ill‐starred centre of the group
seems, even in the days of their closest friendship, to have resented
Robespierre’s stubborn independence, which contrasted disagreeably with
the unqualified adulation of his fellow‐devotees.

The abortive attempt of the unfortunate Louis to fly from a position which
had become unbearable had set the match to the train which Robespierre and
his Jacobin faction had so long been preparing. The question, hitherto
whispered in ambiguous words, was now spoken boldly aloud: What was to be
done with the king? Lafayette was for keeping him a prisoner in the
Tuileries, he, meanwhile, acting as a sort of military viceroy; the
Orleanist faction had another solution to offer; the Jacobins and the
Girondists another. There was a stormy sitting at the Assembly. Brissot
proposed that the people should like one man rally round the republican
flag, and sign a petition for the abolition of the king. There arose in
answer to this daring proposition a tempest of applause, terror, anger,
and loyal indignation. The Assembly rejected it, and voted for maintaining
the king. Robespierre rushed out of the hall, tearing his hair and crying
out, “My friends, we are lost! The king is saved!” This was on the 15th of
July. A meeting had been already called of the Jacobin Club for the 17th
on the Champs de Mars for the purpose of expressing the national will. The
club, on hearing the vote of the Assembly, kept up a farce of respect by
issuing a counter‐order. But the sovereign people were hampered by no such
mock scruples; they, in the person of Brissot, drew up a fresh petition,
and invited all classes of their fellow‐citizens to attend at the
appointed day on the Champs de Mars, where the altar of fatherland would
be erected, and where all patriots could sign the petition towards the
freedom of the country. A tragi‐comic incident marked the proceedings at
an early hour. Two men were found hid under the “altar,” and detected in
the act of boring a hole in it with a gimlet; they were forthwith dragged
out and massacred on the spot, though the only evidence of guilt brought
against them at the time, or afterwards, was that one of them had a wooden
leg, and the other a basket of provisions. The mob were like dry powder
that only wanted a spark to make it ignite, destroying and self‐
destructive. The wildest inferences were drawn from the discovery of the
two unlucky eaves‐droppers: they were laying a mine to blow up the
patriots assembled round the altar of fatherland; the absence of all
appliances for this terrible purpose proved nothing; some cried out that
they were spies in the king’s pay; others that they were secreted there as
dupes to be murdered by Lafayette’s creatures as a pretext for beginning
the massacres that followed. We even find Mme. Roland repeating some
absurd notions of this kind; but nothing is too monstrous or too
preposterous for prejudice to swallow. However, let the motives of the two
men have been what they may, their murder was undoubtedly the signal for
that onslaught of the troops which completely destroyed Lafayette’s
tottering popularity, and compelled him to leave Paris for a command on
the frontier. The real odium of the unpremeditated blood‐shedding fell,
like every mistake of the time, on the king. On the 5th of February, 1792,
Robespierre was named Public Accuser, and from this event dates the
explosion of personal rivalry between him and Brissot. He never could
forgive the latter having been chosen to draw up that famous petition of
the Champs de Mars, and for keeping the ascendency which this fact gave
him in the Assembly and in the Jacobin Club. But Robespierre did not long
retain the subordinate position of Public Accuser; he hated the bondage of
having to attend at fixed hours, and some months after his nomination he
resigned and started a newspaper called the _Défenseur_. Blood and terror
were henceforth the watchwords of the journalist‐patriot. He effected a
sham reconciliation with Brissot and all other enemies, and the Judas kiss
of hate and treachery went round.

Roland was named minister at this crisis; a clever and honest man,
moderate, and, above all, the husband of Mme. Roland, his nomination was
hailed with joy by all. Robespierre alone was furious at seeing the
mediocre provincial farmer placed over his head. His jealous vengeance
against Mme. Roland dated from this elevation of her husband. The success
of his journal consoled him, meanwhile, for the delay of larger triumphs,
while it procured him competence and independence, which were all he
required. He lodged with a man named Duplay, a carpenter, who had a wife
and two daughters. One of the latter became branded in connection with the
name of her father’s tenant. Robespierre vindicated his surname of
Incorruptible all through the period of his popular power, inasmuch as he
was inaccessible to the temptation of money or any of the softer bribes
which sometimes beguile hard, ambitious men into acts of mercy or passing
tenderness.

In August, 1792, he suspended his labors as a journalist, and henceforth
devoted his undivided energies and his whole time to the political events
which were thickening around him. The last number of the _Défenseur_
contains an inflammatory appeal which is too significant of the man and
the times to be omitted. It was decided that a convention should be
elected to choose a new form of national government. The issue depended
almost entirely on the character and principles of the members who should
compose it. Robespierre determined at any and every cost to be one of the
elected. It was his supreme opportunity; if he missed it, his career as a
popular leader was broken, and he must sink back into the ranks of obscure
mediocrities who had shot up from the mass of agitators like rockets,
burning bright and fierce for a moment, and then subsiding in darkness. He
had that instinct of genius which enables a man to read the temper of his
time, and to this sanguinary temper he passionately addressed himself in
the closing number of his paper:

“You must _prepare_ the success of this convention by the regeneration of
the spirit of the people. Let us awake—all, all arise, all arm, and the
enemies of liberty will hide themselves in darkness. Let the tocsin of
Paris be re‐echoed in all the departments. Let the people learn at once to
reason and to fight. You are now at war with all your oppressors, and you
will have no peace till you have punished them. Far be from you that
pusillanimous weakness or that cowardly indulgence which the tyrants so
long satiated with the blood of the people now invoke when their own hour
is come! Impunity has produced all their crimes and all your sufferings.
Let them fall under the sword of the law. Clemency towards them would be
real barbarity—an outrage on injured humanity.” This manifesto revealed
the true aim and policy of Robespierre, and just gave the touch that was
necessary to set the wheel revolving. Danton cried amen to it, and all the
faction shouted amen in chorus. “We must dare, and dare again, and dare to
the bitter end!” said Danton, and the word acted like a trumpet‐call to
the bloodhounds of the revolution. The prisons of Paris were at this
moment gorged with aristocrats awaiting their trial. The people shouted,
Try them! The tocsin sounded, the prison‐doors were surrounded. Mock
courts of justice were set up in the courtyards. Quickly, one by one, the
prisoners are called out, questions are rapidly put and answered; the jury
decides: “Let the prisoner be enlarged!” The _gendarmes_ seize him; they
open the gate and “enlarge” him. He falls forward on a mass of glittering
pikes and bayonets, and dies, cut to pieces. Soon the number of the
butchered is so great that the amateur executioners have to pause and
clear the space by piling up the corpses to one side before they resume
their work. Every prison presents the same scene. At La Force a remnant of
the Swiss Guard is called out. “They clasp each other spasmodically, gray
veterans crying, ‘Mercy, gentlemen, mercy!’ But there is no mercy! They
prepare to die like brave men. One of them steps forward. He had on a blue
frock‐coat. He was about thirty. His stature was above the common, his
look noble and martial. ‘I go first,’ he said, ‘since it must be so.
Adieu!’ Then, dashing his hat behind him, ‘Which way?’ cried he to the
brigands. ‘Show it me.’ They open the folding gate. He is announced to the
multitude. He stands a moment motionless, then plunges forth among the
pikes, and dies of a thousand wounds.”(117) The fair and saintly Princesse
de Lamballe fell, butchered by the same pikes; her head paraded through
the streets, her remains profaned by the most unheard‐of indignities. As
it always happens in these storms of human souls, there were tones of a
divine harmony to be heard striking through the hideous din. Old M. de
Sombreuil is dragged out to die. His daughter, a tender girl in the first
blush of maidenhood, rushes out, fearless and bold, clinging to him, and
appeals to the tigers about to shed his blood: “O good friends! he is my
father! He is no aristocrat! We hate aristocrats; tell me how I can prove
it to you?” They fill a bowl full of the hot blood of an aristocrat just
slain, and present it to her, saying: “Drink this, and we will believe
thee and spare thy father.”

She drinks the loathsome draught, and clasps her father amidst the
_Vivats_ of the mob. Alas! it was only a respite that the brave deed had
gained for the beloved old man. He died by those same blood‐stained hands
before the year was out. At the abbey a picture of rest and calm is to be
seen: “Towards _seven_ on Sunday night, we saw two men enter, their hands
bloody, and armed with sabres. A turnkey with a torch lighted them; he
points to the bed of the unfortunate Swiss, Reding. Reding was dying. One
of the men paused; but the other said: _Allons donc!_ (come along!) and
lifted the dying man, and carried him on his back out to the street. He
was massacred there. We looked at one another in silence; we clasped each
other’s hands; we gazed on the pavement of our prison, on which lay the
moonlight, checkered with shadows.... At _three in the morning_ we heard
them breaking in one of the prison‐doors. We thought they were coming to
kill us.... The Abbé Lenfant and the Abbé de Chapt‐Rastignac appeared in
the pulpit of the chapel, which was our prison. They had got in by a door
from the stairs. They said to us that our end was at hand; that we must
compose ourselves and receive their last blessing. An electric movement,
not to be described, threw us all on our knees, and we received it. These
two white‐haired old men blessing us from their place above, death
hovering over our heads—the moment is never to be forgotten.”(118) Half an
hour later the two priests were dragged out and massacred, those whom they
had strengthened with their last words to meet a like fate listening to
their cries.

The massacres began on the 2d and lasted till the 6th, when Robespierre
and Danton were elected to that legislative body called the Deputation of
Paris, composed of twenty‐four members, the first name on the list being
Robespierre, the last Philippe Egalité. It was on this occasion that the
future regicide adopted the surname of Egalité, he being compelled to
choose some appellation not obnoxious to the people.

The great struggle now began between the Jacobins and the Girondists, or
virtually between the leaders of the two factions, the old rivals,
Robespierre and Brissot. All the ultra‐republicans, who were represented
by the Deputation of Paris, grouped themselves on the top benches of the
convention to the left of the president, and were called the Mountain—a
name henceforth identified with its prophet, Robespierre. The question
still was, What was to be done with the king? The Jacobins were for
killing him, the Girondists for putting him aside. The wretched weakness,
vacillation, and cowardliness of the Girondists make them objects of
contempt, without exciting in us the kind of horrified awe inspired by the
monstrous feats of those Titanic fiends, the Jacobins. By what fatality is
it in France that the honest‐meaning party is always the cowardly one that
dares not assert itself, but bows down, cowed by the cynical audacity of
the anarchists? The Girondists might have turned the scales, even at this
crisis, if they had had the courage of their consciences; but they were
cowards. Their policy was to run with the hare and cry with the hounds,
and it met with the fate it deserved. But we must not anticipate. The
Mountain, on the other hand, did not lack the courage of its creed; it
out‐heroded Herod in its fury against the king and all appertaining to the
old order which he represented. Roman history was its Bible, and the
examples there recorded were for ever on its lips. All citizens were
heroes, Cincinnatuses, Catos, Ciceros, etc.; all sovereigns were Neros and
Caligulas. The Girondists turned these fine texts against their rivals by
accusing them of plotting to set up a triumvirate, to be composed of
Robespierre, Marat, and Danton. This was only three weeks after the orgy
of blood which ushered in the reign of Robespierre and of Terror. Danton
mounted the tribune, and made an eloquent defence of Robespierre, who
never spoke impromptu when he could avoid it. Marat then rose—for the
first time in the convention—and was hooted down; but he persisted, and
made them listen while he exposed his revolting doctrines of wholesale
murder and anarchical rule.

So the days passed, in boisterous invective, idle perorations, and savage
threats of one party against another. The Girondists, however, were
worsted in the fight, and the strength of the position remained with
Robespierre and his more bloody and unscrupulous faction, who had from the
starting traced out his plan, and adhered to it without flinching. The
king was foredoomed to the scaffold, but some semblance of legality should
accompany the decree. So strong was the Jacobin influence at this crisis
that those who did not share the murderous design were terrified into
seeming to do so, and, while looking with horror at the regicide in
preparation, were cowed into silent acquiescence. M. Thiers, in his
_History of the Revolution_, says: “Many of the deputies who had come down
with the intention of voting for the king were frightened at the fury of
the people, and, though much touched by the fate of Louis XVI., they were
terrified at the consequences of an acquittal. This fear was greatly
increased at the sight of the Assembly and of the scene it presented. That
scene, dark and terrible, had shaken the hearts of all, and changed the
resolution of Lecointre of Versailles, whose personal bravery cannot be
doubted, and who had not ceased to return to the galleries the menacing
gestures with which they were intimidating the Assembly. Even he, when it
came to the point, hesitated, and dropped from his mouth the terrible and
unexpected word, ‘death.’ Vergniaud, who had appeared most deeply touched
by the fate of the king, and who had declared that ‘nothing could ever
induce him to condemn the unhappy prince’—Vergniaud, at the sight of that
tumultuous scene, pronounced the sentence of death.” It must truly have
been an appalling spectacle, the like of which the civilized world had
never before beheld. Mercier, in his _Sketches of the Revolution_, gives
us an animated and glowing picture of the court during the trial: “The
famous sitting which decided the fate of Louis lasted seventy‐two hours.
One would naturally suppose that the Assembly was a scene of meditation,
silence, and a sort of religious terror. Not at all. The end of the hall
was transformed into a kind of opera‐box, where ladies in _négligée_ were
eating ices and oranges, drinking _liqueurs_, and receiving the
compliments and salutations of comers and goers. The _huissiers_
(bailiffs) on the side of the Mountain acted the part of the openers of
the opera‐boxes. They were employed every instant in turning the key in
the doors of the side galleries, and gallantly escorting the mistresses of
the Duke of Orleans, caparisoned with tri‐colored ribbons. Although every
mark of applause or disapprobation was forbidden, nevertheless, on the
side of the Mountain, the Duchess Dowager,(119) the amazon of the Jacobin
bands, made long ‘ha‐a‐has!’ when she heard the word ‘death’ strongly
twang in her ears.

“The lofty galleries, destined for the people during the days which
preceded this famous trial, were never empty of strangers and people of
every class, who there drank wine and brandy as if it had been a tavern.
Bets were open at all the neighboring coffee‐houses. Listlessness,
impatience, fatigue, were marked on almost every countenance. Each deputy
mounted the tribune in his turn, and every one was asking when his turn
came. Some deputy came, I know not who, sick, and in his morning‐gown and
night‐cap. This phantom caused a great deal of diversion in the Assembly.
The countenances of those who went to the tribune, rendered more funereal
from the pale gleams of the lights, when in a slow and sepulchral voice
they pronounced the word ‘death!’—all these physiognomies which succeeded
one another, their tones, their different keys; d’Orleans hissing and
groaning when he voted the death of his relative; some calculating if they
should have time to dine before they gave their vote; women with pins
pricking cards to count the votes; deputies who had fallen asleep and were
waked up in order to vote; Manuel, the secretary, sliding away a few
votes, in order to save the unhappy king, and on the point of being put to
death in the corridors for his infidelity—these sights can never be
described as they passed. It is impossible to picture what they were, nor
will history be able to reach them.”

Amongst the timid Girondists who dared not vote for acquittal, and shrank
from decreeing the king to death, many hit upon a half‐measure, which was
that of coupling their vote—for death with conditions that practically
negatived it. This cowardly transaction is said to have given rise to some
trickery in the counting of the votes, which enabled the scrutineers to
make the majority of _one_ voice by which the sentence of death was
carried. It was this sham proceeding which prompted Sièyes to say when
recording his vote, “Death—without palaver!”

Robespierre’s figure stands out with vivid and terrible brilliancy against
the background of this picture. He dismissed the question of the king’s
innocence or guilt—that had, he knew right well, nothing whatever to do
with the issue—and proceeded to demand his death on the grounds of urgent
political expediency. “The death of the king was not a question of law,
but of state policy, which, without quibbling about his guilt or
innocence, required his death; the life of one man, if ever so innocent,
must be sacrificed to preserve the lives of millions.” There was honesty
at any rate in this plain speaking, and so it was better than the odious
hypocrisy displayed by the other actors in the tragic farce. On
Robespierre’s descending from the tribune, his brother Augustin, rose and
demanded in the name of the people “that Louis Capet shall be brought to
the bar, to declare his original accomplices, to hear sentence of death
pronounced on him, and to be forthwith conducted to execution.” Wild
confusion covered this extravagant motion, but no notice was taken of it.
The 21st of January was near at hand; even the Mountain could afford to
wait so long.

On the 10th of March, the Revolutionary Tribunal was decreed. A month
later there broke out a violent altercation between Robespierre and some
of the Girondists in the Convention; numbers clamored for the “expulsion
of the twenty‐two” obstreperous Girondists; they were arraigned before the
bar where the king whom they so basely betrayed had lately stood; the
trial lasted four days; even that tribunal, used to dispense with all
proof of guilt in its victims, could not decide on condemning twenty‐two
men at one fell swoop without some shadow of reason, and there was none to
be found. But Robespierre was not going to lose his opportunity for a
quibble; impatient of the delay, he drew up a decree that “whenever any
trial should have lasted three days, the tribunal might declare itself
satisfied with the guilt of the prisoners, might stop the defence, close
the discussions, and send the accused to death!” This abominable document
was read and inscribed on the register of the tribunal the same evening,
the Girondists were at once condemned, and sent to the scaffold next
morning.

To Be Concluded Next Month.




The Better Christmas.


“’Tis not the feast that changes with the ever‐changing times,
But these that lightly vote away the glories of the past—
The joys that dream‐like haunt me with the merry matin chimes
I loved so in my boyhood, and shall doat on to the last.

“There still is much of laughter, and a measure of old cheer:
The ivy wreaths, if scanty, are as verdant as of yore:
And still the same kind greeting for the universal ear:
But, to me, for all their wishing, ’tis a ‘merry’ feast no more!”

I said: and came an answer from the stars to which I sighed—
Those stars that lit the vigil of the favor’d shepherd band.
And ’twas as if again the heavens open’d deep and wide,
And the carol of the angel‐choir new‐flooded all the land

“Good tidings still we bring to all who still have ears to hear;
To all who love His coming—the elect that cannot cease;
And louder rings our anthem, to these watchers, year by year,
Its earnest of the perfect joy—the everlasting peace.

“Art thou, then, of these watchers, if thou canst not read the sign?
The world was at its darkest when the blessed Day‐star(120) shone.
Again ’tis blacker to her beam: and thou must needs repine,
And sicken, so near sunrise, for the moonlight that is gone!”




English And Scotch Scenes.


The home life of England has ever been a favorite topic with American
writers. The first thing that strikes an American travelling through
England is the age of everything he sees, the roots by which every
existing institution, custom, or pleasure is intimately connected with its
real, tangible prototype in the past. He sees, too, how the people live a
thoroughly characteristic life—that which consists in identification with
everything that is national. No one is so unadaptive as the pure‐bred
Briton, and it has truly been said that an Englishman carries his country
with him wherever he goes. You never see an Englishman to advantage except
at home; but, once enthroned amid his local surroundings, there is a
sturdy native dignity in him which none can help admiring. He is no
politician in the mercenary, personal, business‐like sense of the word,
but he takes a pride in following the course of his country’s progress, in
bearing a hand in all reforms, in exercising his right of censure—or, as
some foreigners plainly call it, “grumbling”—and especially in watching
closely over the well‐being of his own county and neighborhood. By this
minute division of labor every county becomes, as it were, a self‐governed
little nation, jealous and tenacious of its rights, keenly alive to its
interests, intensely vigorous, and occasionally aggressive. Political and
social life are closely intermingled, and personal disinterestedness is
almost everywhere the rule. The varied traditions of different
neighborhoods and the strong individuality shown by the different sections
of the country, contribute a picturesque element to modern life, and often
make the most inherently prosaic actions take on a mask of romance.

Elections to Parliament afford a multiplicity of such scenes, and form one
of the greatest periodical excitements that stir up country towns. The
candidate is generally one of the sons of some family well known in the
county, or sometimes the chief proprietor of the neighborhood, if he be
still under fifty. The county constituencies almost always return a member
of this class; the commercial representatives come from the great
manufacturing towns, where they have slowly toiled to make their fortunes,
and risen, by earnest application to business, from the rank of a
vestryman to that of lord mayor. The country town in which the hustings
and polling‐booths are erected is as animated as it would have been at a
great fair of the middle ages or an extraordinary sale of wool, which in
Gloucestershire, Warwickshire, and Worcestershire was a great article of
trade in the XIVth century. Everything in the shape of bunting,
evergreens, allegorical pictures, flaming posters, and unlimited ale has
been done by both sides to enhance their popularity with the electors and
non‐electors. Indeed, the latter are quite as important as the former, for
from their ranks are recruited the bands of music and the array of
stalwart supporters, ready to fight, if required, and to shout at the top
of their lungs, so as to bewilder the voters and claim or surprise their
votes. The canvassing that goes before an English election is neither a
pleasant nor a creditable thing to dwell on; when subjected to the
analysis of uncompromising morality, it resolves itself into deliberate
and organized “humbug”; for it includes every species of flattery under
the sun, not to speak of direct bribery. Very funny incidents sometimes
occur to break the monotony of the usual routine. For instance, in
canvassing a large seaport town, the Liberal candidate bethinks himself of
his yacht—a gem in every way—and organizes a large party, to which are
invited the voting citizens and their wives and daughters. A splendid
luncheon is provided, and each dame and damsel goes home with the
conviction that her smiles have won the heart of the candidate, and that
he has sworn them by a tacit but flattering contract to further his claims
with their all‐powerful husbands and fathers. “_Honi soit qui mal y
pense._” The latter are as proud of the expectant M.P.’s notice of the
female members of their households as the ladies themselves, and the issue
is trembling in the balance, when an announcement goes forth that the
Conservative candidate has had his drag and four horses sent down from
London, and proposes parading the young ladies and the more fearless
married women on the roof of this ultra‐fashionable vehicle. The
invitations are of course more limited than those for the yacht, but
promises of repeating them, until all the free electors’ families have
been included, cheer up the spirits of those not asked the first day. The
Liberal pits his yacht against his rival’s drag, and invites the maids and
matrons to another sail. Apparently, Neptune does not intend to vote for
him, for a slight breeze arises, and the waves roll more than landsmen
find pleasant. The cabin fills rapidly, and faces once rosy and saucy,
turn pale and shrunken; the return against wind and tide is a wretched
journey. The poor candidate, in despair, tries to become nurse and doctor,
as well as consoler; but he, too, feels his cheeks blanch, not at the
lurching of the vessel, but at the fear of the effect of this accident
upon the votes which he was already reckoning up so confidently. As the
forlorn party lands, the drag sweeps by, drawn by its four fiery horses,
the whip cracking, the smart grooms grinning at the windows (in these
carriages, made like a mail‐coach, the servants sit _inside_ and the
master drives, while his guests are packed on the outside seats at the
top), the women huddling under cloaks and umbrellas, but all giggling with
delight at the adventure, neither damped nor dismayed by water that cannot
drown them, and wind that cannot make them sea‐sick. The next day those
who have recovered from their marine excursion are invited to try the
drag, and the Liberal candidate’s chances fall as visibly as the barometer
did yesterday. When the great day comes, the drag has done its work, and
the Conservative is returned by a triumphant majority.

To return to our country town in its holiday attire. No great arts are
resorted to here; the common kind of canvassing will do for these quiet,
agricultural people, and the only day that is worth mentioning is that of
the election itself. The festive look of the place does not portend any
very desperate contest, although there is a free display of the two
opposite colors—blue (Conservative) and yellow (Liberal). The rivals come
down from their neighboring seats in gay carriages full of the ladies of
their families, wearing their respective colors. The horses and postilions
wear bunches of blue or yellow ribbon; even the whip has its conspicuous
knot of color. Brass bands clash forth a whole host of discords; the hired
partisans good‐humoredly shout for one or the other party; an air of great
good‐will prevails. The whole thing looks more like the welcoming home of
a bride than a serious political gathering. The candidates ascend the
hustings, or platform for speeches, and cordially shake hands with one
another. They think it fun to be opposed to each other in public, whereas
in private they are friends, companions, and neighbors; they have had the
same training, the same education, the same associations, the same local
interests, and the question that will decide their election will more
likely be their reputation as farmers and their popularity as landlords
than their political opinions as to the affairs of the nation at large.
Talking of bribery and undue influence in elections, there is a law yet in
force (though, of course, its effect is merely nominal) which forbids any
peer to be present at an election. His presence is, by a legal fiction,
supposed to hamper the freedom of the voters, and the law thus provides
against the appearance of coercion or intimidation. The candidates for the
counties are almost invariably the sons, brothers, or nephews of peers;
but, however near the relationship, no member of the House of Lords is
allowed to infringe on this rule. A contested election, one in which party
spirit runs high and the passions of the people are artfully fanned and
excited on both sides, is a scene worth witnessing once; but the
excitement is of too rough a sort to make one wish for a second edition of
it. A foreigner once said that the two best sights which England had to
offer to a stranger were an Oxford “commemoration” and a contested
election. The latter seldom takes place in the peaceful neighborhoods of
the midland counties, and the only other species of elections, as
distinguished from the festive one which we have just sketched, is, as a
remnant of old‐time indifferentism, a curiosity in its way. There are no
longer what were called “rotten boroughs” and “pocket boroughs,” the
former representing what had once been a populous town or large village,
now reduced to half a dozen ruinous tenements and an old, disused parish
church, but still retaining the right to return one or more members to
Parliament; the second being a village still worthy of the name, but from
time immemorial voting strictly in accordance with the wishes of the “lord
of the manor,” whether peer or commoner. These were also called “close
boroughs.” The Reform Bill of 1830 did away with all such transparent
abuses, but family influence, exerted in a milder form, still remains an
important element in all agricultural counties; and it sometimes happens
that for a whole generation, no one will think it worth his while to
oppose a candidate whose good working qualities are recognized by friend
and foe, and whose personal popularity, joined with his powerful
connections, makes his success almost absolutely certain. Such was the
case in the election at O——, for which the same member has run unopposed
for at least a quarter of a century. The nomination was made by the high
sheriff and the magistrates of the county, assembled in the town‐hall.
This is a portion of a ruined castle or abbey, the Norman windows of which
still assert their identity, though they have been shamefully mutilated
and forced to conform to the ugly, shallow openings called windows in our
days. The inside showed no signs of beauty. It was a huge barn, with grim‐
looking benches or pews at one end, towering amphitheatre‐wise one above
the other. Public business of all kinds was transacted there. The
decoration of the hall is somewhat peculiar, consisting of nothing but
horse‐shoes. From time immemorial the custom of the county has been that
every peer setting foot within the little town should put up a horse‐shoe
in this hall, or give an equivalent in money, which is spent by authority
of the town council in buying a horse‐shoe in his name. There is some
dispute as to when and how the custom originated. The common belief is
that Queen Elizabeth, passing through O——, stopped to get one of her
horses shod, and, in perpetual memory of her royal visit, gave the town
the privilege of exacting the tribute of a horse‐shoe from every peer
setting foot within the county. By an anachronism, which at any rate does
honor to O——’s public spirit, there are horse‐shoes bearing dates far more
remote than the XVIth century, and some one has actually put the Conqueror
himself under contribution, and unblushingly labelled a very antique shoe
with his mighty name and the eventful date, 1066. During the last three
hundred years genuine historical horse‐shoes have abounded; some plain as
the real thing, some gold or silvered, some painted with heraldic devices,
some immense as children’s hoops, some minute as the shoe of a Shetland
pony. Whether the thousand‐year‐old superstition of the connection between
luck and a horse‐shoe, and the belief in the power of the latter against
witches, has anything to do with the custom, we do not know for certain,
but it is not unlikely.

In this remarkable town‐hall were assembled the electors and magistrates
one November morning. All the prominent country “gentlemen” and many
farmers and tradesmen were present, besides a few ladies, come to see the
proceedings. The member who had been re‐elected every time that an
election took place for the previous twenty years was the brother of one
of the great land‐owners of the neighborhood, and a Conservative. No one
thought of opposing him. His friends and constituents mostly appeared in
riding‐boots, some in “pink.”(121) One young magistrate got up and
proposed him formally to the electors in a girlish, awkward speech;
another seconded him in a still briefer address, and the question was
asked: “Has any one any objections to make or any candidate to oppose?” A
squeaky voice at the end of the hall propounded a query in this form:

“Would the honorable member vote for universal suffrage and cry down
church rates?”

A laugh ran through the crowd, and an impatient movement stirred the knot
of magistrates. Year after year some wag of this kind mounted the Radical
hobby, and rode it in this unoffending fashion at the steady‐going
“churchman” and loyal upholder of the constitution who represented the
county in Parliament. The uneasy movement continues, and horses are heard
neighing and pawing outside. Men in red coats take out their watches and
put on long faces. It is nearly twelve o’clock, and the business of the
nation is delaying the “meet.” The hounds are waiting not far off, and
candidate, sheriff, magistrates, and electors are all alike anxious to be
off. The hall is soon cleared and the election quietly over—a very
secondary matter in the consideration of those who have been kept from
kennel and field for two long hours. They rush out with all the zest of
school‐boys let loose to play, and the hunt that day has twice its
ordinary success, or at least its members think so, because the beloved
sport has been intermitted, and requires extra enthusiasm as a peace‐
offering at their hands. So with redoubled vigor the search after foxes
goes on, and not till long after sundown will the candidate, magistrates,
and constituents return to their homes.

Very different are those elections whose surroundings remind us rather of
a clan gathering to the standard of their chief than a modern constituency
crowding to the polling‐booths. The mere description of these election
scenes through Great Britain and Ireland would form an interesting chapter
in contemporaneous history. The political differences need not even be
alluded to; the contrast of outer circumstances is suggestive enough. In
an agricultural neighborhood, such as that round the town of O——, a
certain kind of torpidity exists among the prosperous and contented
farmers. Not a hundred miles from the palace of the people at Westminster
the interest in politics is subordinate to that excited by a cattle‐show
or the prospect of a drought; in a word, there is so little local change
called for which could be beneficial to the county that the passive but
deep‐rooted clinging to old traditions, which is so characteristic of the
genuine Englishman, is in this case rather a matter of course than a
virtue or a meritorious turning away from temptation.

Life is hard to the masses in a city. Sharp ills require sharp remedies,
say the demagogues; and straightway the voters adopt the extremest
doctrine they can find, and fancy it a panacea for all ills. An English
paper recently defined this kind of voter as the man “who has just learned
sufficient to be sure that there can only be one side to a question.” The
Irish elections, proverbial for their storminess, are of another nature;
appealing to our sympathy by the wild earnestness of the voters, and
governed by feelings which, though often misdirected, are yet noble in
their origin. Religion and patriotism are the prime movers of the passions
of Irish constituents; they often look upon their exercise of the
franchise as a protest against tyranny and a confession of faith. And
indeed the “tyranny” is no mere political scarecrow to them. It is very
tangible; it strikes home to them, for its immediate result may be
eviction and starvation. The wild, humorous individuality of the people of
the western baronies of Ireland redeems much that is reprehensible from
vulgarity in the faction fight—a not infrequent concomitant of the
election. There is a rough romance left in these fights, making them the
direct counterparts of the sudden encounters between the clans of the
various kings of Celtic history; and what is best and most palliative is
this: that sordid considerations are almost wholly absent from the voters’
minds. If men must fight, let them do it for anything rather than money;
and, to do these electors justice, we will say that there is less bribery
in all the Irish country districts put together than in one English
manufacturing town. You will say there is intimidation instead; but, even
that is better than bribery, for it is less degrading to a human being to
barter away his vote, in view of the threats of his landlord to turn his
wife and children out of doors, than to sell it for money. But there are
other elections to speak of—those in the Highlands of Scotland.

Education is more universal among the humbler classes in Scotland than in
either of the sister countries, and by nature the Scotchman is more
reflective than the Englishman or Irishman. There is less of collective
life in his country; the land is poor and barren, the northern parts are
broken up by lochs and treacherous estuaries, and many counties include
rocky islands among the billows of the Atlantic. In Inverness‐shire the
elector is far removed from all common external influence. He thinks
slowly and seriously, working out his own problems, answering his own
questions by the aid of his strong native sense. He and many of his
fellow‐voters are shepherds or “keepers.” They inhabit an isolated cottage
in some remote glen—a cottage that is only approached by some faint sheep‐
track. Australia or the Territories of the United States are hardly less
solitary; but, on the other hand, the Scottish Highlands, if solitary, are
not barbarous. In newly‐settled countries, where the population is only
gradually fusing into a national _people_, there is lawlessness to contend
with; the school and the church are yet open to the attack of ruffianly
bands, and dependent on a few respectable though equally rough settlers to
stop the brigandage of their unruly neighbors. An old country, however
sparsely peopled, has the past to guide it; its hermit settlers are the
heirs, not the founders, of a state and a history. So it is with ancient
Scottish shires, and thus you will find their electors sober, silent,
reflective men, conscious of their dignity as clansmen of the old families
whose names are in the records of Scotland from the VIIIth and IXth
centuries; and perfectly aware of their personal, political value as
present electors to the joint Parliament of a great empire. In England
there were serfs, but in Scotland (and in Ireland also) there were
_clansmen_—not slaves, but sons by adoption; freemen with the right to
bear arms; protected, not owned, by the great chiefs of the North. They
were used to a certain degree of power and responsibility, and their
descendants were not intoxicated by a sudden rise to independence, as were
the corresponding classes in England when the franchise was extended to
them.

To continue our description of the local surroundings of the Inverness‐
shire voters—men removed from the ordinary circumstances which make most
elections pretty much the same dull, time‐worn, vulgarized sight—we quote
from a recent article in an English publication: “The nearest neighbors on
one side are beyond a great mountain‐range, while for miles upon miles on
the other there stretch the unpeopled solitudes of a deer‐forest. The
nearest carriage‐road is eight miles off, and that is travelled only three
days in the week by a mail‐cart that carries passengers. The church and
school are at twice the distance; so the children must trust to the
parents for their education, and the father can only occasionally join in
the Sunday gossip, in the parish churchyard, that expands the ideas of
some of his fellow‐parishioners. His cottage is ten miles from the nearest
hovel where they sell whiskey. His work is arduous; he is afoot among his
sheep from the early morning until dusk. In the best of times and in the
height of summer it is but seldom that a stray copy of the county paper
finds its way to the head of the glen. He is thoughtful by nature, as you
may see in his face, which has much the same puzzled expression of
intelligence that you remark in the venerable rams of his flock. No doubt
he thinks much, after a fashion of his own, as he goes ‘daundering’ about
after his straggling sheep, or stretches himself to bask in the hot
sunshine, while he leaves his collies (sheep‐dogs) to look after his
charge.”

This is a very true picture. Of course, in such a situation, it is
impossible for the Highland shepherd to follow the questions that affect
the fate of ministries. He can know nothing of foreign affairs, probably
never heard of the _Alabama_, and would be at sea on the subject of the
Franco‐Prussian war. Mr. Gladstone’s financial schemes are not only
puzzles but _terra incognita_ to his mind. He knows nothing of the
extension of the suffrage in counties, and even local rates are
indifferent to him, as the only one that concerns him is the dog
tax—_concerns_ him, but does not _affect_ him; for his master pays the
tax, and he himself is more or less exempted from extra trouble, according
to the number of sheep‐dogs for which that master chooses to pay. His
interest in the man who represents him in Parliament is therefore either
purely theoretical or, what happens oftener, purely personal. There are
country gentlemen everywhere who, though no newspaper may blow the trumpet
of their fame, are nevertheless known throughout a wide expanse as good
men and true, kind yet just landlords, upright magistrates, and sound
economists. Their names are household words; their memory is always
associated with some generous deed; they are looked up to and honored in
the county. They are generally scions of the old historical families of
the land—of those families to which the Scotchman clings with a proud
affection, and which have been perpetuated by the very institutions that
some coiners of new political creeds find so deleterious to the human
race. The shepherd probably turns his mind to some such man of whom
nothing but good has ever been recorded, and willingly entrusts to his
safe‐keeping the interests of himself, his clan, and his country. Judging
from the particular to the general, he concludes that, since this
candidate has always been a kind master and a good landlord to his own
folks, he is likely to be a conscientious law‐maker and an earnest
protector of the nation’s liberties. Questions of detail may fairly be
trusted to him; the main thing is that no widow or orphan has ever had any
complaint to make of him.

This is the aspect on the voter’s side. Let us see what it is on that of
the candidate. There is no question here of bill‐sticking, of distributing
cockades, or of having bands of music and hired groups of partisans in
your wake. Canvassing means “posting long distances in dog‐carts, seeking
relays at widely‐separated inns, where the stable establishments are kept
on a peace footing, except during the tourist season. In winter the roads
are carried across formidable ferries, where, if you bribe the boatman to
imprudence, your business being urgent, you are not unlikely to meet the
fate of Lord Ullin’s daughter.” But this is not all; for when you have
braved the floods, and arrive famished and half‐frozen at some out‐of‐the‐
way hamlet whence the scattered cottages may be gained, there is yet the
ordeal of the interviews before you. The Scottish hermit can hardly be
expected to forego or shorten such a rare opportunity of contact with the
outside world. He will tax your ingenuity with the shrewdest, perhaps
politically inconvenient, questions; and never doing anything in a hurry
himself, he will resent his visitor’s seeming to be pressed for time. No
hasty and transparent condescensions will do for him. He will not be
satisfied, like the comfortable trader of the towns, with the candidate’s
kissing his youngest born and promising his eldest son a rocking‐horse.
Smiles and hand‐shakings are cheap gifts; but he wants no gifts, only
pledges. He wishes to be met as an intelligent being, a man who, if worth
winning, must be worth convincing. He expects a straightforward, if short,
explanation of your general opinions; and though the sense of his own
dignity as a voter is great, he does not forget that political does not
entail social equality. Grave and earnest, he will resent flippancy as an
insult to his understanding; and a joke that would win over a dozen votes
in a small commercial town will very probably lose you _his_ vote, and his
good opinion too.

But there are also other constituents to be called upon. The numerous
islands on the east coast of Scotland afford a still larger field for the
danger and romance of canvassing. The islanders are very sensitive, and
feel terribly hurt at the insinuation that their home lies out of the
world. If their votes are necessary, is the courtesy to ask for them
superfluous? They lead hazardous, daring lives themselves, and do not
understand how any man can shrink from the danger that may be incurred in
nearing their rocky island. If he does, what is he worth? they will argue;
for the natural man readily judges of his fellow‐man’s mental qualities by
his physical endurance. Then (we quote again the graphic sketch above
referred to), “that island canvass means chartering some crank little
screw, beating out into the fogs among the swells and the breakers, taking
flying shots at low reefs of inhabited rock, enveloped in mists and
unprovided with lighthouses. Landing‐places are almost as scarce as light‐
towers, and you may have to bob about under the ‘lee of the land’ in
impatient expectation of establishing communications with it. When you do
get to shore, you must be hospitably _fêted_ by the minister and the
schoolmaster, the doctor and the principal tacksmen, until what with sea‐
squeamishness and the strong spirits, it becomes simply heroic to preserve
the charm of your manners. Moreover, you had better not make your visit at
all than cut it uncivilly short. Our friend the shepherd may have made up
his mind to support you; but you may rely upon it that he will promise
nothing until you have set yourself down for a solemn ‘crack’ with him.”
The day of the election itself is a suitable ending to this romantic
episode in the life of an ordinary, drudging M.P. When a Highlander sets
about a thing, he never gives in before it is accomplished. Honor binds
him to redeem a promise, whether made to another or to himself; pride
compels him to prove himself superior to circumstances, almost to nature
herself; and he doggedly goes on his way, undeterred by any wayside
temptation to turn into smoother and pleasanter paths. So the voters
“climb over mountains and plod over snow‐fields, wade mountain streams,
navigate lochs in crank cobles, and cross raging estuaries in rickety,
flat‐bottomed ferry‐boats; so that, should the winds and the weather
interfere too seriously with the exercise of the electors’ political
rights, the polling of a great Highland constituency may possibly have a
gloomily dramatic finale.”(122)

While we are on the subject of Scotland, we may mention the various
occasions on which national gatherings draw together thousands of
picturesquely‐clad men and women. The games are the most characteristic of
these meetings. They take place in various places, mostly during the
months of August and September. They are generally held under the
patronage and supervision of some great family of the neighborhood.
Something of old clan feeling is revived. The men often march in in
bodies, preceded by their pipers, and wearing their individual tartan,
with distinctive badges. The villages for fifty miles around send their
group of representatives and their athletes and champions in the games.
Vehicles of primitive build with rough, wiry little ponies bring in their
load of farmers and petty freeholders. The country‐houses and shooting‐
boxes fill with guests from England; and in the neighborhood of Balmoral,
to which we more particularly allude, there is of course the additional
attraction of royal countenance and patronage. The queen and the royal
family sometimes become the guests of their subjects on these occasions,
and an almost German simplicity reigns for a few days among those to whom
etiquette must be so sore a chain. The princes wear the Highland dress,
and the queen (that is, before her widowhood) something of tartan in her
plain toilet. The national sports, such as throwing the hammer, lifting
heavy weights and supporting them on the outstretched hand, etc., require
both strength and dexterity, and the champions who contend in these games
are generally “professionals.” Sometimes, however, some village athlete
ambitiously enters the lists against the trained champions, and
occasionally bears off a prize. A competition of pipers is often a feature
of the day, and these worthies make a brave appearance in their velvet
jackets covered with a breast‐plate of medals, severally won in various
contests. The shrill, clarion‐like tones of the bagpipes are not agreeable
to the untrained ear, but to the Highlanders, whose national associations
are proudly entwined with this wild, primitive music of the hills, they
are naturally sweeter than the most sublime strains of the old masters. No
one, even though not Highland‐bred, can listen to the pipes, playing a
pibroch among the echoes of the mountains, without feeling that the soul
of the people is in it; that the spirits of “the Flood and the Fell” which
Walter Scott so graphically introduces in his _Lay of the Last Minstrel_
might have used just such tones for their fateful, wailing speech; and no
one having more than common ties binding him to Scottish traditions and
Scottish homes can think of the wild dirges or stirring war‐calls of the
pipes without sympathy and loving regret. Not quite so inspiring, however,
is this music when the piper marches round a small dining‐room, and plays
the distinctive tune of the host’s clan to the guests assembled over their
wine and dessert. The narrow space makes the music harsh and grating, just
as a confined room takes from the Tyrolese _jodel_ all its romance, and
turns the sounds into the caricature of a loud roulade. The games often
last for three days, and a sort of encampment springs up by magic to
supply the deficiencies of the crowded inns of the neighborhood. At the
end of that time there is a ball given at one of the principal country‐
seats, and a torch‐light dance for the people. The queen and the royal
family accompany their host and hostess, and are content with a hasty
dinner, served with a delightful relaxation from etiquette; for this is
their holiday from political anxieties and social duties, and the more
informal this assembly, the better it pleases them. The ball‐room is not
very large, and its simple decorations are in keeping with the character
of the feast and the style of the lodge or cottage in which it is given.
There are flowers in abundance, flags and evergreen garlands, Highland
badges and emblems, and stags’ heads with branching antlers—the trophies
of the host’s skill in stalking the red deer. Outside the house is a wide
space, destined for the torch‐light dance. Great iron holders and pans
lifted on rude tripods contain the torches and the resinous fluid which,
when set on fire, burns steadily for many hours. To and fro flit the
kilted Highlanders, with their jewelled dirks or daggers, and their hairy
sporrans decorated with silver plates the size of large coins. The
champions of the games are there, the rival pipers, the mountain
shepherds, the gillies or game‐keepers, all the household servants and
those of the guests; the women wearing tartan ribbons of different clans,
and Scotch flowers, blue‐bell, heather or bog‐myrtle, in their caps or
bodices. The pipes strike up the music of the sword‐dance; a noted dancer
comes forward, and lays two naked swords of ordinary length on the ground,
crossing them at right angles. Within the four narrow spaces between the
points of this cross he then begins a series of marvellous steps, leaping
high in the air, shuffling, crossing his feet, and invariably alighting in
the right spot, within a few inches of the swords, always in these four
interstices, but never touching nor even grazing the blades. If he were to
touch one ever so lightly, and but for an instant, his reputation would be
gone. Another succeeds him, and so on, till all the famous dancers have
exhibited their skill. No novice appears; they take care never to dance in
public till they are perfect in this feat. Scotch reels for the most part
take up the rest of the night, and are danced by four people, two men and
two women, the former standing back to back, and their partners opposite.
Various figures follow each other, the figure eight being the most
frequent. This is managed by the four dancers locking arms and giving a
swing round, then passing on to the next person; arms are locked again,
and another turn given, and so on till the four have changed places, and
in doing so have described the figure eight. Of course, in this dance, it
is the men who show to most advantage, as they perform a series of regular
steps, snapping their fingers meanwhile, and, as soon as they get excited
and enter into the spirit of the national dance, uttering a peculiar sort
of cry. The women mostly walk and jump through their evolutions. The less
characteristic dancing in the ball‐room, but in which reels are also
mingled with quadrille and waltz, ceases about two o’clock in the morning,
and the musicians are at liberty to join the fun outside. The Highlanders
sometimes take possession of the deserted ball‐room, and continue their
own revels there till daybreak, when the torches flicker out and the spell
is broken. Another national dance is the strathspey, which we never had
the good fortune to see performed.

In winter curling is the favorite game; it is played on the ice with heavy
round stones, about eight or nine inches in diameter, and three to three
and a half inches thick. These stones are neither rolled nor thrown at the
line and mark, but propelled, by the strength of wrist of the player,
along the surface of the ice, and aimed to displace the stones already set
up by the opposite side. Whichever side, at the end of the game, has most
stones near the line which serves as a mark, is declared by the umpire to
be the winner. Miniature curling‐boards are very common in Scotch country‐
houses, with stones two or three inches in diameter; it is an amusing game
on a rainy day, and, though so small, no little skill is required to guide
these stones aright.

The same house to which we have taken the reader to be present at the
torch‐light dance is a very pretty specimen of Scotch hunting‐lodges.
Built at various times, it consists of several cottages, once detached,
but now irregularly connected by picturesque galleries, verandas, and
staircases. One part has much the appearance of a Swiss _châlet_; another
that of a river‐side villa on the Thames, with its glass doors opening on
to a lawn, and its rustic porch smothered in climbing roses. Though so
straggling, it is a very comfortable house. Nothing is wanting—billiard‐
room, smoking‐room, boudoir, and innumerable pigeonholes for guests—a
charming house for persons of sporting tastes; the halls carpeted with
deer‐skins, and the walls hung with antlers, bearing each the date of the
death of the stag to which they belonged; equally charming to the delicate
London beauty wearied with her social triumphs, for here she finds the
thousand elegances of a _rococo_ drawing‐room, the luxurious arm‐chairs,
the rare china, the velvet screen hung with miniatures, and little gilt
brackets, each supporting a tiny cup or a porcelain shepherdess—in a word,
every pretty refinement of the latest fashion. The neighborhood is famous
for stalking—that is, following the red deer through moor and forest
alone, with your rifle and your slight bag containing some biscuits and a
pocket‐flask. You may have to trudge over miles and miles of heather,
watching every turn of the breeze, lest it betray your whereabouts to your
beautiful victim; making immense _détours_ to reach him from some
convenient cover; creeping along on all fours, or even flat on the ground;
often taking a long, cold bath in the mountain burn (stream), wading
through it, or waiting in it, so as not to let him scent your trail. If
for no other reason, this sport is superior to any because it demands
solitude; though it is hard to discover why one should not be privileged
to take a twelve hours’ walk or saunter without the pretext of the rifle
slung at one’s back, and also without incurring the charge of
eccentricity. A forest in Scotland is treeless; the term is applied to a
wide expanse of mountain, covered knee‐deep with heather, and perhaps here
and there with a few stunted bushes or clumps of graceful birches. Here
the red deer feeds in herds, and you sometimes come across six or seven of
these “monarchs of the glen.” The sportsman, however, seldom pursues or
kills more than one in a day. A moor is much the same in appearance as a
forest, but that term is reserved for those tracts of heather‐land where
the grouse and the black‐cock abide. These are often rented to Englishmen,
the forests seldom; so that the Southron, if he have a taste for deer‐
stalking, generally depends for his chance of indulging it on the
hospitality of some Scottish friend.

This neighborhood is full of romantic glens and hollows where mountain
streams gurgle through narrow channels of rock, where tiny waterfalls
splash under bridges mossy with old age, and where real forests of pine
and birch and rowan, or mountain ash, make a variegated network across the
blue horizon. In one little gorge tradition says that a hunted partisan of
Charles Edward took refuge after the fatal battle of Culloden, in 1745,
and lived there concealed for several weeks. The particular place where he
hid was under a projecting ledge or table of rock, overhanging the brown,
foaming waters of the mimic torrent, which, though not large in volume,
might yet have strength enough to dash you in pieces, if you fell into the
narrow bed bristling with sharp, rocky points and irregular boulders,
round which the water boils and hisses, as if chafing at its imprisonment.
The rocks incline their jagged sides so far forward over the stream as
almost to meet in an arch above it, and the chasm can be easily, almost
safely, leaped. Indeed, the rift is invisible from the road, which passes
within a few yards of it. Its sides are fringed with heather, and are
undistinguishable, except when one is standing close upon them.

The North of England, with its mountains and its lakes, its solitary tarns
(pools or smaller lakes) and its becks, has a family likeness to Scotch
scenery. Its people, too, are akin to the Lowland Scotch in their
taciturnity, their hardy, physical nature, and their language; yet to
those who know both well the difference is very perceptible. In olden
times Lancashire and Yorkshire, lying to the west of the Lake country,
were emphatically the land of the church, one vast net‐work of beautiful
abbeys with their immense possessions. Even after the Reformation these
two counties remained the stronghold of Catholicity, and to this day they
contain more Catholics (exclusive of the large modern towns and their
population) than any other part of England. The favorite sport of
Lancashire is otter‐hunting.

A certain breed of hounds, having very long bodies and short legs, is kept
for the purpose; the streams abound in otters, and the hunt is very
exciting. The gentlemen wear preternaturally thick boots, covering even
the thighs, as they often have to wade in after the otter, whose teeth are
so sharp that they can take off a hound’s leg at one bite. These animals
dive dexterously under the banks, and generally lead the hunt a pretty
chase; but, never having seen this sport ourselves, it is difficult to
describe it graphically. The dialect of this part of the country is almost
as much a language as Provençal; the people have their own literature, and
one of their poets (a humorous one) has been styled, _par excellence_, the
“Lancashire Poet.” Lancashire people are desperately clannish, quite
despise the southern English, and obstinately adhere to their own customs,
as something immeasurably more dignified than the finical fashions of the
Southron. The gentlemen all talk the dialect when speaking with their
farmers, game‐keepers, or servants, and speak it with genuine gusto too. A
Lancashire kitchen is a heart‐warming sight; it is emphatically _the_ room
of a farm, an inn, or any middle‐class dwelling. The fire blazes in the
depths of a cavernous chimney, with settles on each side, on which two men
can sit abreast, while from the low roof hang endless strings of fine
onions and dozens of hams and flitches of bacon. At another part of the
ceiling is fixed an immense rack, over which hangs the oatmeal cake in
large sheets, of which any one is at liberty to break off a piece for his
supper unrebuked and without question of repayment. Hospitality is a
cardinal virtue here, but it is not that voluble, fussy hospitality which
worries its recipient and makes him feel the obligation; you are welcome
to go in and sit down, eat and drink, warm and dry yourself at the hearth,
and go out again, without being assailed by impertinent questions or bored
by long domestic revelations. A Lancashire host respects your mind while
he refreshes your body, and silently makes you at home. Those kitchens of
the north are the very type of comfort, with their vast corner‐cupboards,
their cleanliness—you might literally eat off the brick floors; they are
always paved with brick—their long oat‐cake racks and tempting meat, all
home‐cured, hung from the ceiling. The temptation may be too great for you
some night, if you happen to return to your lodgings, very hungry, at the
late hour of twelve—that is dissipation in Lancashire—for you may wander
in, and see no harm in hunting in the cupboard for eggs and flour, and in
slicing off whatever will conveniently detach itself from a hanging
flitch, in order to flavor some appetizing sauce of which you possess the
secret. Perhaps the midnight raid ends fatally, and you stumble over the
pots and pans, or find the embers hardly hot enough to cook the sauce, or
give it up at last in despair, with a ridiculous foreboding of what the
landlady will say to‐morrow morning when she contemplates the ragged
appearance of the best flitch! Let us hope that you will honestly own your
delinquencies, and not affirm that “it must have been the mice, ma’am!” It
will be the easier as you happen to know the house well, and its inmates
long ago agreed to overlook your little eccentricities with regard to
sauces!

Among the principal country festivities which draw large parties to the
neighboring houses in many parts of England, are the local cattle‐shows.
The breeding of cattle is a topic of almost as universal interest in
England as fox‐hunting, especially among country gentlemen. The secret of
this apparent interest lies rather in the intense pride with which they
naturally regard everything connected with their homes, than in downright
personal liking for fat oxen and prize pigs. Not even the farmers who
exhibit the cattle can outmatch the ladies of the neighborhood in their
solicitude for the honor of the county, and, besides this, the gentlemen
themselves sometimes enter the lists, and exhibit some choice specimen,
thus giving their households special reasons for pride and anxiety. Most
of the houses fill with guests for the occasion, and, despite the lateness
of the season (the shows are generally late in the autumn, the one to
which we refer taking place in November), the weather is usually
propitious. Let us take a peep in at the window of yonder large Tudor
house, with its cedars, sentinel‐like, guarding the approaches to the
hall‐door, and an old gabled, ivied ruin overlooking the gay mosaic of the
_parterre_. There is plenty of water here—ponds where huge old beeches
droop over the banks and moor‐fowl _swish_ through the rushes on the
margin, and ponds fringed with late roses, and lifting up in their midst
islands with rustic arbors and a wilderness of creeping plants. Within the
house is the usual amount of family portraits and antique carved
furniture, with a more than ordinary display of hot‐house flowers. A
little earlier in the season you would find in the drawing‐room two
immense marble vases, in each of which blossoms a queenly azalea, snowy or
ruddy, as the case may be. On the tables lie islands of moss, relieving
and framing three or four star‐shaped, blood‐red cactus‐blooms. Round the
high chimney‐piece, where a wood‐fire burns merrily (a luxury in England),
is assembled a family party, neither stiff nor yet free, and picturesque,
if nothing else; for the girls are dressed in the square‐cut bodices and
pale‐hued, brocaded overskirts of a more picturesque age. Perhaps they are
discussing art matters or weaving personal romances.... No, for here, as
elsewhere, you cannot take the bit in your mouth; it is the only penalty
of decorous country life in old England. They are talking of to‐morrow’s
agricultural fair, the annual cattle show, which takes place in the
country town. There is a large party in the house for it; it is the event
of the week. Most country ladies pretend to be, and some are, poultry
fanciers; so there is an additional department allotted to the prize
poultry. The carriages draw up in a wide field near the tents and sheds,
where a view of the race‐course can be had. The men circulate among the
cattle; the “judges” sit in a tribune provided for them. It is difficult
to get up any enthusiasm about this kind of thing, but the adjuncts are
quite as enjoyable as are most outdoor pleasures that you cannot enjoy
alone. The last day of the fair closes with a dinner, when the prize
beasts and their owners are commented upon and the general political
situation discussed. One of the farmers is a born orator; at least he
delights in the sound of his own flowery periods. He quotes Shakespeare
and Tennyson, and feels sure he has made a hit. As all professions are
represented, there is room for all kinds of toasts, and under the veil of
sociability the opportunities for speaking home‐truths are not neglected.
Around the hall are galleries that serve for spectators, both male and
female, and from this point many a ludicrous incident is revealed to you
that escapes the “grave and reverend seigniors” below. This is what a
spectator once saw: The dinner takes place once a year, and it is
impossible to have nothing but trained waiters. Many of the gentlemen on
this occasion brought their own servants with them; but even this was not
sufficient, and the supplementary waiters were “legion.” The dinner was
not as orderly as it might be. There was a great deal of hurrying and
skurrying, orders angrily given and awkwardly executed, wine liberally
spilt before reaching its destination, etc. Suddenly some one gave an
order from the far end of the hall, and an unlucky bumpkin, eager to show
his agility, made a dart forward, but came to an abrupt stand‐still in the
middle of a lake of soup that spread warm and moist about his feet. In his
haste he had stepped into the soup‐tureen, which another waiter, in clumsy
hurry, had momentarily deposited in this conspicuous place. The braying of
the band, whose conductor was naturally not a little exhilarated by the
copious “refreshment” distributed during the day, drowned these “asides”;
but we cannot help thinking that the position of a spectator, alive to
these incidents behind the scenes, was preferable to that of the unhappy
actors and speakers, nailed for four or five hours to the table, and
condemned to drink the execrable wine usually furnished on such occasions.

With this we will close this somewhat lengthy sketch of some of the
incidents of rural life in the old mother‐country—a subject so dear to
Washington Irving, so attractive to Longfellow, and so heart‐stirring to
many who, on this side of the Atlantic, have not yet lost in the turmoil
of business or the hurry of politics the fond, poetic remembrance of the
land of their forefathers. It is a restful picture; the soul grows young
again in the contemplation of that healthy, even placid home‐life,
diversified by so many local interests, and disturbed by so few dangerous
excitements. In such an atmosphere it is no wonder if scholars, poets, and
gentlemen develop quietly, as the fruit ripens on the sunny garden wall;
nor is it strange to find these men, so accomplished and so learned,
filling the unobtrusive and secluded walks of life, as well as the
councils of the nation, the cabinet, the bar, and the Parliament. Happy is
the nation that attains to a green old age; happy the country that keeps
all that is poetic in the past, without relinquishing the practical and
the useful in the present. It is a good thing to be able to look back
proudly on a long line of doughty forefathers, but better still to be able
to look forward as proudly to a goodly line of worthy descendants.




The Future Of The Russian Church.


By The Rev. Cæsarius Tondini, Barnabite.



I.


“How much happier is Russia than are many Catholic countries!”

It is thus that a German author, of the Baltic provinces, a Protestant,
and a subject of the czar, broke in upon the concert of complaints on the
condition of the Russians to which we had for a long period been
habituated. It is true that Augustus Wilhelm Hupel wrote towards the close
of the last century; but the state of things which drew from him this cry
of admiration continues even at this present time. Let us add that a
considerable number of writers, especially Protestants, share the
sentiments of Hupel; in fact, a certain government not long ago ranged
itself on the side of this author’s opinions, and undertook to procure for
its subjects, whether they would or not, the same happiness as that which
the Russian people enjoy. This fact is a more than sufficient inducement
for us conscientiously to study the cause of this happiness—a study to
which the following pages will be devoted.

Happily, the writer of the Baltic provinces expresses himself with
remarkable precision. “The monarch,” says Hupel, in speaking of the synod
which governs the Russian Church—“the monarch himself selects the members
of this ecclesiastical tribunal, and can also summarily dismiss those who
do not please him. It follows, therefore, that the members of the synod
entirely depend upon the will of the czar. Not only can they do nothing of
which he does not approve, but, by virtue of this arrangement, _it is the
czar himself who is the real head of the church of his empire_. Of what
lofty wisdom, then, is not this institution a proof! How much happier is
Russia than are many Catholic countries!”(123) It is evident, therefore,
that the object of admiration and envy is the concentration of civil and
religious power in the sovereign’s hands; the synod of St. Petersburg
being the institution which secures and perpetuates the concentration of
this double power.

The czar to whom Russia is indebted for the synod is Peter I., surnamed
the Great (1689‐1725), than whom few sovereigns have been the object of
more enthusiastic admiration. The things which he undertook and in which
he succeeded, for promoting the civilization of Russia, are truly
surprising, his laws being, in our opinion, the most splendid monument he
has created in his own memory. Frequently, in glancing through the
_Complete Collection of the Laws of the Russian Empire_,(124) while taking
into account the number, the variety, and extent of the subjects embraced
by the genius of Peter, the circumstances under which he had to work, and
the thankless elements which he contrived to manage, we have experienced
sincere admiration; but, side by side with his great qualities, in what
ignoble and monstrous vices did he not indulge! If we were to quote
certain judgments passed by his contemporaries, it would be easy to
understand the disgust with which the _History of Peter the Great_, by
Voltaire, fills every sincere and virtuous man. Great qualities do not
excuse great vices, especially in the case of Peter, who on many occasions
proved by his conduct that he was capable of self‐restraint, had he only
chosen to exercise it. This czar, whose leading characteristics were a
spirit of determination and an energetic will, can neither be excused for
his debauches nor his cruelties. The reforms originated by him naturally
bear the impress of the despotic character of their author. In the present
day it is openly said, even in Russia, that Peter acted, “as if there were
no possible limits to his power, setting himself determinedly to gain his
end, without in the least troubling himself about the nature of the
means.”(125) We may add that the religious convictions of the czar were,
to say the least, an enigma. And this is the man who gave to the Russian
Church the organization which she retains to this day.

Unhappily for the people, when a man rises from among them and
accomplishes unheard‐of undertakings, the prestige of his name eclipses
the light in which justice would regard his actions. If flattery erects to
him its altars, and if religious or political passions find it to their
interest to exalt him, this man, though in his grave, continues no less to
exercise a powerful influence; and all his qualities, even his bad ones,
receive a species of consecration. A century and a half have elapsed since
the death of Peter the Great, and yet it may be said with truth that he
still rules Russia. It is no common thing to find a series of sovereigns,
all of whom draw their inspiration from the same idea; and yet all the
czars, with the single exception of Peter II., who only reigned three
years (1727‐1730), perpetuated, with regard to the Russian Church, the
idea of the originator of the synod.

That the czars, however, should have made it their rule to walk in the
footsteps of Peter, and that in their ukases they should recall his memory
with enthusiastic eulogies, it is easy to conceive; and also that
Protestants, especially those of Germany, should never weary in their
praises of his religious reforms; these praises being, in the first place,
the payment of a debt of gratitude to the czar, and, in the second, an
homage rendered to the Protestant side of the reforms themselves. But the
most painful part of the matter is that Peter and his successors should
have found, in that very church which they were oppressing, not only
docile instruments of their will, but also the warmest encouragements to
prosecute their work. Theophanes Prokopovitch, Bishop of Pskoff, of whom
we will speak further, wrote treatises to prove that “the czars have
received from on high the power to govern the church; only it is not
permitted that they should officiate in it.”(126) Plato Levchin,
Metropolitan of Moscow, while he was still tutor to the Czarowitz Paul,
afterwards Paul I., prepared for his use a catechism which has been held
in great esteem by Protestants. In the epistle dedicatory he thus
addresses his pupil: “I bear in mind a saying of your highness—saying
worthy of eternal remembrance. We were one day reading this passage in the
Gospel: _Take heed that you say not among yourselves: We have Abraham for
our father_ (S. Matt. iii. 9); when, upon my remarking that the Jews
vainly gloried in having Abraham for their father, whose faith and works
they failed to imitate, your highness deigned to reply: ‘And I also should
glory in vain that I descend from the great Peter, did I not intend to
imitate his works.’ That these and other similarly excellent dispositions
of your highness may increase with your years, behold this is what the
church of God, prostrate before the altar, supplicates, and will never
cease to supplicate, of the divine mercy, from the profoundest depths of
her heart.”(127)

There is nothing surprising in the fact that lessons such as these,
explained and developed in the body of the catechism, should have borne
their fruit. The pupil of Plato, having become czar, was the first who
introduced into official edicts the title of Head of the Church(128) for
himself and his successors, and more emphatically than perhaps any one of
the others he established as a principle the supremacy of the czar over
the church.(129)

We forbear to quote other examples. If it be true that nations never stop
short at a theory, the same thing is true also of sovereigns; and, when
Nicholas I. acted as every one knows he did act, he was but carrying out
the doctrine accepted and _taught_ in the Russian Church. As for the
people, it would have been indeed surprising had they not shared in the
doctrine of the church, and still more so had they attempted any
opposition to it. In fact, as might be supposed, there was no lack of
writers who set themselves to make the people appreciate the advantages of
every description which they enjoyed under the religious autocracy of the
czars.

This state of things could not, however, last indefinitely; and it was the
Emperor Nicholas himself who, by some of his measures, contributed to
hasten its end. At the commencement of his reign it was desired to exclude
the foreign element from teaching, and to substitute for it the national
only. Professors were lacking; and, to form these, the government thought
it well to send out young men at its own expense to learn in the _German_
universities that which they would subsequently have to teach the
Russians. Besides, for many years past Russia has entered into active and
frequent relations with the rest of Europe; the regulations which bound
Russians, if not to the glebe, at least to the soil of their country, have
been relaxed; travelling has been facilitated; travellers have been able
with less difficulty to penetrate into the country, and its own
inhabitants to go abroad and observe what is passing in the rest of the
world.

And what has resulted from all this? Many things; and, first of all, the
following: “The future propagators of learning and civilization,” says the
Père Gagarin, in a remarkable pamphlet,(130) “were sent to Berlin, where
they lost no time in becoming fervent disciples of the Hegelian ideas. It
was in vain that serious warnings reached St. Petersburg of the fatal
direction these young men were pursuing. For reasons which perhaps some
future day may explain the warnings were wholly unheeded; and in a short
time the chairs of the principal universities were filled by these
dangerous enthusiasts, whose newly‐imported ideas made rapid progress.
School‐masters, professors, journalists, the writers who had been formed
in the universities, successively became the apostles of the doctrines
which they had adopted. Neither censures, nor the watchfulness of the
custom‐house, nor the active surveillance of an ubiquitous and anxious
police, availed to put a stop to the propagation of revolutionary notions,
protected as they were by eccentric formulas, unintelligible to all who
were not in the secret of the sect. It was not until 1848 that the eyes of
the government began to be opened; but it had no efficacious remedy at
hand. It multiplied regulations, of which the object was to hinder the
diffusion of modern science and ideas; but was destitute of salutary
principles to offer as a substitute for the unhealthy teaching of which it
now recognized the dangers. The system of national education, which had so
miserably failed, had been based upon ‘orthodoxy,’ autocracy, and
nationality, and was now resulting in the triumph of German ideas, in the
atheism of Feuerbach, and in radicalism and communism of the most
unbridled description.”

That we may not unjustly charge the Emperor Nicholas with being _solely_
responsible for these results, it must also be said that other Russians,
who had at any rate travelled at their own expense, and foreigners who had
come to settle in Russia, assisted in propagating the same doctrines. If
books are not printed without some reasonable hope that they will be read,
and if the number of publications in which certain ideas are particularly
developed proves the favor with which they are received, it would be only
too easy to make a statistical statement of alarming significance, showing
the favor with which the most revolutionary doctrines are received by the
Russians. Books printed in the Russian language are evidently addressed to
Russians only, this language not having hitherto acquired a place in that
part of education which is called the study of modern languages; and we
can prove the existence of numerous publications in the Russian language,
appearing some in London, some in Berlin, some at Leipsic, some at Geneva,
and elsewhere also, in which the most communistic doctrines find their
apology. Amongst others we may notice the publication at Zurich of a
periodical review entitled _V’pered!_ (Forward!), which wars against all
belief in the supernatural and against every kind of authority. It matters
little that the writings of which we speak themselves penetrate with
difficulty into Russia; it is not to be supposed that the fact of having,
when abroad, read this review or anything similar closes to Russians the
return to their country. The book remains outside; but its teaching enters
with them.

Let us now return to the consideration of the Russian Church. The radical
ideas of which we have been speaking are plainly incompatible with the
religious autocracy of the czars; and nevertheless Russia offers us the
spectacle of men imbued with these ideas, and even manifesting them openly
without, who suddenly recover their orthodoxy as soon as they recross the
frontier of their country.

Under pain of deserving the reproach of cowardly hypocrisy, these Russians
cannot support the existing state of things, liberty of conscience being
too intimately allied with their principles. The reader will judge whether
it is not wholly immoral that men who have ceased to believe in anything
should, in order to escape legal consequences, present themselves in the
“orthodox” churches for confession and communion!... Now, as far as we are
aware, none of the pains and penalties against those who, being born of
“orthodox” parents, fail to practise the state religion, or to fulfil
their duty of annual confession and communion, have hitherto been
abolished; still less are the penalties abolished to which all are liable
who propagate doctrines contrary to those of the official church.

But the Russian atheists and rationalists of every shade of opinion are
not the only persons who have a supreme interest in requiring, together
with liberty of conscience, the abolition of the penalties to which they
would be liable if the same rigor were observed towards them as towards
those Russians who have become Catholics. For the czars, not satisfied
with calling themselves and with being the head of the “orthodox” church,
have also arrogated to themselves the right of direction with regard to
all the religious sects of the empire.

When Paul I. declared that “the supreme authority, confided to the
autocrat by God, extends also over the ecclesiastical state, and that the
clergy are bound to obey the czar _as the head chosen by God himself_ in
all things, _religious_ as well as civil,”(131) he was not addressing
himself to the “orthodox” but to the Catholic subjects of the empire. It
is in employing similar language, and by virtue of the same general
principle, that the czars have defined the position of Protestants,
Armenians, Jews, and Mahometans. However accommodating one may suppose the
Russian subjects belonging to these different religions to be, we cannot
understand why, at least in heart, they do not protest against the strange
pretension that in religious matters they are bound to obey the “orthodox”
czars. Neither can we suppose that, if they hold their errors in good
faith, and believe themselves in possession of “religious truth,” they do
not experience some desire to communicate their treasure to others, and do
not suffer in obeying the articles of the penal code which forbid their so
doing.(132) What can be, upon this subject, the sentiments of the ten
millions of Russians belonging to the various sects formed in the bosom of
the Russian Church itself, their name itself indicates; they are called
collectively _Raskolniks_—that is to say, _schismatics_. Thus we need not
say what must be the thoughts and desires of the Catholic subjects of the
czar. There remain only the “orthodox”; but it is they who form the
majority of the Russian subjects. It would be too much to expect to find
in them the partisans of a more extended liberty of conscience than that
which is permitted by the Code. “The dominant religion of the empire,”
says the Code, “is the orthodox. Liberty of worship is awarded not only to
the members of other Christian confessions, but also to Jews, Mahometans,
and pagans.... _The dominant church alone has the right to make
proselytes._”(133) We will not stop to consider the motives which induce
the “orthodox” Russians to oppose themselves to a more extended liberty of
conscience,(134) but will rather proceed to examine whether, apart from
what we have here said, it be not urgent, even in the interests of
orthodoxy itself, that some changes should be introduced into the present
organization of the Russian Church. We may be able to show that, by a
singular disposition of Providence, the interests of the orthodox _faith_
are intimately allied to those of the Catholic Church in Russia.



II.


If we are to believe Russian theologians, the Russian Church, with its
czar, realizes in a certain measure the ideal of a church sustained by a
powerful sovereign, which to many persons is the most desirable state of
things possible. We may call to mind the saying of the Count de Maistre on
the Holy Roman Empire, which was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire;
in fact, the testimony of history leaves us in doubt as to whether this
institution has served more to protect or to afflict the Catholic Church.
Prosperity or reverses, it is true, alike turn to the advantage of those
dear to God; but scarcely will any one take upon himself to maintain that,
because reverses are useful to the church, they must be purposely procured
for her. And therefore, whatever may be, for a longer or shorter time, the
probable advantages of this institution, it is best, if we mistake not, to
leave its revival to the providence of God. But if such is the teaching of
history with regard to an emperor, guardian of the faith and protector of
the Catholic Church, history condemns with a far more powerful eloquence
the strange protection with which the czars have overshadowed their
communion. In the _Spiritual Regulation_ may be seen the passage in which
Peter the Great is designated the “guardian of orthodoxy and of all things
relating to good order in the holy church.”(135) The successors of Peter
continued to declare themselves invested with the same mission, and this
passage of the _Spiritual Regulation_ was also inserted in the Russian
Code.(136)

To be the guardian of orthodoxy, and of all which concerns good order in
the holy church, is in fact the _first duty_ of a Christian monarch. We
will examine briefly the manner in which the czars have acquitted
themselves of this duty.

Any reader who, without being repelled by the subject and form of the
_Spiritual Regulation_, would impose upon himself the trouble of perusing
them, text and notes, to the end, would have no difficulty in
understanding with what good reason Protestants can and must look upon
Peter as one of themselves. The Protestant tendencies of the _Spiritual
Regulation_ are evident. The reader will also observe the precautions, all
in favor of the Protestants, there taken for the preaching of the divine
Word. The priests, the monks, and the bishops of the Orthodox Church,
treated as they were by Peter, were made to appear simply contemptible. In
the same way, the favor publicly shown by him to the Protestants of
Germany, the importance he accorded to them, and the boundless confidence
he placed in their co‐operation with him for the civilization of Russia,
and finally the ridicule he cast upon holy things in his infamous
orgies—all this can hardly be reconciled with the idea of the fulfilment
of his first duty as a Christian prince.

In the notes to the _Spiritual Regulation_ we may also perceive, in more
places than one, the manner in which Catherine II. understood and
exercised her mission as _Head of the Greek Church_; for thus she entitled
herself in writing to Voltaire. No sincerely orthodox Russian could read
the correspondence of Catherine with Voltaire without blushing. If
Protestants may fairly claim Peter I. as their own, unbelievers have a
full right to do the same with regard to Catherine, and glory in it, as in
fact they do. In various passages of these letters (which we have perused)
she ridicules not only the ceremonies but also the _sacraments_ of her
church. If to this we add the favor shown by her to the infidel
philosophers of the _Encyclopédie_, the free access which their
productions found at St. Petersburg, the atmosphere of impiety with which
she surrounded herself, and the state of her own morals, so plainly
indicative of an unbelieving soul, our estimate will not appear
exaggerated. It would in truth have been miraculous if, under such
tutelage, orthodoxy could have retained its hold upon the minds of those
who knew how to read, write, and think; and thus the unbelief that
prevails among the higher classes in Russia is the heritage of Catherine
II. If, on the other hand, she showed herself zealous for the maintenance
of faith among the lower orders, it was because she predicted the same
results from their unbelief as she did from any desire they might evince
for knowledge. “It is not for Russians,” she wrote to the Governor of
Moscow, “that I am founding schools; it is for Europe, where we must not
lose ground in public opinion. From the day that our peasants shall have a
desire for instruction, neither you nor I will remain in our places.”

Under the successors of Catherine II. Russian orthodoxy underwent various
phases, according to the degree of orthodoxy professed by the czars and
the vicissitudes of their interior and exterior policy. Paul I. was so
convinced that he was the real head of the church that he one day proposed
to say Mass.(137) On the other hand, it is certain that he contemplated
the reunion of the Russian with the Catholic Church.(138) This monarch,
however, was incapable of commanding respect, or of helping a return to
the faith, either by his intelligence or his moral qualities; and thus
incredulity continued its ravages in Russia.

In the life of Alexander I. a period is distinguishable in which the czar
had an evident leaning towards Protestantism; and his historians do not
fail to remark the influence obtained over him by the Protestant, Mme. de
Krudener. If we are not mistaken, those who so actively busied themselves
in founding a Bible society in Russia had no intention of favoring
orthodoxy.

It was also under the reign of the same czar that appeared the first
edition (1823) of the catechism of Mgr. Philaret, destined to take the
place of that by Mgr. Plato, then used for religious instruction in the
schools. Now, in 1823 Mgr. Philaret was far from being so orthodox in his
writings as he subsequently became; and the first edition of his catechism
differs materially from the later ones. “The Emperor Alexander,” writes an
author well deserving of confidence, “was an orthodox Christian, _not in
the sense of his church_, but in that of the rigorous conformity of his
belief to the fundamental doctrine of all Christian churches; which is the
redemption of mankind by the death of Jesus Christ, by means of
faith.”(139) What a stone to cast at a czar, the guardian of orthodoxy!
Notwithstanding all this, Alexander, towards the close of his life, must
have had continuous relations with Pope Pius VII.; some affirm even that
he died a Catholic.(140)

As we have seen, it was at the commencement of the reign of the Emperor
Nicholas that, at the expense of the government, the Russian youth were
sent for education to the University of Berlin. Then came the formidable
revulsion of orthodoxy, which, announced by the revision of the catechism
of Mgr. Philaret, manifested itself by the sanguinary “conversions” in
Lithuania, in 1839. The tidings were received in Europe by a general cry
of indignation; and the remembrance has not yet faded away.(141) By a
strange coincidence Nicholas, to whom is due the glory of having completed
the gigantic undertaking vainly attempted by all his predecessors, of the
codification of all the Russian laws, had desired that in the Code the
following article should be inserted: “The dominant church alone possesses
the right of leading those who do not belong to her to embrace her faith.
This faith, however, is produced by divine grace in the soul, by
instruction, by gentleness, and especially by good examples. Therefore is
it that the dominant church does not allow herself to make use of any
coercive means, how small soever, to convert to orthodoxy those who follow
other confessions and other beliefs, and, after the example and the
preaching of the apostles, she in no wise threatens those who will not be
converted from their belief to hers.” All this is to be found in the
Russian Code of 1832, of 1842, and of 1857, and continues to have the
force of law _at this present time_!(142) We will say nothing here of the
reign of the present emperor, but will merely observe that the powerful
reaction which took place almost immediately after the death of Nicholas,
and which compelled the government to enter upon the way of reforms, was
the inevitable consequence of that emperor’s conduct. It is only just that
the historians of Alexander II., in passing judgment upon his hesitations
and self‐contradictions in religious affairs, should bear in mind the
difficulty of the part bequeathed to him by Nicholas.

But neither the ten millions of _Raskolniks_ which Russia can count at
this day, nor yet the numerous unbelievers and rationalists of every shade
which she contains, protest as eloquently against the protection afforded
by the czars to orthodoxy and the church as the impotence to which the
czars have reduced that church itself for exercising any influence over
the enlightened classes. All who have written upon Russia agree in
acknowledging and deploring the degradation of the orthodox clergy.(143)

Lest we should trust ourselves, with regard to a point so delicate for us,
to any exaggerated or inexact accounts, we have been careful to be guided
in our statements by writers offering every security, not only for
competence and impartiality, but also for their sympathy with the orthodox
clergy. The author of _La Tolérance et le schisme Religieux en Russie_,
known under the name of Schédo‐Ferroti, appears to us to unite all these
qualities in a high degree. “Having,” he writes, “in the capacity of an
old engineering officer, traversed Russia in all directions, taking, on
foot and with the circumferentor in my hand, journeys of four and five
hundred kilometres; and travelling in this way for the space of six months
at a time, stopping at every village which I happened to find on my way, I
habitually addressed myself to the priest for any information I desired to
obtain, and, early taking into consideration the moral and political
importance of these men, I set myself to study them with particular
attention.... I do not exaggerate in saying that I have made the
acquaintance of many more than two hundred Russian priests. I may say that
I met with specimens of all the varieties, from the young priest but
yesterday arrived in the parish to the old man bowed down beneath a load
of moral and physical sufferings; from the priest of the regiment to the
ascetic fanatic; from the ex‐professor of the seminary, nominated to the
cure of some rich church in the capital, where he parades his rhetoric and
complacently displays his erudition, to the humble village priest scarcely
able to decipher his Breviary.”(144)

This is enough, as to the competence of M. Schédo‐Ferroti; and with regard
to his impartiality on the point we are considering, it appears in every
page, as will be proved by our quotations. For the rest, the author is a
Protestant, and argues warmly in favor of religious liberty for every
worship and for every sect.

With regard to his sympathy for the orthodox clergy, it would be difficult
to find a more devoted advocate. “It is,” he writes, “with satisfaction
that I can say that I always found better than I had expected, better than
I had any right to expect, considering the situation and the social
position in which he found himself, the man whom I had set myself to
study.”(145)

Let us add, moreover, that M. Schédo‐Ferroti is by no means tender towards
the Catholic clergy, over whom, according to him, the orthodox Russian
clergy have the advantage in not being “tainted with hypocrisy.”(146) This
is an additional reason for our choice of this author.

We will now see what he says respecting the social influence of the
Russian “popes,” quoting only a few lines: “Oppressed and disregarded by
his superiors, the pope loses three‐fourths of his means of action, for he
sees himself cast off by the upper class, tolerated by the middle class,
and turned into ridicule by the common people.... Judging from
appearances, and noticing that everywhere, even in the receptions given by
dignitaries of the church, the pope occupies the _lowest_ place, the
masses have contracted the habit of never assigning him any other.”(147)

Such are the Russian clergy who are in contact with the people—the clergy
whose office it is to instruct the Russians in orthodoxy, and to maintain
them in it. Now, this was not by any means the social position of the
clergy when Peter I. instituted the synod. On the contrary, the _Spiritual
Regulation_ shows us this czar, alarmed at the excessive influence which
the clergy at that time possessed, painting in sombre colors the dangers
resulting therefrom to the country, and finding therein his best pretext
for establishing the synod. It is the institutions of the czars which have
created for the clergy the melancholy situation in which they find
themselves at the present day, which have deprived them of all moral
influence, and have reduced them to be “cast off by the higher orders,
scarcely tolerated by the middle classes, and turned into ridicule by the
common people.” That which retains these classes, notwithstanding the
contempt in which they hold their popes, in an outward profession of
orthodoxy, is the _Penal Code_. Can it be believed that, without the
injunctions enforced by this Code, the people would confess to priests
whom they so utterly despise?

To resume: There are historical facts still living in the memory of the
Russian people which show them their czars making small account,
personally, of orthodoxy, at the very time when, by laws of great
severity, they compel its observance by the people. They see the higher
ranks sceptical or unbelieving, revolutionary ideas in favor with a great
number of their fellow‐countrymen; the _Raskolniks_, who in the time of
Peter the Great were scarcely sufficient to form themselves into sects,
now so powerful by their numbers and their political importance that they
have already forced the government and the synod into making some
considerable concessions; they see the clergy reduced, thanks to the
institutions of Peter, which have been continued and completed by his
successors, to mere agents of the police, tools in the hands of power, and
forming a caste so despised that rarely is a pope admitted further than
the antechamber of any house belonging to a member of the upper classes,
and powerless to exercise any influence whatever, even upon the lower
orders; this is a true portrait of the Russian Church of to‐day—the
Russian Church such as the czars have made it.(148)

And to‐morrow?

This to‐morrow, now drawing near, will still more clearly reveal what the
czars have made of orthodoxy and of the church of which they call
themselves the guardians. The day must soon come when, by the intrinsic
force of things, the regulations of which we have been speaking will
disappear from the Russian Code, and when nothing will force the Russians
any longer to keep up any relations with a clergy whom they scorn, nor to
practise the religion of which they are the teachers and representatives.
That will be the day to which Catherine II. looked forward with so much
dread—the day when the Russian people will “know how to read and write,
and will feel a desire for instruction.” What will happen then in Russia
has been shown to us, on a small scale, in what has taken place before our
eyes in more than one Catholic country, where the clergy, strong in the
support of the laws, lived without anxiety about the future, until
political revolutions, coming suddenly to change the relations between
church and state, placed them without any preparation face to face with
unbelief. We say, however, _on a small scale_, for if the Catholic clergy
could not foresee the first outbreak of unbelief, they required but a
little space of time in which to moderate or check its progress. Neither
in Spain nor Italy can unbelief boast of having greatly diminished the
number of Catholics; one might say rather that the new legislation has but
served to open an easy way out to those who were such only in name, and
has thus delivered the church from them. Information obtained from
undoubtedly authentic sources proves that the churches are no less filled
by the faithful, and the sacraments no less frequented, than before. This
is a state of things, which it will be difficult to find in Russia; and we
will mention the reason why.

And in the first place, if it is just to acknowledge that, in some
provinces of the countries we have just named, abuses may have crept in
among the clergy, still they were neither so serious nor so general as
people have been pleased to represent them. Their principal source was to
be found in the too great number of ecclesiastics, of whom some had
entered holy orders without a true vocation. But, precisely by reason of
the large number of priests, there are very many good ones to be found,
and enough of these to suffice amply for the needs of the faithful. Their
virtues, which contrast with the manner of life habitual to the apostles
of irreligion, thus formed a first entrenchment against unbelief.

Will it be the same in Russia?

We are far from wishing to disparage the Russian clergy. Their defects
neither destroy nor excuse any which may be met with among Catholic
priests; we will even admit that the great majority of the Russian popes
lead exemplary lives. But is it known what is the gain to unbelief, in
Russia, from even a very small minority of bad popes? In Russia each
parish has only just so many priests as are absolutely necessary to carry
on the worship; and with scarcely any exceptions, especially in the
country, no parish has more than one priest. If, then, this priest lose
the faith, unbelief will have free course in his parish. The reader would
here perhaps remind us of the monks, who are still numerous in Russia, and
ask whether these could not come to the assistance of the secular clergy.
Any Russian would smile, were such a question put to him; but we will
confine ourselves to remarking, in the first place, that the monks who
have received holy orders (_hiero‐moines_) are very rare, and, secondly,
that never would any Russian parish desire the intervention of a monk.
Stations, retreats, spiritual exercises, general communions, all these
expressions do not, so far as we know, possess even any equivalents in the
Russian language to this day, unless, indeed, in the Catholic books in
that tongue which the government of St. Petersburg has recently caused to
be printed, in order, it might seem, that more prayers might ascend to
heaven in the Russian language, and fewer in Polish. In any case, the
interference of monks in the management of parishes would be a far bolder
innovation even than the “correction” of the liturgical books, which
gained for Russia the ten millions of sectaries she can reckon at the
present day. And this comparison reminds us that on the self‐same day
whereon orthodoxy shall lose the support of the Penal Code, the Russian
popes will not only have to defend it against unbelief, but also against
the various Russian sects, some of which surpass in their diabolical
superstitions and abominable mysteries all that has been related of the
Gnostics and Manicheans. And, moreover, it must not be forgotten that the
Russian popes, however exemplary they may be, and however full of zeal for
orthodoxy, are married priests. Thus one quality is wanting to them, of
which the prestige is far from being superfluous.

We will not ask how it happens that the Russian clergy, if truly virtuous,
are “cast off by the higher classes, barely tolerated by the middle class,
and turned into ridicule by the lower orders of the people,” when goodness
and virtue rarely, if ever, fail to give their possessor an ascendency,
especially over the masses, which is independent of either rank or
learning. At the same time, we do not intend to place any reliance on the
statements we find in Russian writings on this subject; the falsehoods and
exaggerations which are so frequent, even in Catholic countries, with
regard to priests, make it a duty to receive with mistrust the accusations
of the Russians against their clergy. But, we repeat, the Russian clergy
who are in contact with the people are married, and this fact deprives
them of a quality which is far from being unnecessary.

Here we may perhaps be reminded of the Protestant ministers, especially
the Anglican, “so respectable,” we are assured, “so surrounded with
confidence and esteem, and at the same time a married clergy.”

We have made it our rule to avoid all recrimination, and therefore accept
on trust all that we are told of the excellence of the Protestant
ministers; but we ask, in our turn, how is it possible to establish a
parallel between their mission and that of the “orthodox” clergy?
Protestantism, of whatever form, recognizes no other judge than individual
reason, on many questions touching upon morals, while, on the other hand,
the “orthodox” church possesses an authority which decides upon them in
the sense least favorable to natural inclinations. It is only some few
forms of Protestantism that impose any particular mode of worship; whereas
the orthodox communion does not on this point allow freedom of choice to
its members. Protestantism has banished expiatory works; the orthodox
church requires prolonged fasts and abstinences. Protestantism sends us to
God for the humble confession of our sins, but the orthodox church
commands that they should be confessed to a priest, in order to obtain, by
this painful act of humiliation, the pardon of God. If Protestantism
points to Jesus Christ as our model, it nevertheless circumscribes the
sphere in which we are allowed to imitate him; while the orthodox church
fixes no limit to the imitation of our divine Example. Virginity, poverty,
and obedience are for Protestantism that which the cross was to the
Gentiles—“foolishness”; but the orthodox church recognizes in them the
counsels of perfection bequeathed by Christ himself to those who desire
most closely to resemble him.

We will not pursue the parallel further.

To Be Continued.




The Leap For Life.


AN EPISODE IN THE CAREER OF PRES. MACMAHON.

I.

        In Algeria, with Bugeaud,
        Harassed by a crafty foe,
Were the French, in eighteen hundred thirty‐one;
        Swarthy Arabs prowled about
        Camp and outpost and redoubt
        Crouching here and crawling there,
        Lurking, gliding everywhere,
Tiger‐hearted, under stars and under sun,
        Seeking by some stealthy chance
        Vengeance on the troops of France—
        Vengeance fierce and fell, to sate
        Savage rage and savage hate
        For the deeds of desolation harshly done.

II.

                  On a rugged plateau,
Forty miles from headquarters of Marshal Bugeaud,
Lay an outpost, besieged by the merciless foe.
Day by day close and closer the Arab lines drew
    Round the hard‐beset French.

                  To dash out and flash through,
Like a wind‐driven flame, they would dare, though a host
Hot from Hades stood there. But abandon the post?
Nay, they dare not do that; they were soldiers of France,
And dishonor should stain neither sabre nor lance;
They could bravely meet death, though like Hydra it came
Horror‐headed and dire, but no shadow of shame
For a trust left to perish when danger drew nigh
Should e’er dim the flag waving free to the sky.
But soon came a terror more dread to the soul
Than war’s wild thunder‐crash when its battle‐clouds roll,
And the heavens are shrouded from light, while a glare,
As of hell, breaks in hot, lurid streams on the air!
        It was Famine, grim‐visaged and gaunt,
        To the camp most appalling of foes—
        Slow to strike, slow to kill, but full sure
        As the swift headsman’s deadliest blows.
        O’er the ramparts it sullenly strode,
        Glided darkly by tent and by wall,
        Spreading awe wheresoever it went,
        And the gloom of dismay over all;
Blighting valor that ne’er in war’s red front had quailed,
Blanching cheeks that no tempest of strife e’er had paled.

III.

Then a council was held, and the commandant said
Direst peril was near; they must summon swift aid
From the Marshal, or all would be lost ere the sun
Of to‐morrow went down in the west. Was there one
Who, to save the command and the honor of France,
Would ride forth with despatches? He ceased, and a glance
At the bronzed faces near showed that spirits to dare
Any desperate deed under heaven were there.
But the first to arise and respond was a youth
Whose brow bore nature’s signet of courage and truth,
In whose eye valor shone calm and clear as a star
When the winds are at rest and the clouds fade afar.
Who was he that stood forth with such resolute air?
Young Lieutenant MacMahon, bold, free, _débonnaire_,
Never knight looked more gallant with shield and with spear,
Never war‐nurtured chieftain less conscious of fear.
In his mien was the heroic flash of the Gaul,
With the fire of the Celt giving grandeur to all;
And he said, head erect, face with ardor aglow,
“I will ride with despatches to Marshal Bugeaud!”

IV.

        It is night, and a stillness profound
        Folds the camp; Arabs stealthily creep
        Here and there in the moonlight beyond,
        With ears eagerly bent for a sound
        From the garrison, watchful and weak;
        O’er the tents welcome night‐breezes sweep,
        Bringing balm unto brow and to cheek
        Of men scorched by a pitiless sun
        To a hue almost swarthy and deep
        As the hue of the foe they would shun.

V.

        Stretching dimly afar,
Between slopes that are rugged and bare,
Half obscure under moonbeam and star,
Half revealed in the soft, misty air,
Runs a rude, broken way that will lead
Gallant rider and sure‐footed steed
Westward forth to the camp of Bugeaud,
Forty miles over high land and low;
But the steed must be trusty and fleet,
And the bridle hand steady and keen
That shall guide him by rock and ravine,
Where each stride of the galloping feet
Must span dangers that slumber unseen;
And beyond, scarce a league to the west,
Yawns a treacherous chasm, dark and deep,
Where death lurks like a serpent asleep,
And the rider must ride at his best,
And his steed take the terrible leap
Like a winged creature cleaving the air,
Else a grim, ghastly corpse shall be there,
With perchance a steed stark on its breast,
And the moon shall look down with a stare
Where they lie in perpetual rest.

VI.

Now the silence is broken by neigh and by champ
And the clatter of hoofs, and away from the camp
Rides MacMahon, as gallant, as light, and as free
As the bridegroom who goes to his marriage may be.
With prance and with gallop and gay caracole
His swift steed bounds along, as if spurning control;
But the bridle‐hand guides him unerring and true,
And each stroke of the hoofs is thew answering thew.
Through the moonlight they go, fading slowly from sight,
Till both rider and steed sink away in the night.
But they go not unheard, and they speed not unseen;
Dark eyes furtively watch, flashing fiercely and keen
From dim ambush around; then like spectres arise
White‐robed figures that follow; the rider descries
Them on slope and in hollow, and knows they pursue.
But he fears not their craft or the deeds they may do,
For his brave steed is eager and strong, and the pace
Growing faster and faster each stride of the chase.
Now the slopes right and left seem alive with the foe
Gliding ghost‐like along, but still stealthy and low,
As wild creatures that crouch in a jungle; they think
To entrap him when back from the terrible brink
Of the chasm he returns, for his steed cannot leap
The dread gulf, and the rider will halt when its steep
Ragged walls ope before him, with death lying deep
In the darkness below; they will seize him, and take
From his heart, by fell torture of fagot and stake,
Every secret it holds; then his life‐blood may flow,
But he never shall ride to the camp of Bugeaud.

VII.

Still unflinching and free through the moonlight he goes,
And each pulse with the hot flush of eagerness glows.
Now a glance at the path where his gallant steed flies,
Now a gleam at the weird, spectral forms that arise
On the dim, rugged slopes, then still onward and on,
Till he nears the abyss, and its gaping jaws yawn
On his sight; but the rider well knows it is there,
And his speed is soon cautiously checked to prepare
For the desperate leap; he must now put to proof
The true mettle beneath, for the slip of a hoof
Or a swerve on the brink will dash both into doom,
Where the sad stars shall watch o’er a cavernous tomb.
Girth and bridle and stirrup are felt, to be sure
That no flaw shall bring peril—and all is secure;
Then with eyes fixed before, and brow bent to the wind,
And one thought of the foe and his comrades behind,
And a low, earnest prayer that all heaven must heed,
He slacks bridle, plies spur, and gives head to his steed.
With a bound it responds, ears set back, nostrils wide,
And the rush of a thunder‐bred storm in its stride!
Now the brink! now the leap! they are over! Hurrah!
Horse and rider are safe, and dash wildly away;
Not a slip, not a flinch, swift and sure as the flight
Of an eagle in mid‐air they sweep through the night,
While the baffled foe glare in bewildered amaze
At the fast‐flying prey speeding far from their gaze;
And the soft stars grow dim in the dawn’s early glow
When MacMahon rides into the camp of Bugeaud.




The Year Of Our Lord 1874.


A general glance at the movements of the past year will scarcely prove
encouraging, even to the most devout believer in the glory and the destiny
of the golden century drawing so rapidly to its close. Our own nation,
which—with steam, electricity, railroads, the newspaper as it stands to‐
day in all its power and pride (_vide_ the current number of the New York
_Herald_), and other great material developments of the age—may consider
itself at will as either the mightiest product or the _enfant gâté_ of the
century, has not too great matter for self‐congratulation. Our national
year, that dawned on disaster, has struggled through a painful life only
to close in gloom, with perhaps a faint though uncertain glimmer afar off
of better times to come. The “Christian” statesmen who have had the
country and its management all to themselves these many years past have
left behind them a bitter legacy. The great scandals—for even scandals in
these days have a greatness of their own—which at length broke up the
ranks of the “Christian” statesmen were sufficiently touched upon last
year, and are only called to mind here as tending in great measure to
explain the year of national distress we have just passed through.

All through the winter months the poverty and misery of the masses in New
York and other of our chief cities were unexampled in our history; nor was
the revival of business during the spring, summer, and fall seasons of
such a nature as to warrant the hope of being able to stave off a similar
calamity in the early months of the coming year. The real cause of the
distress is known to all—the general stagnation of business in 1873,
resulting chiefly from the panic of the previous year, which in turn
resulted from the corruption in high places of the national, State, and
municipal guardians of the public trusts. Public confidence was shattered;
business was at a standstill, the masses consequently idle, while a
general reduction in the rate of wages begot strikes among such as were
not idle. In this connection it may be well to call to mind what was
generally observed at the time: the significant absence of the Irish and
Catholic body from the seditious meetings; yet on that body fell the
burden of the distress. What the disciples of the “Christian” school of
statesmen, who gave cause for the sedition by their corruption and
dishonesty, would be pleased to term their “foreign” faith, “foreign”
education, obedience to the trained body‐guard, the priesthood, of a
“foreign” potentate, the Pope, alone prevented their falling in with the
ranks of sedition. Yet the preaching and practice of the “foreign” faith,
we are constantly assured, is the greatest danger to the republic.

The trials of the severe season, however, brought out into startling
prominence one great fact: the willingness and resources of the public to
encounter an unexpected demand of this kind. New York, for instance, was
overrun with public charities and associations for the relief of the poor,
the unfortunate, the maimed, the halt, the blind, the fatherless children,
helpless women, and so forth. In short, there was scarcely a department of
human misery which had not its corresponding asylum, aided in most
instances by the State, erected often and paid solely by the State, as
well as a variety of others set on foot and kept a‐going by private
philanthropy or charity. Money from public and private resources had been
pouring into these asylums for long years past, without any startling
demand being made upon them in return. Now was the time to prove the
utility of those institutions, of which we were so justly proud. What was
their actual condition? They were for the greater part found practically
with exchequers already exhausted, without anything like adequate results
being shown. An inquiry as to where all the money had gone succeeded in
tracing considerable sums as far as the pockets of the directors, their
wives, families, and friends, generally, after which all traces
mysteriously disappeared. The good old maxim that “charity begins at home”
would seem to have impressed itself as a necessary truth on the minds of
the dispensers of our public charities, and it seems to have been carried
out severely to the letter. One consolation was afforded the public,
however. For some time past its conscience had been offended by the
granting of certain sums—small enough indeed, in comparison with the
necessities of the cases—out of the public funds to those social offences
known as “sectarian” charities—sectarian charities!—and these sums, such
as they were, had within the year been very judiciously and properly
withdrawn, in accordance with the spirit of the Constitution, as expounded
by the men from whose ranks sprang the Christians of the _Crédit Mobilier_
school. It was no small satisfaction to see, in the time of trial, that
the public was justified in withdrawing from such institutions the State
appropriations, on the ground that they were not distributed as in purely
State asylums. How the “sectarian” charities contrasted with the others in
the administration and distribution of their funds may be left to the
records of the year to tell, as unfolded in the columns of the daily
press. Whether a general remodelling of our public institutions, in view
of the flagrant mismanagement exhibited last year, be not desirable, is
left to the consideration of those most concerned in the matter—the public
themselves. As they stand they are an eyesore to honest men, a standing
breach of public confidence, and a gross violation of the public contract,
to say nothing of what they may be in the eye of a heaven that seems to be
getting farther and farther remote from the earth, whereon God once was
pleased to walk with the father of mankind.

Our class of statesmen found an easy solution of what Mr. Disraeli
esteemed the most difficult problem of politics—the feeding of a people by
the government—by an increase of money; and an increase of money is the
simplest thing in the world, when money is only so much paper stamped by
the government with promise to pay at no very precise date. All that the
government had to do in order to ease matters was to draw an unlimited
number of I O U’s on itself—itself being practically bankrupt for the time
being, but relying on the prospect of something eventually “turning up” to
its advantage.

The sad conflicts in Arkansas and Louisiana, the hostility between black
and white, come in the same order. In this case, in Louisiana at least,
the President and his advisers did not show themselves as well as in the
quashing of the bill for inflation of the currency. While the party that
had recourse to an absolute revolution in the State and in the face of the
nation cannot but be condemned, inasmuch as the approaching elections
might have peacefully served their purposes to the same end, much more is
the government to be condemned which in the first instance gave its
sanction and support to a great and standing wrong. Fortunately, but
little blood was spilt; yet one drop in such cases is an indication of the
neighborhood of a deluge. All hope for the dispersion of this impending
deluge rests now chiefly with the party which was returned to power at the
November elections.

If the year leaves us with so much to lament, so many vexed problems to
solve, so many rocks ahead in our national course, and with only a half‐
confidence in the crew who are in charge of the ship of state to guide it
over the unrevealed dangers of unknown seas, what shall be said of Europe,
with its divided nationalities, ambitions, and policies, and only danger
as a unit?

The general arming of the nations that began almost half a century ago,
but was hurried into feverish activity since the Franco‐German war, may
now be said to be completed. Russia within half a dozen years will, if
peace so far favors her, have three millions of soldiers in the field;
France almost as many; Germany, by the enrolment of the Landsturm, has
made itself a nation of soldiers; Austria, Italy, and the rest all follow
in due order. All Europe is at this moment armed to the teeth, solely to
preserve peace. One is irresistibly reminded of an old verse about a
strong man armed keeping his house.

A set of fanatics assembled in London to sympathize with the Prussian
government in its “struggle” with its Catholic subjects—that is to say,
with the wholesale imprisonment of the Catholic bishops and clergy, the
suppression of Catholic religious societies, the fining of Catholic ladies
for presenting addresses of condolence to the imprisoned ecclesiastics.
The meeting of sympathy called forth a very remarkable letter of gratitude
from the German emperor, and occasioned a general jubilee on the part of
the German official press. So far, so good. In the meanwhile a French
bishop, thinking, probably, that it is hard for a man whose sole crime
consists in the fact of his being a Catholic bishop to be imprisoned for
that offence, ventures to deliver a mild opinion on the matter in a
pastoral to his flock. Straightway comes out a Prussian official paper
with an editorial that for solemnity and massiveness might have been
written by the Emperor himself, warning, not the French bishop, but all
France, that if it cannot restrain itself from that shocking habit it has
acquired of using intemperate language against a neighboring and unusually
friendly power, Germany, painful as the task may be to its feelings of
humanity, will positively be compelled to take its own measures for its
own defence. France immediately takes the hint, eats the leek with all
becoming meekness, and a circular couched in the language of the Academy
is despatched to the bishops generally, the plain English of which would
be to hold their tongues on all German matters, unless, of course, they
have something pleasant to say. That may be a very easy task for the
bishops, but there still remain those _bêtes‐noirs_ of offending
governments, the gentlemen of the press; and gentlemen of the press, in
France as everywhere else, are unhappily distinguished not so much,
perhaps, for having opinions of their own, as for giving vent to those
opinions, and setting them down in indelible ink. M. Veuillot, the editor
of _L’Univers_, is just one of these unfortunate beings. M. Veuillot has a
rather strong way of putting things when it pleases him, and M. Veuillot
is hardly the man to take a diplomatic hint. The sad duty becomes
incumbent on his government, therefore, to give M. Veuillot and his paper
a vacation of a couple of months. The vacation was called suspension. It
was duly explained that the German government had had nothing whatever to
do with the matter, though, strange to say, the French government had
never thought of suspending M. Veuillot for hammering away at itself.

Belgium and Italy were threatened in like manner for allowing their
subjects freedom of opinion in so important a matter. Even England was
warned, but the warning had small effect.

It was whispered, though the correspondence never came to light, that at
one period during the past year some sharply‐worded notes passed between
the German government and our own. What the cause of the sharply‐worded
notes may have been remains a diplomatic secret. The only thing
significant about the matter is that the whisper took shape about a month
after the arrest and imprisonment of Archbishop Ledochowski, who had the
immortal honor of being the first of the German bishops to surrender the
liberty of his person for his faith in this strife. That imprisonment
called forth an unanimous condemnation from the American press—not the
sectarian press of any creed—that did it honor, and led one to hope that
such a thing as principle still existed on the earth, and that genuine
homespun American love of liberty was not a meaningless thing.

To the charge of necessary disloyalty to the ecclesiastical laws of
Prussia, Catholics will perforce plead guilty—the same Catholics who
before the passing of those laws never dreamed of or were accused of
disloyalty to the state. Those laws are an insult to the age and to all
time. There is not a line of them that does not betray the steel of the
executioner, red almost with the blood of his victim. The spirit of
Brennus is abroad. The scales of justice show a sadly uneven balance; but
the sword of the barbarian tossed in ends all disputes and argument.

Our modern Brennus has struck his blows so rapidly and truly that the
world still stares at him in dazed wonder. Success has waited on his
footsteps, and men who worship success are not yet sufficiently masters of
themselves to measure that success aright. They are afraid to question the
actions of a man who seems to strike with the inerrancy of fate. Prince
Bismarck had certainly the world on his side; and if the world begins now
to fall away from him and recoil, to recover its senses a little, and to
question the right and wrong of his actions, he has none but himself to
blame.

The signs of the past year tell us that the recoil is beginning to set in.
The elections early in the year went against the government. The Catholics
gained a large majority on their former number even in Prussia itself.
Alsace‐Lorraine returned its members simply to protest against annexation,
while the socialists were strengthened also. The government still holds a
strong majority, it is true; but the falling away from its standard within
four years of its mightiest triumphs was so significant of what was likely
to ensue should the government persevere in its policy, that the first
thing taken into consideration immediately after the elections was the
restricting of the franchise to such voters as it was felt would return a
safe and sure majority for the government. Next to this came measures for
the restriction of the liberty of the press, which by the efforts of the
Catholic party were defeated.

The obvious question will force itself on the mind: Why should a
government so strong and mighty, so beloved of the people, as we are
always assured, tremble at the popular voice and at the criticism of a
newspaper? The answer is easy. The army bill followed. The government
required a peace‐effective voted once for all of four hundred and one
thousand men. That army was to stand, and, once the bill was passed,
parliament was to have no further voice in the matter, whether in regard
to payment of the bills or in regulating the number of men. That was to
pass completely out of its hands.

For once even the “blustering majority” did not save the government. The
terrible danger of the scheme was obvious. The mere presence of so
tremendous a standing army was a standing menace not only to the country
and its liberties, but to its neighbors. It did not breathe the spirit of
peace and rest in the government, and of proper regard for a country
already worn and disturbed by three harassing wars occurring in quick
succession; while the taking out of the hands of the Houses the control
over so large an item of the public funds as was embraced in the bill, was
a blow at their privileges to which not even faith in absolutism could
blind them. A storm was at once raised. The government staked its
existence on the measure. Marshal Moltke rose up in the House, and made a
speech in defence of it that will be remembered. He spoke of the alarm
caused by Germany to its neighbors. He told them that what they had gained
in a few months it would take them fifty years to keep and secure. It was
necessary that, though they might not draw the sword, their hand should be
for ever on the hilt. He assured them that, after all, wars undertaken and
carried through by regular armies were the swiftest and therefore the
cheapest. An important consideration that last. As a final argument the
veteran told them that “a standing army was a necessity of the times, and
he could not but ask the House to devote the figure of four hundred and
one thousand rank‐and‐file as a peace‐footing once for all.” A peace‐
footing! But even the marshal’s seductive eloquence could not move them.

Prince Bismarck fell sick and retired to Varzin. The Emperor’s birthday
came round, and the generals of his empire came to congratulate him. He
assured them that he would dissolve parliament rather than alter the bill.
But his imperial majesty forgot that there were more kingdoms than Prussia
concerned in his measures now, and that the dissolution that once before
served the King of Prussia sufficiently well might, in the disturbed state
of affairs, prove a dangerous experiment to the Emperor of Germany.
Finally, as is known, somewhat better counsels prevailed, and a compromise
was effected, which limited the figure to three hundred and eighty‐five
thousand men for seven years. This was a severe check to the government,
while it was a lesson to the people to distrust rulers who, in the light
of their own schemes, considered the empire as a mere instrument,
forgetting wholly that they were for the empire, not the empire for them.

There are many matters in the internal history of Germany during the past
year that deserve to be dwelt upon particularly and at length, but a few
of which only can be glanced at here. The desire to expand and strengthen
itself abroad is natural, and it is strange that the government organs
should be so anxious to disavow so praiseworthy an object, provided the
motives that urge it are good. It is strange, at the same time, to see how
it continues its repressive emigration laws; how anxious so mighty an
empire is to keep all its children at home, where they may be serviceable
in the Landsturm; and how anxious those children are to get away and come
out to us here, leaving behind them and surrendering forever all the glory
and the promise of the newly‐founded empire. It is strange, also, to note
to what little tricks so great a government can descend in its self‐
imposed conflict with its Catholic subjects; as, for instance, the forged
Papal decree respecting the future election of the Sovereign Pontiff that
found its way into the columns of the Cologne _Gazette_ at so opportune a
moment as the eve of the German elections. Simultaneously with its
appearance we were reminded of the significant declaration of Prince
Bismarck in the German parliament, June 9, 1873: “If the message is
brought to us that a new Pope has been elected, we shall certainly be
entitled to investigate whether he has been duly, properly, and
legitimately elected”; that is to say, whether the veto of the head of the
Holy Roman Empire—who of course is the Emperor William—and of the other
powers possessing a veto whom the German government might influence, has
been exercised. “Only if we are satisfied on these heads will he be able
to claim in Germany the rights belonging to a Roman Pope.”

Out of consideration for Prince Bismarck we pass over those fierce
parliamentary storms where his keen opponents, Von Windthorst and Von
Mallinkrodt, twitted the Chancellor himself with having been actually
guilty of the disloyalty to Prussia and the German soil which he falsely
attributed to the Catholics. The prince, amid thunders of applause,
charged them with malicious lying; but the charge, though momentarily
effective, was not a happy one, as the disclosures of Gen. Della Marmora
subsequently showed. Italy was threatened in consequence of Della
Marmora’s indiscretion, but the threat proved ineffectual. The general
said his say, and the lie was stamped on its author. Prince Bismarck’s
popularity was on the wane, if not in Germany itself, certainly in a very
large circle outside of Germany where he had hitherto been worshipped as
one who with some justice described himself as “the best‐hated man in
Europe.” Then, fortunately for himself, as fortunately as a scene in a
drama, came the _Deus ex machinâ_ in the pistol of Kullmann to relieve him
from his momentary misfortunes. Prince Bismarck was not the man to miss so
fine an opportunity of turning to account the insane attempt of the son of
a madman on his life, and we were flooded with the time‐honored taunts of
means to ends because a man of notoriously bad and violent character, who
happened to have been present at some Catholic meetings, committed the
wicked and utterly unjustifiable act of firing a pistol at the Chancellor.
There are some two hundred million Catholics in the world; there are in
Germany fourteen or fifteen, in Prussia alone eight millions, of the same
creed. Of all these millions one man, of wicked antecedents and insane
descent, is found to commit an act abhorrent to the Catholic conscience
all the world over, and at once the universal conscience of that mighty
multitude is with a benignant generosity centred in the person of this
wretch, who, whether, as many believed, a dupe of the government tools or
a dupe of his own disordered intellect, was equally a wretch. Why not turn
the argument the other way? Why not wonder at the sublime patience of the
people who see the sacred persons of their bishops and priests dragged
from the altar‐steps, stripped of their goods, and buried in fortresses,
for the crime of violating laws that were made to be violated, without
moving a hand to prevent such constant outrages, because the teachings of
those disloyal priests and bishops, of that arch‐foe to German
nationality, the Pope, never cease to forbid armed resistance to the most
oppressive laws that were ever framed? Two or three officials have been
sent alone among a vast multitude of Catholics to drag before their very
eyes the priest whose Mass they have just attended, from the altar of
Christ to a prison—for what possible purpose but to provoke bloodshed and
insurrection? Happily, the people were still by the efforts of the clergy
restrained from putting themselves at the mercy of a government that knows
no mercy; but who shall say how long that patience will endure? And this
is the government whose sole aim is the unity and consolidation of Germany
and the happiness of every section of its people!

As the Von Arnim case is still pending, it is useless to conjecture what
the documents may contain whose possession prompted Prince Bismarck to
arrest and confine in a common prison the man who next after himself stood
the foremost in the German nation. The arrest to the world at large showed
more forcibly than anything that has yet taken place to what lengths the
chief of the Prussian government can go; how easily he can trample under
foot every tradition of civilization and every feeling of humanity to
crush a foe or sweep from his path a possible danger to himself. It is
probable that the documents turn chiefly on his foreign policy, and would
stamp in indelible characters that policy, which it needs no writing to
tell us threatens not only the church, but the peace of Europe, and,
through Europe, of the world, perhaps for centuries to come. Such
disclosures would in the eyes of outraged Germany and Europe necessitate
his deprivation of a power he has so fatally abused.

France struggles on still without a government; that is to say, without a
government of which six weeks of existence could be safely predicated. The
changes in the ministry have been changes of men rather than of measures.
The various parties are still at daggers‐drawn and rather on the increase
than otherwise. The Count of Chambord seems for the present to have
retired from the contest—a wise and patriotic example, which if all could
follow, the country might be allowed breathing time and some fair chance
of arriving at a sound judgment as to what was the exact government it
wanted—a problem which the French nation has seemed incapable of solving
since the first Revolution. The Bonapartists have profited by the
withdrawal of the Count, and displayed an earnestness, boldness, and
activity which have been crowned with some success, but marked by the
disregard of the nation and its submergence in the family name and fame
that seem the chief characteristics of “the Napoleonic idea.” The coming
of age of the son of the late emperor was marked by a theatrical display
and oracular speeches worthy of the Second Empire at its zenith. There
have been the usual “scenes” in the French Assembly. The “intervals of ten
minutes” and “intervals of a quarter of an hour” have been alarmingly
frequent, and after some sittings the air bristled with challenges from
warlike deputies, which afforded excellent material for the illustrated
journals; but, on the whole, few more dangerous weapons than the peaceful
pocket‐handkerchief were drawn, and the pocket‐handkerchief, as all public
orators know, is a vast relief in trying moments. M. Thiers has preferred
the Apennines to the tribune, and has happily spoken more in Italy than in
the Chambers. M. Gambetta, for a man of his calibre, has been singularly
well behaved on the whole, and we have not had so many of those journeys
to the disaffected districts of which at one time he threatened to be so
fond. Sad to say, it is the soldier‐president who has thus far kept the
disorderly parties from flying at each other’s throats by the sheer force
of the army, on which he silently leans all the while. France is
practically in the hands of a military dictator. She is happy in her
dictator—that is all. Marshal MacMahon, on succeeding M. Thiers, promised
to answer for order, and he has kept his word. More than that, he has,
wisely for France, however sad it may be to say so, made the Assembly keep
its word and abide by the _septennate_ which it conferred on him. He has
used his vast power with a singular discretion, a patriotism unexampled
almost in the face of opportunities that would turn the head of many a
greater man, and an honest single‐mindedness that has clearly nothing else
than the good of the whole country in view. The last symbol of a now
ineffectual protection, and indeed for a long time an insincere one, of
the Holy Father, has been withdrawn in the _Orénoque_. It is better so. It
is better, perhaps, since matters have been pushed so far, that the Holy
Father stand absolutely alone, powerless and defenceless, in the eyes of
earth and heaven. The power of God alone can now restore to him what is
his by right. To‐day among all the European governments there is none so
poor as to do him reverence. England has recently withdrawn even its
shadow of a diplomatic representative, which possibly marks the beginning
of the “little more energy in foreign policy and little less in domestic
legislation” that Mr. Disraeli advised while still in opposition.

In all other respects except politics France has every reason to be
congratulated. The earnest turning of the people’s heart to God, the
desertion of whom called down such terrible punishments, seems in no
degree to diminish. The seasons have been propitious, and the vintage of
1874 has been of unexampled excellence and productiveness. The exports of
the year were marvellously increased, and God’s blessings would seem to be
raining down again on this sorely‐tried land and people. All that is
needed is a good and firm government, of which, however, as yet, there
seems no immediate prospect. France is as open as ever to surprises; and
it is absolutely impossible to forecast its political future.

England has experienced a peaceful revolution similar to our own, and one
almost as astonishing in its suddenness, though, as in our case, there
were not wanting indications of the change in parties which has taken
place, as will be found duly noted by those who care to look at THE
CATHOLIC WORLD’S review for 1873. On January 22 Mr. Gladstone issued his
memorable “prolix narrative,” announcing, to the surprise of all men, the
immediate dissolution of Parliament. The sudden and, under the
circumstances, unexampled action of the premier looked remarkably like a
desire to take time by the forelock, and by the suddenness of the attack
shatter and utterly discomfit the slowly‐gathering forces of the
opposition. If such were the real intention, it was miserably
miscalculated and singularly ill‐advised. The country was as much outraged
as shocked, and showed its appreciation of Mr. Gladstone’s skill at a
_coup_ by returning a very handsome Conservative majority, so that Mr.
Disraeli, happy man! found himself, to his own surprise, no less than Mr.
Gladstone’s, within three weeks of the dissolution, at the head of a
strong government and party, with his old rival deep in the shade. The
result of the English elections may prove a lesson to popular leaders for
the future not to presume too much on their popularity, not to jeopardize
a powerful party, and throw an empire into sudden confusion by what looks
too much like a freak that it is hoped may win by “a fluke.”

The most significant lesson of the elections, perhaps, was the
instantaneous triumph of the Home Rule party in Ireland, while as yet it
was to all appearance in its infancy, and almost beneath the rational
notice of the English press. It had only provoked derision and calumny. We
were constantly told that it had no hold on the heart of the people, that
it claimed no men of note, that the nobility and gentry held aloof from
it, and so forth.

The “wild adherents” of the “wild folly” have taught even the London
_Times_ to respect them; and much reason had they to be pledged to their
wild folly, if the words of a man whose opinion is certainly of some value
on the subject have any weight: “Ireland at this moment is governed by
laws of coercion and stringent severity that do not exist in any other
quarter of the globe.” Those words were spoken on the 4th of February,
1874. The speaker was Mr. Disraeli, the present Prime Minister of England.
The laws that provoked the observation of so eminent an English statesman
still prevail in Ireland. The appeal for amnesty for the unfortunate
remnant of the Irish political prisoners has, since those words were
spoken, been refused by Mr. Disraeli. And yet the Irish calendars for this
year, as for many a year past, were the cleanest in the world and the
freest from crime of all kinds. Such is the nation governed at this moment
by laws such as Mr. Disraeli has described. The result of such government
can scarcely recommend its dispensers to the nation governed, and yet
their appeal for control of their own affairs, which the English
Parliament confessedly does not understand, and, if it did understand,
has, as it acknowledges, too much business on its hands properly to attend
to, is a wild folly!

The chief piece of English legislation during the year has been what was
embodied in “the bill to put down ritualism”—that is to say, the
regulation of divine worship as understood in the church established by
act of Parliament. Ritualism, or the “Romanizing tendency,” as it is
strangely termed, in the Anglican Church, has been put down, as far as an
act of Parliament can put it down. Our ritualists on this side were put
down also, for their bishops followed that authority in their church known
as the British Parliament, composed respectively of Anglicans, Dissenters,
Jews, Quakers, and other sects, with, worst of all, a strong contingent of
Roman Catholics. That hydra‐head of the Anglican Church regulated for it
to a nicety, pronounced upon its devotions, practices, sacraments,
vestments, ornaments, postures of the body, bendings of the knee,
elevations of the hands, prostrations, crossings, and so forth, as calmly
and in as business‐like a fashion as though it were sitting on an income
tax; and the church that we are so solemnly assured by learned men like
Bishop Coxe, if it dates not exactly from the Ist, certainly dates from
somewhere in the neighborhood of the IVth, century, with a subsequent
lamentable gap up to the XVIth, when the Apostle Henry and others of that
ilk came to renovate and restore it to its pristine purity, bowed meekly
to the infallible decision of the business‐like assembly of Jews,
infidels, Quakers, Dissenters, Anglicans, and Roman Catholics. What would
S. Peter and S. Paul think of it all?

Something far more serious than this, and of far deeper import to the
nation, was the long and persistent strike of the agricultural laborers,
which was carried on on a most extensive scale, and with a union that was
not thought to exist in the successor of the Saxon hind. Once the ball of
disaffection is set rolling, it is very hard to say where it will stop. It
is clear that the unions have at last permeated the entire body of the
English laboring‐classes. The trades‐unions are too often cousins‐german
to the secret societies. The mass of the English agricultural classes, in
common with the vast majority of the English laboring‐classes and
artisans, have no religion at all. The disaffection with the present order
of things in England, though less pronounced than in most modern European
nations, has been long gathering, is rapidly spreading, and is beyond all
doubt of a nature to excite considerable alarm. Loss of religion, it is
needless to say, leaves the minds and hearts of men open to all evil, and
it would be beyond stupidity to shut one’s eyes to the very plain fact
that the spirit of evil and of general disaffection is particularly active
all the world over just at present. Banish religion, banish the guiding
hand of God from your objective laws and from the heart and sight of your
people, and the people will look on the powers that be, of whatsoever
nature, as oppressors, on the rich as despoilers of the poor, on the
employers as their tyrants.

A most important movement, and one that we welcome with all our hearts, is
the bold step taken at last by the English hierarchy in founding a
Catholic university in England. The want has long been felt in that
country of a centre of Catholic intellect, culture, and thought, to vie
with those seats of learning which the piety of their Catholic forefathers
had left as priceless heirlooms to their Catholic children, but which,
with all holy places and all holy things, had by the national apostasy
become perverted from the purpose of their pious founders, and fallen by a
too easy lapse from centres of false faith to centres of no faith at all.
In England and Ireland, as with us, the means of providing higher
education for students desirous of attaining it have been hitherto
necessarily and lamentably deficient. The Catholic University in Ireland
and this later one in England give promise that, with proper encouragement
from the wealthy and intelligent laity, this long‐felt want will be at
length adequately supplied. These are days when the Catholic laity, to
whom now all positions, or at least very important ones, are fairly open,
are in duty bound to take their stand as becomes loyal children of a
mother universally assailed. The laity can penetrate where the clergy have
no voice. They are, as S. Peter called them, and as they have so signally
proved themselves in Germany, “a kingly priesthood.” But to take a stand
similar to that taken by the noble German phalanx, that “thundering
legion” in the service of the pagan empire, they must be equal to their
adversaries in culture, refinement, and address, all which come more by
education than from nature. Many a great mind has retired within a narrow
circle for which it was certainly not born, and its efforts rendered half
nugatory by lack of that early association and training which a great
university, an intellectual focus of the brightest minds in the galaxy of
letters, is intended to and does supply. We look, then, with as much hope
as expectancy to this step on the part of the English hierarchy, who have
saved their children from the allurements of a Satanic culture by
supplying them with men of recognized intellectual standing and
acknowledged faith in Christ and in his church. Our only hope is that in
our own country we soon may rival them.

Some mention will probably be looked for here of the controversy, as it is
called, which has sprung up in consequence of a recent pamphlet written by
Mr. Gladstone; but there is little need of such mention, inasmuch as Mr.
Gladstone seems to have been sufficiently answered by the very men whom
his pamphlet was intended chiefly to affect—the Protestants of England.
Whether so intended or not, it was beyond all doubt an attempt altogether
unworthy the high character of the distinguished author to rouse the
rancor of the English Protestants against their Catholic fellow‐subjects.
Could we altogether rid ourselves of the respect with which Mr. Gladstone,
take him all in all, has hitherto inspired us, as a man whose heart was as
large and loyal as his intellect, and that intellect inspired with
reverence for God and holy things, his latest exploit could only be
described as a vulgar “No Popery” appeal to the worst classes and most
degraded passions of English society, delivered in bad taste and worse
faith, and, to crown the list of offences, as a political mistake, which
has already failed in its object of establishing him, as Earl Russell once
was, and as men of the Newdegate and Whalley type would be, as the English
“No Popery” champion and leader, while it effectually alienates from him
once for all a large and influential body of supporters on whom he has
often counted, and on whom there was no reason to believe that a genuine
change of front on his part might not have led him to count again. That
his pamphlet is all this is true; that Mr. Gladstone intended it to be all
this there is too much reason to believe, but of that he himself alone can
tell. If the leader of the English Liberal party is pleased to be patted
on the back by the men in Germany who patted on the back the orators of
Exeter Hall who met to sympathize with the German persecution of Germans
whose only crime was their Catholic faith, and whose only stain was and is
their readiness to sacrifice life, lands, and liberty in defence of that
faith, he is welcome to his ill‐earned applause and doubtful honor.

The space already given to the important topics touched upon leaves little
room for comment on others. And indeed the story, as far as the Catholic
Church and general politics are concerned, is much the same all the world
over. Austria has followed in the wake of Prussia, though its
ecclesiastical laws do not seem to have been carried out with the brutal
thoroughness of its neighbor. Italy continues in its downward course. The
state of its finances is appalling, and yet it plies whip and spur with
reckless speed into chaos. Brigandage, in the south chiefly, grows worse
and worse. Civil marriage there, as in Prussia, is the law established. A
new phase of the secret societies crops out from time to time. It has
tried the scheme of popular election of the _curés_ as did Switzerland and
Germany, with a like result in all cases—an absurd _fiasco_. It has made
great strides in the way of popular education, with the result pictured by
the special correspondent of the London _Times_: “The property that is
taken from some of the Capuchin convents in Tuscany, and sold at auction,
is bought back at the auction by ‘pious benefactors,’ who recall the
scattered fraternity to their deserted and desecrated homes, and restore
monachism on conditions more favorable than those on which it stood before
its suppression. The central government and the municipalities in Italy
strain every nerve to supply the people with a free and good education,
but their schools have to strive hard to withstand the competition which
is raised against them by the Scolopii in Florence, the Barnabites in
Milan, and the Ignorantins in Turin.... There are now Waldensian,
Methodist, and other evangelical churches and schools in Rome, as in other
Italian cities, but their success is not very encouraging, even in the
opinion of their candid promoters.” And we may add, for the benefit of the
ardent but foolish supporters of the Van Meter and such like schemes, a
further extract from the same correspondent: “Attempts to allow the people
to elect their parish priests without the permission of, and even in
direct opposition to, the bishop of the diocese have been made in some
Mantuan rural districts and elsewhere, but hitherto with no extensive or
decisive results; and the Gavazzi, Passaglia, Andrea, and others, who
would have ventured on a reforming movement within the church itself, have
met with no support whatever, either on the part of the government
authorities or of public opinion.”

The celebration of the twenty‐eighth anniversary of the elevation of our
Holy Father, Pope Pius IX., to the chair of Peter, was general throughout
Christendom, but desecrated in Rome by the infamous action of the usurping
government in clearing the streets of the crowds who were peacefully
returning from the _Te Deum_ in S. Peter’s. Violent arrests were made on
no pretext whatever, some of the persons arrested being English and
American Protestant ladies. On the evening following, and with the
connivance of the present Roman authorities, a hideous crowd assembled at
midnight to howl cries of hate and blasphemy under the windows of the
Sovereign Pontiff. Not religion alone, but common humanity, seems to have
been banished from Rome by the entrance of Victor Emanuel. Our constant
prayer should be that the great Pontiff, whose conspicuous virtues, and
sufferings so patiently borne for Christ’s sake, may be preserved to his
children long to witness with his own eyes the end of the blasphemy,
violence, and imposture which now beset him on all sides.

Switzerland has almost out Prussiaed Prussia in its assault on the
Catholic Church. So much for the freedom of the typical republic! It has
changed its constitution into despotism, driving away the Catholic voters
from the polls by intimidation and violence. Even Loyson has felt himself
compelled to cry out against its excesses, and resigned his curacy at
Geneva. The constitution which it has now adopted, it rejected only two
years since. It completely subjects religion to the state, and renders it
impossible for a Catholic priest to remain in his native country and
practise the duties of his office. Civil marriage here again is the order
of the day. Marriages, it used to be said, were made in heaven. Their
birthplace has been transferred to the office and celestial presence of
his eminence the town‐clerk.

In Spain the struggle has assumed a fiercer and more determined character
than ever. Castelar, who is already and very deservedly forgotten, was
president at the opening of the year. His success in that _rôle_ was what
might have been expected, and what has fully justified the opinion held of
him throughout in these pages. He was defeated on reading his message to
the Cortes in January—a message of despair. General Pavia cleared the
Cortes and took possession with his troops. The movement was so well
planned that no rising took place. Indeed, it was hard to say for what or
for whom a rising should have been made. There was no government; almost
all the prominent men had been tried in turn and failed, and the last was
the least capable of all. Serrano came to the front again; the whole
movement was probably his. Cartagena, which had so long held out against a
bombardment by sea and land, was taken soon after, and there remained no
foe in the field but Don Carlos, who had profited by the diversion at
Cartagena. Bilbao was seriously threatened by the Carlist forces, and
would have proved, if taken, an important prize to them. Serrano hastened
to its relief with all the available forces of the country, and, aided by
Marshal Concha, succeeded in raising the siege without inflicting any
material loss on the enemy. Marshal Concha he left to prosecute the
campaign, and for the first time since their last rising the Carlists
found themselves sore beset. A bullet at Estella, however, ended the
checkered career of the most dangerous opponent they had yet encountered,
and victory after victory of more or less importance has, with an
occasional reverse, continued to crown their arms. More than once have we
been assured of their annihilation, only to see them appear with renewed
strength, and add another victory to their crown. Through the influence of
Germany the European powers with the exception of Russia, have recognized
a republic which does not exist, and does not promise to exist, in Spain.
At one time Prussia threatened to interfere immediately, and may at any
time renew the attempt. The reason for this interference is obvious. A
Prussianized Spain would serve as a double‐barrelled gun, covering at once
Rome and France. Whereas the success of Don Carlos is the success of a
Catholic sovereign and a Bourbon; consequently a friend to France,
whatever may be the government in that country. Russia’s refusal to join
in its schemes was, however, a little too significant to ignore, and love,
which was never at fever‐point between what are now the rival powers in
Europe, was not increased by this rebuff. In the meanwhile Spain is
suffering terribly in blood, in commerce, in everything that makes the
life of a nation, by this prolonged struggle, which it was our hope to see
concluded ere this by the victory of the only man who can promise the
Spaniards a safe and vigorous government, and who has proved himself
possessed of all the qualities of king, general, and, as far as we are
able to judge, truly Christian leader—Don Carlos.

In Mexico, Brazil, Venezuela, and other of the South American states, the
struggle between church and state in Europe has been repeated, even to the
seizure of property, the expulsion of priests and nuns, the imprisonment
of bishops and priests. One little republic alone, that of Equador, has
set a noble example to the world of loyalty to the Catholic faith and to
the Apostolic See by devoting a large sum out of the public funds to the
aid of the Holy Father. The secret societies have seemingly as strong a
hold in South America as in Italy, and the boldness with which they act is
manifested by the severity of the sentences passed on the Bishops of
Olinda and Para, the Archbishops of Caracas and Venezuela, and the aged
Bishop of Merida. Those are still Catholic states, and it is to be hoped
that all true Catholics there will exert themselves and use the lawful
power that is in their hands to put a stop to the scenes of outrage and
brutal violence that are constantly on the increase.

It is time that civilized governments, or those that claim the title,
should unite to put a stop to the horrible periodical massacres of
Christians in China, of which the details reach us from time to time,
particularly during the past year. It is a shame upon all nations that
peaceful women should be outraged and brutally cut to pieces, as are the
Catholic nuns in that country. The European powers and our own could, if
they chose, put a stop to this infamous practice—for practice it is. And
our own government might well take the initiative in the matter. We
welcome the Chinese into this country. They come in swarms; they find home
and labor, and reward for their labor. They live among us, and leave us,
unmolested to the last. Their very idolatry is allowed; and yet at almost
stated intervals their countrymen rise up and horribly mutilate and murder
our dearest and best.

Of actual wars during the year there have been happily few. The defeat of
the Ashantees, and the burning of their capital city by the British
forces, adds, it is to be presumed, a new lustre to the glories of
England. The Dutch retaliated for their defeat of the year previous in
Acheen by in turn defeating the Achinese. Russia is securing its footsteps
as it advances into Asia. An invasion of Formosa by the Japanese, who are
becoming more and more amenable to European customs, ended strangely by a
payment of indemnity on the part of China and the departure safe home of
the Japanese. The usual chronic revolutions might be recorded of one or
more of the South American states, but beyond this there is nothing very
sanguinary to record.

An event that will long be memorable, and which excited very general
interest outside, was the departure for the first time of a body of
pilgrims from this country to Lourdes and Rome, under the guidance of the
Rt. Rev. Bishop of Fort Wayne and the Rev. P. F. Dealy, S. J. They were
received with special marks of affection by the Holy Father, who declared
that in this country he was more Pope than in any other.

An event that excited extraordinary commotion and a general display of a
strange splenetic hate on the part of the English press was the quiet
conversion to the Catholic faith of the Marquis of Ripon, who, in addition
to his hereditary title and established character as an English statesman,
added that of Grand Master of the Freemasons in England. Among other
conversions was that of the Queen Dowager of Bavaria.

We are not in the position to compare the statistics of the past year’s
capital crimes or suicides with those of former years; but whether they be
greater or less, they are alarmingly great. Suicide and murder were
startlingly frequent during the year; and as far as passing glances at the
reports in the newspapers would justify an opinion, they seem in most
cases to have resulted from wicked and immoral lives. For a time masked
burglary threatened to become the fashionable crime of the year. A
speedier sentence and a more honest dispensing of the law than often
prevails would more materially, perhaps, than any other means tend to
diminish the long annual list of offences against life and property.
Education, to be sure, is a great thing, and there will be an opportunity
in the coming year of seeing how the new law of compulsory education for
all children will work in the State of New York. The question is too large
a one to enter into here. As has been shown over and over again,
compulsory education with us means practically a compulsory Protestant
education; for Protestantism, if not actually taught, is done so at least
negatively, for many of the class‐books teem with Protestantism from cover
to cover. That, however, is a matter within the power of remedy to a great
extent. The compulsory education of Prussia that is so much extolled
allowed the Catholic priest and the Protestant minister to teach their
respective religions at stated hours, in opposite corners of the schools,
even though they had Sunday‐schools as well. But our only safeguard is our
own schools for our own children, and it is gratifying to note the zeal
with which both clergy and laity have combined during the past year to
establish Catholic schools all over the country. That is the first thing
to be done. Let us first have our own schools, and then we may fairly see
about the management of our own moneys.

Only a few of the distinguished dead who have gone out with the year can
be mentioned. The church in the United States has lost five venerable
servants and pioneers of faith, in Bishops Melcher of Green Bay, O’Gorman,
of Omaha, Whelan of Wheeling, McFarland of Hartford, and Bacon of
Portland. The College of Cardinals has lost three of its members: Cardinal
Barnabo, the great Prefect of the Propaganda, to whom the church in this
country is greatly indebted; Cardinals Falcinelli and Tarquini. The
Christian Brothers lost their venerable superior, Brother Philippe, whose
funeral was attended by the chief notabilities of Paris, together with a
vast crowd of people of all ranks and conditions in life, so much so that
as the white flag was the suspicious color just then, and as that flag has
the misfortune under its present holder of being connected with religion,
the keen‐scented gentry of the press discovered in this last tribute to a
man who had spent his life in doing good a Chambordist demonstration. The
death of Mgr. de Merode was a great loss to the Holy Father, as well as to
a multitude of friends. An interesting comparison might be made between
the purposes to which he devoted his vast wealth and those of a man still
more wealthy who died within the year—the Baron Mayer de Rothschild. His
admiring chronicler in the leading English journal informs us that the
baron, who, in addition to his other admirable qualities, was a silent
member in the English Parliament, spared no expense to erect in his own
palace a museum “adorned with all that is beautiful.” “He applied himself
systematically to breeding race‐horses,” in compensation for which
exceptional virtue the same glowing chronicler assures us that “when he
won, a year ago, the Dudley, the Oaks, and the St. Leger, all the world
felt that a piece of good and useful work had been performed.” Well, well!
Did not our own Sumner leave life this very year amid general regret,
sighing only that his book was not completed? Had that been finished, he
would not have cared. And, thinking thus, went out one who is a part of
our history, and whose name, though it did not fulfil all its earlier
promise, was great among us. Ex‐President Fillmore died almost unnoticed.
Certain news of the death of Dr. Livingstone in 1873 arrived during the
year. Art has lost Kaulbach, who devoted his undoubted genius to attacking
the church, and Foley. One of the men of a century died in Guizot.
Merivale and Michelet are lost to history, Shirley Brooks to light
literature. Strauss, the infidel, perhaps, has learnt at last the truth of
an awkward verse in S. James. Not only Germany, but the Catholic cause all
the world over, has sustained a sad and in a sense irreparable loss in the
great and chivalrous leader of the Catholic centre in the German
parliament, Herr von Mallinkrodt, whom divine Providence was pleased to
call away in the height of a career of great usefulness to the church and
to society. He was a foe whom Prince Bismarck dreaded and had reason to
dread—one of those men whom no weak point escapes, no side issue can
divert, no opponent cow. Adam Black and the monstrosity known as the
Siamese Twins died during the year.

And now the glance at the outline of the general year and some of its
chief incidents is completed. With every succeeding year we look forward
with more anxiety than confidence into the future. There are terrible
forces, long concealed, nearer the social surface than they ever were
before, and they come up now, as a consequence probably, just when the
general bond that ought to hold the human family together is at the
loosest; when men are ready to burst all bounds and call everything in
question; and when the lights of the age can only tell man that he is
nothing more than a fortuitous cohesion of irresponsible atoms, begotten
of void only to fall back into it. The only bond that can bind the human
family together is “the one law, one faith, one baptism,” preached
nineteen centuries ago in Judæa by the lips of the Son of God. And it is
just that faith that is now being as fiercely assailed as it ever has been
within the Christian era. There is not merely an arming of material forces
going on silently. There is a clash of faith, of intellect, of moral
principles, of all that guides and constitutes the inner and the greater
life of man; and of the double collision, the material and the spiritual,
that seems to hang over us and make heavy with foreboding the air of all
the world. Though supernatural faith may not doubt as to the issue, human
weakness cannot but tremble and grow faint at the prospect.




New Publications.


    ORIENTAL AND LINGUISTIC STUDIES. Second Series. By W. D. Whitney,
    Professor of Sanscrit and Comparative Philology in Yale College.
    New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1874.


Yale College well deserves the name of university in common with its great
rival, Harvard. The advance it has made within the last twenty‐five years
is something really remarkable, and, to the great honor of its governing
body, this advance has kept pace in linguistic studies with the
improvement in the departments of mathematics and physics. One of the
functions of a university is the production of really learned and solid
books for the instruction of readers generally, as well as students in
particular branches. The volume before us is a specimen of this class.
Whatever we may think of some of Prof. Whitney’s theories and opinions, we
must acknowledge the evidence of study, labor, and great care to present
the results of learning and thought on important and interesting subjects,
which his works exhibit.

The contents of the present volume are somewhat varied and miscellaneous.
One of the topics treated of, which deserves special attention, is the
spelling and pronunciation of the English language. The variations of
spelling are not so numerous and important as are those of pronunciation,
but in this latter respect our language is certainly in a state which is
most unsatisfactory and vexatious, and becoming every day worse. We are
not an advocate of any revolutionary project in regard to phonetic
spelling, but we do most earnestly desire a fixed and uniform standard,
and still more a rule of uniformity in pronunciation. Mr. Whitney’s
researches into this subject are extremely curious, valuable, and often
amusing, and he shows a very peculiar and ingenious facility of describing
and expressing the various oddities and extravagances of individual or
provincial usage. The question at once suggests itself whether there are
any practicable means of fixing a standard of spelling and pronunciation.
If it were question of a language spoken by one nation only, we can see
very easily that an academy might be established which should settle all
these matters by authority. An Englishman might assert the right of
England to determine all usages in respect to the English language, and
the corresponding obligation of all English‐speaking peoples to conform to
an authoritative standard furnished by an academy in England. Americans
might not be satisfied with this. The further question arises, therefore,
whether it be possible that English and American scholars should do
something concurrently in this direction.

Mr. Whitney has given in some other papers, with a condensed but clear
exposition, historical and philosophical views of India and China which
will probably have more interest to the great body of readers than any
other portions of his volume. In respect to one very important aspect of
these topics, the missionary aspect, he shows impartiality and manifest
effort to conform his statements and judgments to historical facts and a
real rather than a fanciful standard. There is no attempt to claim for
Protestant missions greater success than they have had, and a very fair
tribute of praise is given to the celebrated Catholic missionaries who
have labored in that arduous field. Yet, like other Protestants, Mr.
Whitney shows himself not well informed about the practical results at
which Catholic missionaries aim, and which, in so far as that is possible,
they accomplish, in making their converts solidly pious and virtuous
Christians.

Among the other topics treated of in this volume, the most important are
Müller’s _Chips from a German Workshop_, Cox’s _Aryan Mythology_, and the
“Lunar Zodiac of India, Arabia, and China.” We have not examined these and
previous essays of the learned author, in which the formation of languages
and mythologies is treated of, with sufficient attention to be enabled to
understand clearly his fundamental theory of the origin and history of
religion. We therefore abstain from any attempt at a critical judgment;
and, in regard to Mr. Whitney’s own special department of _Sanscrit_, very
few critics can safely venture on that ground. Thorough and solid studies
in these recondite branches of knowledge must lead to results advantageous
to religion as well as to merely human science. We rejoice, therefore, in
the noble and in many respects successful efforts of Mr. Whitney and his
associates to promote the cause of high education in this country. We
trust that their example may be emulated by those who have the principal
charge of the higher education of our Catholic youth. The English bishops
have already inaugurated the University College of Kensington with a
faculty worthy of Oxford or Cambridge. When will the first steps be taken
for a similar institution among ourselves?


    THE KING’S HIGHWAY; OR, THE CATHOLIC CHURCH THE WAY OF SALVATION,
    AS REVEALED IN THE HOLY SCRIPTURES. By the Rev. Augustine F.
    Hewit, of the Congregation of S. Paul. New York: The Catholic
    Publication Society. 1874.


This work of Rev. Father Hewit supplies a want we have often felt in
instructing converts to the church. There are many sincere persons looking
for light, and dissatisfied with the religious sect in which they were
born, who have no idea of the church, nor the office it holds in the plan
of redemption. The denomination to which they belong has never been of any
use to them, and has, in fact, disclaimed all power to guide or help them.
It requires often some time to overcome their prejudice against any kind
of instrumentality between their souls and God. They believe in the Sacred
Scriptures, which they have never deeply studied, but which they hold to
be the oracles of divine truth. In their opposition to the Catholic faith
they have been fighting against the only thing which can fill up the
desire of their hearts, and bring into blessed harmony all they know of
God and all they seek from his hands. To such this book will be as a
messenger from heaven. It will remove their doubts, and from the inspired
writings will prove to them the error of Protestant theories, and show how
Christ our Redeemer is only to be found in his church, “which is his
body,” which “he filleth all in all.” Written in the clear, graceful, and
forcible style which distinguishes all the works of the author, it brings
forth an argument which no honest mind can resist. It points out “the
King’s highway,” so plainly that “the wayfaring man, though a fool, cannot
fail to find it.” The first chapters are devoted to a refutation of the
false theories of Calvinism and Lutheranism. By the plain language of the
Bible they are shown to be opposed to the divine Word, contradictory of
each other, and hostile to the very nature and attributes of God. The true
doctrine of redemption is then set forth from the Scriptures, with the
office of faith and the prerequisites of justification. The whole system
of salvation, as the mercy of Jesus Christ has revealed it, arises in its
beauty and fulness before the eyes of the sincere, and the Catholic Church
opens its door to the weary and heavy‐laden, that they may enter in to
praise God and find rest to their souls. We have nowhere seen a more clear
and effective demonstration of our divine religion from the Scriptures. We
have only to pray that it may have a large circulation among the honest
inquirers after truth in this day of darkness and infidelity. Protestants
of the old class profess a great reverence for the Bible, which is to them
a kind of rule of faith. The diligent reading of this work will convince
them that they cannot follow the Scriptures and remain where they are;
that Catholics alone can understand and obey the written Word of God.
Neither can they abide in the creed of their fathers amid the errors and
disorganizing influences of this day. They must go forward and keep the
truth they have already received by embracing all to which it leads, or
lose what they have in the misery of doubt and unbelief. The day of grace
for dogmatic Protestants is well‐nigh gone.

We have only to add the earnest wish that Catholics generally would read
this book and profit by the instruction it contains. There are very many
among us who might lead others to the truth, if they were better informed
as to the grounds of their faith, and the points of controversy which
separate the conflicting Christian sects from the church. Idleness and
ignorance will be a fearful burden to bear before the Judge of all. The
talent hidden in the ground will be demanded with interest, and the
unprofitable servant will have to answer for light unimproved and grace
unfruitful. The souls we could have saved will rise up against us in the
day of our greatest need. “Unto whomsoever much is given, of him much
shall be required.”

T. S. P.


    THREE ESSAYS ON RELIGION. By John Stuart Mill. New York: Henry
    Holt & Co. 1874.


What John Stuart Mill was, and what his life was, our readers have been
already informed in a review of his _Autobiography_. The prince of modern
English sophists and sceptics, he was as miserable and hopeless in life
and death as the victim of an atheistical education might be expected to
be; as miserable as a man outwardly prosperous, enjoying the resources of
a cultivated mind, and exempted by the moral force of his character from
the consequences of gross crimes, could well become. These three _Essays_
are essays of the unhappy sceptic to reduce his readers to the same
miserable condition. Their scope is to overturn, not revealed religion
alone, but all theism; to destroy the belief in God; and to substitute the
most dreary atheism, fatalism, and nihilism for the glorious, elevating,
consoling faith of the Christian, and the imperfect but yet, in itself,
ennobling philosophy of the higher class of rationalists. It is a very bad
sign for our age, and a worse omen for the future, that men can profess
atheism without incurring public odium and disgrace, and that respectable
publishers find it for their interest to flood the market with the deadly
literature which is worse than that of France during the age of Bayle and
Voltaire. A large class of book‐sellers may always be found, not
scrupulous or over‐sensitive in their consciences about right and wrong in
morals, when money is to be made. We suppose, however, that those of them
who expect to make fortunes and transmit them to their children would like
to have the good order of society continue. What can such gentlemen be
thinking of when they help to lay the train under the foundations of order
and social morality? We know of a man who helped to run his own bank, in
which he had many thousands of dollars invested, by demanding specie for a
hundred‐dollar bill during a panic. Old John Bunyan tells of a certain
person living in the town of Mansoul whose name was Mr. Penny wise‐pound‐
foolish. Every one who helps on the spread of atheism, materialism,
impiety in any shape, even if he makes money or fame by it, is helping to
run his own bank. Moreover, he is helping to train the generation of those
who will cut the throats of the whole class he belongs to. We are just now
very wisely, though somewhat tardily, bringing the odious Mormon criminals
to justice, by a kind of blind Christian instinct which still survives in
our public opinion. What is the consistency or use of this, if we are
going to look on apathetically and see the next generation all over our
country turned into atheists? Practical atheism is worse than the most
hideous and revolting form of Mormonism. Why mend a broken spar when
mutineers are scuttling the ship from stem to stern? Would it not be well
for those conductors of the press who have some principles and some belief
in them, for the clergy, and for all who have access in some form to the
ear of a portion of the public, to be a little more alive to the danger
from the spread of atheism, and a little more active in counteracting it?

Pardon, gentlemen, for disturbing your nap. You are very drowsy, but is it
not time for you to wake up?


    EAGLE AND DOVE. From the French of Mademoiselle Fleuriot, by Emily
    Bowles. New York: P. O. Shea. 1874.


This is a story of Breton life and of the events of the siege and the
Commune of Paris. It is superior to the common run of stories in artistic
merit, its characters and scenes have a peculiar and romantic interest,
and its religious and moral tone is up to the highest mark.


    THE WORKS OF AURELIUS AUGUSTINE, Etc. Vol. XI. Tractates on the
    Gospel of S. John, Vol. II.; Vol. XII. Anti‐Pelagian works, Vol.
    II. Edinburgh: J. & J. Clark. 1874. (New York: Sold by The
    Catholic Publication Society.)


Two more volumes of the splendid edition of S. Augustine’s works are here
presented, and deserve a warm welcome. It is difficult to see how they
will serve the cause of the Church of England, but that is the affair of
the editors, not ours. Of course they are mighty weapons for High‐
Churchmen against their Low and Broad Church antagonists. But they tell
equally against these same High‐Churchmen in favor of the Catholic Church.
The treatise against Vincentius Victor, in Vol. XII., is crowded with
denunciations of the Donatists, who are the prototypes of Anglicans,
except in one respect, viz., that the former had valid orders.


    RHYMES AND JINGLES. (Illustrated.) By Mary Mapes Dodge, author of
    _Hans Brinker_, etc. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1875.


This is a very pretty book for a Christmas present. The rhymes are nice,
and such as will please, amuse, sometimes instruct folk of the nursery.
The illustrations are numerous and well executed, some are funny, some
remarkably beautiful. Any little boy or girl who has not already been
surfeited with toys and books may be made happy by such a gift. Merry
little people, a merry Christmas to you!


    LIBRARY OF THE SACRED HEART. Baltimore: J. Murphy & Co. 1874.


This is something towards supplying a great need among Catholic
publications. There are numerous and beautiful series of books issued by
the sectarian press, but comparatively few by Catholic publishers. Any one
who has had to procure Catholic libraries knows this want. Such series are
great aids in supplying Sunday‐school or household libraries. We welcome
the above, and trust it will be followed by others of the same kind. Much
credit is due to the publishers for their selection and the neat
appearance of the volumes. The selection comprises six small and choice
spiritual works. _God our Father_ and the _Happiness of Heaven_, by the
same author, have been noticed with high praise in our columns. The others
also are standard works. We recommend this “Library of the Sacred Heart,”
and hope it will be appreciated. It is contained in a neat and tasteful
box, appropriately ornamented with pious emblems of the Sacred Heart.


    BRIC‐A‐BRAC SERIES—NO. IV.: PERSONAL REMINISCENCES BY BARHAM,
    HARNESS, AND HODDER. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1874.


This is quite up to the mark of the foregoing volumes, and full of very
agreeable anecdotes, criticisms, and literary chit‐chat.

ANNOUNCEMENT.—We shall begin, next month the publication of a new serial
story, entitled _Are you my Wife?_ by the author of _Paris before the War,
Number Thirteen, A Daughter of S. Dominic, Pius VI._, etc., etc.





THE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XX., NO. 119.—FEBRUARY, 1875.




Church Authority And Personal Responsibility:


A Letter Prom Aubrey De Vere To Sara Coleridge On The Catholic Philosophy
Of The “Rule Of Faith,” Considered Especially With Reference To The
Transcendental System Of S. T. Coleridge.(149)

A letter to me, printed in the _Memoir of Sara Coleridge_, and dated
October 19, 1851, contains the following passage: “Viewing the Romish
system as you do, my dear friend, I cannot regret that you think, as you
do, of the compatibility of my father’s scheme of philosophy therewith,
assured, as I feel, that he had done that Papal system too much justice to
believe in it as a divine institution” (vol. ii. p. 401). From my youth I
had been an ardent student of Coleridge’s philosophy, to the illustration
of which his daughter, indifferent to her own literary fame, so faithfully
devoted her great powers. That philosophy had largely inspired F. D.
Maurice’s remarkable work, _The Kingdom of Christ_; and I believed firmly
that it was, at least as compared with the empirical philosophy of the
last century, in harmony with Catholic teaching, rightly understood; and
that the objections made against that teaching were such as a
transcendentalist must regard as proceeding, not from any intuitions or
ideas of the “reason,” but from the cavils of that notional understanding
called by Coleridge “the faculty judging according to sense.” I have
lately found a letter written by me to my lamented friend less than a
fortnight after her letter quoted above, and about a fortnight before I
made my submission to the Catholic Church. It may interest some of those
who have read Sara Coleridge’s letters, and who are enquirers as to the
method proper for reaching solid conclusions in the domain of truth not
scientific and discovered by man, but religious, and revealed to him.

It was my object to show that the Catholic “rule of faith” does not
oppose, but alone adequately vindicates, some great principles with which
it has been contrasted, _e.g._, personal action, the dependence of
individual souls on divine grace, religious freedom, zeal for truth, the
interior character of genuine piety, and the value of “internal
evidences.” That “rule” has been stigmatized as a bondage. This is the
illusion of those who, regarding the church from without, and under the
influence of modern and national traditions, see but a part of her system,
and have not compared it with other parts. The Catholic law of belief I
endeavored to set forth as the only one consistent with a sound philosophy
when treating of things supernatural, and as such beyond the method of
induction and experiment, while it is also both primitive and Scriptural.
I wished to show that it is the only means by which we can possess the
revealed truth with certainty and at once in its fulness and its purity;
and to illustrate it as not alone our gate of access to truth “spiritually
discerned,” but the nurse and the protectress of our whole spiritual life,
with all its redeemed affections; as opposed, not to personal action and
responsibility, or to a will free and strong, because loyal, but to an
unintelligent pride and to a feeble self‐will, the slave of individual
caprice; as the antagonist, not of what is transcendent and supernatural
in religion, but of a religious philosophy in which the philosophy exalts
itself against the religion, “running after” revelation to “_take somewhat
of it_,” but not inheriting its blessing.

Twenty‐three years have passed since my letter was written; and year after
year has deepened in me the convictions which it expresses, or rather
which it indicates in a fragmentary way, and possibly not with a technical
accuracy. In the church I have found an ever‐deepening peace, a freedom
ever widening, a genuine and a fruitful method for theological thought,
and a truth which brightens more and more into the perfect day. External
to her fold, it is but too probable that I should long since have drifted
into unbelief, though a reluctant and perhaps unconscious unbelief.

After some preliminary matter, referring to our earlier discussions, the
letter continues as follows:

Divine faith is a theological virtue, the gift of God, which raises the
spirit to believe and confess, with a knowledge absolutely _certain_,
though obscure in kind, the _whole truth which God has revealed to man_.
Such is the _description_ which Roman Catholic writers give of a grace
which cannot be _defined_. The knowledge of faith is as certain as that of
mathematics, but wholly different in kind, including a moral and spiritual
power, affecting (if it be _living_ faith) the mind and will at once, as
light and heat are united in the sunbeam, and containing, like the
sunbeam, many other secret properties also. It far transcends the
certainty of any one of our senses, each of which may deceive us. It is
also essentially different from that intellectual vision which belongs to
the kingdom of glory, not of grace or of nature. Its nearest analogon is
human faith, through which we believe that we are the children of our
reputed parents, and on which, and not on demonstration, the basis of
human life is laid. But it differs essentially also from human faith. It
is supernatural, not natural. It is certain, not uncertain. In its
application to supernatural objects it is wholly independent of
imagination or enthusiasm; and it brings us into _real_ intercourse with
objective truth. False religions rest on that which simulates divine
faith, and _may_, even among Christians, so fill its place that the
difference is not discernible to human eyes—a mixture of human faith with
aspiration, imagination, and the other natural faculties. True religion
carries with it the special faculty by which it is capable of being
realized, and thus makes a revelation which they but seemed to make. But
this faculty is not a natural one awakened, but a supernatural one
bestowed, its ordinary antecedents being the corresponding moral virtues
of humility and purity; and the exercise of _human_ faith and other devout
affections, themselves stimulated by a different and inferior kind of
grace, bestowed on the whole family even of unregenerate man. Besides the
antecedent conditions for receiving, other conditions are necessary for
the realization and right application of the divine and illuminating
grace. These conditions are not arbitrary, but spring from the necessities
of our whole nature, both individual and corporate. They are ordinarily
the individual co‐operation of will, mind, and heart, and an attitude of
willing submission to God, or the prophet _through_ whom the objects of
faith are propounded to us by him. This prophet was the Messiah himself
while he walked on earth, and was the Apostolic College from the day of
Pentecost. He continues to address us, in a manner equally distinct,
through that church in whom, as catholic and yet one, the unity of the
Apostolic College (one in union with Peter) still abides. That church is
the body of Christ; and we are introduced at once into it and him through
baptism. The visible rite corresponds with the invisible grace bestowed
through it, just as the church itself is at once the spiritual kingdom of
peace, and the visible “mountain of the Lord’s house” elevated to the
summit of the mountains, and as man himself, consists of soul and body.

That church, inheriting a belief which it never invented or discovered,
confesses Christ, and confesses also that she is Christ’s representative
on earth. She challenges individual faith, and proposes to it the one
object of dogmatic belief. That one object is the _whole_ Christian faith,
as it has hitherto been, or ever may be, authentically _defined_. Whether
it be believed _implicitly_, as by the peasant, or _explicitly_, as by the
doctor, makes no difference whatever, relatively to _faith_, though it may
affect edification, which needs a due proportion between our intellectual
and moral gifts. In each case alike (1) the _whole_ faith is held; (2) is
held _bonâ fide_, as _revealed by God_; (3) is held wholly by supernatural
_faith_; (4) affords thus a basis for the supernatural life of hope and
charity. “Fundamentals,” as distinguished from “non‐essentials,” there are
none, _i.e._, objectively. All Christian truths are in each other by
implication, as Adam’s race was in the first parent. They are yet more
transcendently in each other, for each contains all. To receive one by
divine faith is to receive all. To deny one, when competently proposed to
us by the authority which speaks in God’s name, is to deny all, unless
circumstances beyond our will have deceived our mind respecting that
authority or its message. The whole objective faith will probably never be
recognized, till in the kingdom of glory it flashes upon us in its unity.
In the kingdom of grace (_in via_, not _in patria_) it is defined in
proportion to the moral and intellectual needs of the church. It is
defined, not as a science, but from necessity, and to meet the gainsaying
of heresy. The endeavor of the church is to _preserve_ the treasure
confided to her. _It_ cannot increase, but the _knowledge_ of it must.
Subjectively, the knowledge is progressive as man is progressive; but
objectively it is unchanging as God is eternal. The whole, defined and
undefined, is essential and one. The whole is needed for the race, that
the race may retain Christ, its head. The knowledge of the whole is needed
by each according to his circumstances. The entire belief of the entire
truth, _implicitly_, is necessary for each individual. Ordinarily, and
except in the case of involuntary error, that entire belief of the whole
is realized through a submission (_absolute_ but _free_, filial, and
necessitated by all our Christian sympathies and spiritual affections, as
well as by obedience) to her who is God’s representative, visible, on
earth.

The existence of that visible church is wholly irrespective of our needing
an expositor of dogmatic faith. Its character is determined (1) by the
character of God, whom it images alike in his unity and his plurality; (2)
by the character of Christianity, which is communicated to the _race_, and
to the individual _in and with_ the body, so that _nothing_ that he holds
can be held _singly_, except what is perishable; and (3) by the character
of man, who graduates in a certain order, and who, as a mixed being, is
taught after a fashion that ever exalts the meek and raises the moral
faculties above the intellectual in endless elevation, however high the
latter may ascend. But among its other functions, the visible church has
that of presenting to the infused habit of faith what otherwise it would
seek for in vain, _i.e._, a dogmatic _authority_ which, in act, it can
rise to, cleave to, and live by. If Christ reigned visibly on earth, he
would need no such representative. If Christ, as the Eternal Reason,
_inspired_ each man, as well as enlightening him, he need never have
assumed flesh. If the Holy Ghost _inspired_ each man as he did the
prophets and apostles (instead of communicating to him the grace of faith,
planting him in the church, feeding him with the Lord’s body, quickening
his devout affections, etc.), then there would be no need for the church,
as a dogmatic authority, nor for the _Holy Scriptures_. If the Bible were
a plain book; if the nature of truth were such that it could be divided
into fundamental and non‐essential; if one doctrine could be believed,
while another, involved in it, is denied, then, perhaps, private judgment
might extract from the Bible as much as an individual requires. Again, if
supernatural faith were not requisite, but human faith, founded on
_evidence_, and generating _opinion_, sufficed, then private judgment,
availing itself of all _human_ helps suggested by prudence, could build up
on the Bible, on philosophy, on ecclesiastical traditions, and on the
public opinion of the day, a certain scheme of thought on sacred subjects,
round which the affections would cluster, to which devout associations
would cling, which the understanding might formalize, imagination
brighten, enthusiasm exult in, prudence recommend. But these are all
suppositions, not realities. Private “inspiration” is known to be a
fallacy. “Reason” cannot make reasonable men agree; and every one who has
any portion in reason knows that what is disputed for ages is disputable,
and that what is not truth to all cannot be truth absolute and certain, on
the ground of reason, to any one. Uncertain opinion cannot be supernatural
faith. Spiritual discernment cannot lead us to the finer appreciation of
doctrine while we remain ignorant as to whether it be a particular
doctrine or the opposite doctrine that challenges our faith.

But, on the other hand, if an authority speaks in God’s name, it _may_ be
really commissioned by him. If so commissioned, it _may_ be believed by
us. If believed, all parts of its message are equally certain. This
hypothesis obviously _admits_ of an objective faith certain throughout,
and only for that reason certain at all. If a revelation were to be
_founded on faith, this would afford faith a sphere_. I speak of it now as
but an hypothesis. I claim for it that it is _reasonable_.

It is objected that _such_ belief could be but an amiable and useful
credulity at best, since it would not be founded on insight and spiritual
discernment. It is thus that Hindoos and Mahometans believe; and their
belief would be worthless, but that by God’s mercy some fragments of truth
and some gleams of reason are mixed up with their systems. The objection
wholly overlooks the fact that _ex hypothesi_ the prophet and her message
are believed, not with a _human_ faith, but with a _divine_ faith. Faith
is inclusively the gift of spiritual discernment, though it is also much
more. What faith receives _must_ be spiritually discerned. It can discern
in no other way.

But, it is objected, the plain fact is that multitudes do _not_
spiritually discern or appreciate what they thus receive. No doubt.
Nothing is more possible than that they should receive with only a human
faith what yet is divinely addressed to a divine faith. They have, then,
opportunities which they have not yet used. Multitudes of Roman Catholics
have doubtless, like multitudes of Protestants, opinion only, not
certainty, while the sensation of certainty is in both cases illusory, and
proceeds from positiveness of temper or sluggishness of mind.(150) To
possess the means of realizing and maintaining faith _compels_ no man to
have faith; otherwise, like intuitions irrespective of the will, it would
merit nothing and include no probation. Faith and the guide of faith are
both offered to the Catholic; but he must co‐operate with grace, as with
Providence, to profit by either.

But how, it is asked, can we by such a process have a spiritual
discernment of the doctrine by which we are challenged? Are we not in the
position, after all, of Hindoos? I answer, Christianity resembles many
false religions in this respect: that it comes to us on what claims to be
authority, and challenges our submission; but it differs from them in this
all‐important respect: that others are false, and it is true. It being
true, the human mind, which, so far as it retains the divine image, is in
sympathy with truth, has a _moral_ appreciation of its truth, and, when
illuminated by faith, has a _spiritual_ discernment of it. No one who,
after years of wandering in erroneous paths, comes at last to contemplate
the doctrine of the Trinity from a new point of view, and accepts it on
what he trusts is a spiritual discernment of it, can doubt that he could
equally have discerned its truth years before had he been led by the
church to the same point of view, and gifted from above with that light
which removes the sensuous film. He could not indeed, on the authority of
the church, spiritually receive or hold, with genuine faith, something in
itself false and absurd. But then _part of the hypothesis_ is that the
church can propound no doctrinal error. Neither could the definition
_give_ faith. But then it does not profess to do so; it but _shapes_ and
_directs_ faith. As little could the authority of the church give faith.
It makes no such profession; it but _challenges_ faith. It is the
_inseparable condition_ of faith: God is its _source_. The human mind, co‐
operating with grace, receives faith, and at the same time is confronted
with a distinct, palpable object of faith. So touched, it becomes the
mirror of truth; and its belief is exclusively a _personal_ and _internal_
act, though performed with the instrumentality, not only of an outward
agency, but of a _specific_ external agency, _i.e._, the church. The same
Divine Spirit acts at once externally and internally—externally in the
church, which it commissions, instructs, and keeps one; internally in the
individual mind, which it kindles, illuminates, attracts, and (dissolving
the tyranny of self‐love) lifts up into freedom and power. The Holy
Spirit, then, is at once the root of faith in the individual, and of unity
in the church. This doctrine may be objected to as _ideal_; but surely not
as _carnal_. Assuredly it is Scriptural.

But, it is rejoined, “supposing that the divine message may be spiritually
discerned _when_ it is devoutly accepted, and thus accepted _as a whole_,
when it would otherwise be accepted but in part (and then, perhaps, with
but a partial faith), still how are we to know that the authority is
divine? If no belief, however sound, is faith, unless it (1st) believes,
and (2d) _truly believes_, that it rests on _divine testimony_ and listens
to God himself, how is this prophet to be recognized? The world abounds in
claimants to infallibility, though the Christian world has but one. The
apostles indeed claimed it; but then they wrought miracles, and the
miracles proved the authority.” I answer that miracles _proved_ nothing by
way of _scientific demonstration_; but that they _witnessed_ to the
supernatural character of the teacher and the doctrine. If the divine
message could be _proved_ to the reason, it would rest on science, not on
faith, and the whole Christian scheme would be reversed, belief becoming a
necessary and _natural_ act. Miracles _challenged_ faith, but could only
be received by faith, since they might always be referred to imposture or
evil spirits, both classes of agency abounding in the time of Simon Magus
as now. It is begging the question to assume that miracles do not take
place now; but, even conceding thus much, the church has still at least as
high credentials as the apostles had. Their miracles constituted but
evidence; and evidence which creates opinion can but _challenge_ faith,
not extort it. In place of that evidence we have now the “notes of the
church”: its apostolicity, its catholicity, its unity, its sanctity, its
heroic history, its wonderful promulgation, its martyrs, its doctors, its
schoolmen; communities moulded by it; races united by it; sciences and
arts first nourished by it; civilization and freedom produced by it, and,
amid all the changes of the world, the same great doctrines and sacraments
retained by it. We can hardly doubt that the one stupendous _fact_ of the
church is as strong an _appeal_ to the faith of a man (and our Lord
himself did but _appeal_ to faith) as that made by an apostle at Athens,
when, rising up in a mixed multitude of disputatious Greeks, Eastern
sorcerers, Roman conjurers, and Jewish refugees, he assured them that he
had been sent by the unknown God to preach what to the Greeks was
foolishness: that One who was crucified had also worked miracles and risen
from the dead, . . . that his kingdom, and not the Roman, was to crown the
world; and that all this was the fulfilment of Jewish prophecy, though the
Jewish nation disowned that kingdom, and had slain its Head. He spoke of
glories to come: the church speaks of triumphs that have been. He
suggested an experiment: the church has tried and proved it. He was
accused of blasphemy, superstition, atheism, insubordination; so is she.
He must have confessed that inspiration was not given to him alone, but to
the Apostolic College; and he could have brought no immediate and
scientific proof that he and his scattered brethren agreed in the same
doctrine, even as to “essentials.” The church’s practical unity of
doctrine is a matter of notoriety, and is accounted for by the imputation
of tyranny, formalism, etc. It is an understatement to affirm that, _on
the Roman Catholic hypothesis_, that church _challenges_ faith with the
aid of as strong evidential witness as an apostle possessed. But the
_quantum_ of evidence is not the question. The greatest amount of it
cannot _give_ faith, the least may _elicit_ it; and at what periods the
world requires most evidence we know not. The important fact is that the
church which claims for its centre the _apostolic_ see, does challenge
faith just as an apostle did, or as the whole apostolic college did; that
she is apostolic, not merely by having the succession, but by using the
authority, and by acting just as she _must_ act if, as she affirms, the
whole college, in union with Peter, _lived on_ in her. She too claims all
and gives all. She too says, “Through me you may exercise divine faith
when you receive, ‘by _hearing_,’ the message of God; for I am his
apostle. What I saw and heard, what I handled and tasted, that, as a sure
witness, I report. It was I who cast my nets on the Galilean shore when I
was called. I heard that question, ‘But whom say _ye_ that _I_ am?’ I
knelt on the Mount of Transfiguration when the suppressed glory broke
forth and the law and the prophets were irradiated. I joined in that Last
Supper. I stood beside his cross, and received his mother as my mother. I
reached forth my hand, and put my fingers into the print of the nails. I
received the charge, saw the ascension, felt the Pentecostal tongues,
delivered my message, sealed it with my blood, and still stand up,
delivering it for ever, and sealing it with my blood and with his.” This
is the claim the church makes, and the same was made by the apostle. Both
alike are subject to the rejoinder, “High claims do not prove themselves;
and the competitors for infallibility are many.” Both alike answer: “If my
message be false, you could not _really_ and vitally believe in me, even
though you would. If my message be true, you _may_ believe in me, but I
cannot compel you to do so.” It is not more wonderful that there should be
rival priesthoods than rival creeds. There are many false _because_ there
is one true. Authority has commonly been claimed even by spurious
religions, because the instinct of the human race, which is reason,
perceived that if God vouchsafed a revelation to man, it would be both
given and sustained through man, and not merely through a book.

From the above statements thus much at least is clear: (1) that the
Protestant controversy with Rome does _not_ respect the _ultimate source
of belief_, which, by the admission of both sides, is to be referred to
the Holy Spirit alone; but does respect this question, viz., whether,
since an external agency is admitted to be in every case _instrumentally_
but _absolutely_ necessary for faith, that aid be not given to us by God,
and given in the form of one, specific instrument, not any one that comes
to hand—something easily known by outward marks which plainly solicit
attention, not a proteus that changes almost as the individual mind
changes. The question is whether the something external confessedly
essential be the church of God and temple of the Spirit, speaking
intelligibly and with authority, in the majesty of its visible unity; or
be whatever sect or teacher may represent to plastic minds the public
opinion of the place and time.

And (2) it is equally plain that Rome, in denouncing the principle of
private judgment (except so far as, in _abnormal_ circumstances, we are
reduced to it, or something like it, while testing the claims of
authority), is in no degree disparaging _individual intuition_, but simply
_stating the conditions, external_ as well as internal, under which it can
be effectually and permanently realized. To see with another’s eyes, not
one’s own, is an absurd aspiration which could not have made itself good
for the greater part of the Christian era, over the greater part of the
Christian world. But a man may use his own eyes, though together with them
he uses a telescope, and his own ears, though he listens to the voice of a
prophet instead of his own voice, or his domineering neighbor’s.

The Roman Catholic doctrine of authority does not assume that we cannot,
even without that authority, have _some_ insight into divine things. We
can see the moon without a telescope, though not the stars of a nebula.
But in theology _partial_ gleams of intelligence are not sufficient for
even their own permanence. Implicitly or explicitly, we must hold the
whole to hold a part. Truth is a vast globe which we may touch with a
finger, but cannot clasp in both hands. It eludes us, and we possess it
but by being possessed by it. We must be drawn into the gravitation of its
sphere and made one with it. We are thus united with it if in union with
the church, to which it is given. We then _see_ it all around us, as we
see the world we live in—not by glimpses and through mists, as we see a
remote star. This is the Catholic’s faith. Everything confirms everything
in his world. “One day telleth another, and one night certifieth another.”
“Sea calleth unto sea.” The firmament above his head “declares” the glory
of God, and the chambers of the deep his statutes. A Catholic indeed has
his varying moods, and his “dry moods,” and his eager questionings on
points not revealed; but his _faith_ does not rise and fall with his
temperament. The _foundation_, at least, of his spiritual being, is a
rock.

Neither does the Roman Catholic doctrine deny that a man _might_
conceivably, though not practically, without the aid of authority, grasp
the _whole_ of theology as far as it has been yet defined. But it declares
that such knowledge, if thus acquired, would not be the knowledge
possessed by faith, but by opinion; that it would rest partly on science,
partly on mere human faith, partly on enthusiasm (so far as the
_sensitive_ appreciation of it went); and that, not being divine faith, it
could not perform the genuine functions of faith. The intellectual region
might feast with Dives, while the spiritual starved with Lazarus. This is,
in a greater or lesser degree, the case with many, both among those who
profess the principle of private judgment and those who profess to obey
authority. In the very region of faith opinion may simulate faith, just as
presumption may simulate hope and benevolence simulate charity. The most
mysterious part of our probation is this: that under all circumstances and
in all things nature may mimic grace, and pretence ape virtue. We may seem
to ourselves angels, and be nothing; even as Christ himself, and his
church no less, _seem_, to the eye of sense, the opposite of what they
are, when insight is lacking or the point of view is determined by
prejudice or a false tradition.

The Roman Catholic theory does not deny the force of internal evidence. It
but says that such evidence, being a matter of moral _feeling_, is to be
inwardly appreciated rather than logically set forth, and that it is often
most felt when most unconsciously. A parent’s authority is not the less
attested by the moral sense of the child and by his affections, though he
does not consciously reflect on that part of its evidence; while yet he
cannot be ignorant that all the _neighbors_ believe that those who claim
to be his parents are such in reality. Catholic teaching does not concede
that, as argument, any evidence is _necessary_ for those brought up in the
true fold and gifted from childhood with faith, which is itself the
evidence of things not seen. It does not believe that any gifts confined
to a few can give a higher faith than is open to all “men of good‐will.”
But it does believe that for simple and learned alike one external
condition is necessary, viz., that the doctrine to be believed should be
distinctly _proposed_ by an authority believed (on supernatural faith) to
speak in God’s name; so that from first to last faith should be, not a
credulity founded on fancy, on fear, or on self‐love, but a “_theological_
virtue” _believing in God, in all that he reveals, __ as revealed by him_,
and in nothing else. Evidences are not anything that can compel faith or
be a substitute for it; but they have commonly a very important place,
notwithstanding, in the divine economy. Their place is _among_ the
_motives_ of faith. These _intellectual_ motives are the character of
Christ and of the faith; the character of the church and its
propagation—in other words, internal and external evidence. The _moral_
motives are such as the spiritual safety of Christian obedience, the peace
and joy of believing, the dignity Christianity confers on human nature,
etc.

One circumstance which the Protestant theory forgets is that _all_
knowledge of divine things is not necessarily _faith_. Angelic knowledge
and that of the triumphant church is vision, not faith, and differs from
faith either in essence or in inseparable accidents. The knowledge we have
of God through natural theology, however true, is not, therefore,
identical with divine faith. Irrespectively of Christianity, a belief in
God _precedes_ speculations, and comes to children chiefly by faith in
what they hear from their parents. They _could_ not, indeed, believe their
parents equally if their own minds were not in _harmony_ with such a
belief; but in their case, too, authority is commonly a _condition_ of
believing. By faith, says S. Paul, “we know that the worlds were made.”
That knowledge comes to us both _through_ testimony and _by_ intuitions.
The “heavens declare the glory of God”; but they declare it, not prove it
scientifically; and the Psalmist had the patriarchal tradition and Mosaic
revelation, as well as his intuitions, and as their interpreter. Natural
theology we accept by _human_ faith concurring with natural lights and
that lower degree of grace which compasses the whole world. Divine faith,
S. Paul tells us, requires an outward organ, too, not for its promulgation
only, but for its _certainty_. “He gave some apostles, some pastors,
etc.,” “that we be not driven about with every _wind of doctrine_.” Could
_this_ effect have been realized if apostle had preached against apostle,
and each prophet had said to his neighbor “I, too, am a prophet,” and bear
an opposite message? S. Paul says that the hierarchy is ordained not only
for edification, but to make faith _certain_. It can only do that in its
unity. Had certainty been unnecessary, or had reason been its organ, no
hierarchy would have been elevated to constitute the _church
representative_.

The Protestant theory (it may be so spoken of with reference to the great
main points included in most forms of Protestantism) assumes that the one
great characteristic of faith is its being a power of “spiritual
discernment” or an intuition of spiritual truth. This is to put a part of
the truth in place of the whole. This attribute of faith is asserted by
the church also; but her conception of faith is founded on a _larger_
appreciation of the Holy Scriptures and of man’s compound nature.

Faith indeed _becomes_ a spiritual _seeing_; but it _comes_ “by hearing.”
Considered even exclusively as intuition, the “spiritual discernment” is
wholly different in kind from moral or mathematical intuitions, as those
two classes of intuition differ from each other. A spiritual intuition,
analogous to that of reason (though more exalted), would be utterly
unsuited to our needs while still laboring in our probation and toiling in
the “body of this death.” The intuition really vouchsafed to us by
supernatural grace ever retains peculiar characteristics originally
produced by the mode in which we receive it. Humility, submission, self‐
abnegation, constitute that mode; and these qualities are and remain as
essential characteristics of true faith as spiritual discernment is. No
otherwise than “as little children” is it possible for us to enter into
the kingdom of heaven. We must enter the sheep‐fold by the _door_; we
cannot otherwise profit by it; for could we climb its walls, it would
cease to be the sheep‐fold to us, since we should not bear in our breasts
the heart of the Lamb. _Opinion asserts; faith confesses._ Assertion
includes self‐assertion; confession confesses _another_. God only can
rightly assert himself. Created beings are relative beings, and the
condition of their true greatness is that they forget themselves in God.
The very essence of pride, the sin of the fallen angels, whom but a single
_voluntary evil thought_ subverted, is self‐assertion on the part of a
relative being. In taking self as a practical _ground_ of knowledge, it,
in a certain sense, creates its Creator, and involves the principle that
God himself may be but an idea. Pride is not only our strongest spiritual
temptation, but is almost the natural _instinct_ of reason, working _by
itself_, on supernatural themes, and it remains _undetected by reason,
just as water cannot be weighed in water_. The higher we soar, the more we
need to be reminded of our infirmity; therefore the glorious intuitions of
faith are, for our safety, given to us by the way of humility, and
continued to us on condition of obedience. Not only faith, as a habit, is
humble, but the peculiar species of knowledge which it conveys is such as
to preserve that character; for that knowledge is _obscure_, although
_certain_. We see, “as through a glass, darkly”; but we see steadily.
Imaginative reason gets bright flashes by rubbing its own eyes, but they
are transient. Faith, requiring docility as a habit in us, and involving
obscurity as a condition of its knowledge, is a _perpetual_ discipline of
self‐sacrifice. Christianity is the doctrine of a sacrifice; and through a
spiritual act and habit of self‐sacrifice alone can that doctrine be
“spiritually discerned.” Christian _knowledge_ is thus the opposite of the
rationalistic and of the Gnostic.

This estimate of faith is surely as Scriptural as it is philosophic. Thus
only can we reconcile the statements of our Lord and of S. Paul. The most
humble and child‐like docility is constantly referred to by our Lord as an
essential part of that faith which, on _condition of so beginning_ and of
_continuing such_, imparts to us as much spiritual discernment as is an
earnest of the Blessed Vision. Such _docility must look like credulity_.
Almost all the instances of it which met his highest praise did look like
credulity, and would have been credulity had not grace inspired them,
Providence directed them, and Truth itself rewarded them. What then? Which
part of Christianity is not thus double‐visaged? What part of it is not a
scandal to them that “judge by appearances” and do not “judge righteous
judgment”? If to all without faith the Master must _seem_ an impostor, why
should not the disciples _seem_ enthusiasts? Were they who wished that the
shadow of the apostles should fall on them, was she who touched the hem of
Christ’s garment, fanatics, because erring nature too can prompt her
children to similar acts under an erring religion? Before such a
philosophy (if philosophy can rest on such an _assumption_) the Gospel, as
well as the church of the _orbis terrarum_, and the whole ancient church,
must give way, and pure religion must be a discovery, not of the XVIth,
but of the XIXth century. Credulity itself is but a subordinate and ill‐
grounded form of _human_ faith, and is far from suppressing, though it
misdirects, the nobler faculties of the _natural_ man. Plato and Bacon had
more of it than Epicurus and Hobbes. Docility (its analogon in the
spiritual world) is the humbler element in faith. It is absolutely
necessary, and is sometimes undistinguishable, in mere _outward_ seeming,
from its natural counterpart. Milk is as necessary for babes as meat for
the mature. The mature never cease, in the kingdom of heaven, to be,
_inclusively_, children; it is their very excellence that they unite the
best characteristics of different ages, sexes, and conditions. Yet the
children of the kingdom are not fed on mortal, but on immortal, milk; and
that milk is meat in a less compact preparation. As an incredulous habit
is not a mark of true wisdom, so an indocile habit is incompatible with an
authentic faith, which cannot act except in obedience to an authentic
authority. To the rationalist the indocile habit, far from being a fault,
is a necessity; for his knowledge comes from within _only_, not from above
and from within.

Now let us turn to history and fact. Had they no spiritual discernment of
Christ who died for him? Yet did not the martyrs and the age of martyrs
abound in what to Protestantism seem credulities? The church of the
apostles, of the fathers, of the doctors, of the schoolmen, the church
that built up Christendom, invariably recognized the principle of
ecclesiastical obedience, docility, submission, as a part of faith, not as
inconsistent with the intuition of faith—its moral element, as the other
is its intellectual. It was the cement that kept the whole fabric
together, though not the amphionic power that raised the living stones.
Those who branded obedience as superstition were Arius, and Aërius, and
Vigilantius, and the Albigensian heretics, not the fathers, the doctors,
or the martyrs of the faith. The latter knew that the faith of him who
lays hold of Christ, and of her who but touches “the hem of his garment,”
are in kind the same. They knew also, that, when _truth confronts us_ and
grace is offered, the spirit which is “offended” at little things is not
edified by great. And how has it been ever since; how is it now with the
mass of the world? How does faith come to _children and to the poor_, and
to the busy and to the dull? _What makes the Bible divine to them?_ What
suggests the truths which they are to look for in the Bible? Authority,
everywhere acting through such representatives of authority as remain in
lands which decry it! If docility, obedience, a desire to believe,
submission previous to insight, be not, under _Christian conditions_,
characteristics of faith, merely because, under pagan conditions, they
might be opposed to spiritual knowledge, then have most believers believed
in vain; for error cannot be the foundation of truth. Discernment belongs,
by universal confession, to faith, and baptism is the “sacrament of
illumination”; but no proposition can be more _unreasonable_ than that
faith should begin with, or be identical with, an insight which, in a high
degree of conscious development, obviously belongs to the few, and to them
under very special circumstances.

Let us return to the philosophy of the “rule of faith.”

No one would deny that the will, even more than the mind, is the seat of
faith; but the Protestant theory does not efficiently and practically
recognize this truth. Submission is in the will; discernment in the mind.
The latter belongs to the man chiefly; the former to the child equally,
and the _child living on in the Christian man_. The whole Catholic system
is based on this fact. From it, for instance, follows, by inevitable
consequence, the _true theory_ of charity in reference to dogmatic
error—that, namely, of “invincible ignorance.” Protestants, and
Protestants who repeat the Athanasian Creed, think this expression but an
evasion. But “invincible ignorance” means _involuntary_ ignorance _of the
truth_, and is based on the known principle that heresy must be a sin of
the will, because faith is a virtue, primarily belonging to the will, when
it submits to grace. Now, granting that the internal agency of the Divine
Spirit is that which clears the faculty of spiritual discernment and
develops faith in the mind, still, assuredly, obedience is trained and
faith is rooted in the will by the same Spirit addressing us through its
outward organ, the church. “_Obedience_ to the faith” is not a principle
only, but a habit. Habits are impressed on us, not by precept only, but by
providential circumstance and divine institutions, such as the civil
power, parental rule, the weakness of infancy, the hindrances of
knowledge, those necessities for social co‐operation which train the
sympathies.

Implicit faith in the Bible only might, for such as entertained it with
absolute and childlike confidence, give rise to no small degree of moral
deference, and does so with many Protestants, though not without a
considerable alloy of error and of superstition. But a book, though
divine, is a book still. It cannot speak, except with the inquirer for an
interpreter. It cannot correct misinterpretations. It will often reveal
what is sought, and hide what is not desired, but is needed. It will
“find” those who find in it what they _brought_ to it. It is plastic in
hot and heedless hands. It may train the mental faculties, but it will not
practically exercise a habit of submission. If a country, in place of
possessing laws, with magistrates to enforce and judges to expound them,
possessed nothing but statutes on parchment, and a vast legal literature
for their exposition, statutes and comments being alike commended to the
private judgment of individuals, would it be possible that subjects could
be trained up with the habit or spirit of political obedience? Every man
might be educated till he resembled a village attorney; but loyalty would
be extinct. The statute‐book would still assert the principle of
obedience, as does the Bible in spiritual things; but the habit could not
thus be formed. To bow exclusively to that which addresses us in abstract
terms, and to bow when and how our judgment dictates—this alone is not in
reality, though it may be in words, a discipline of humility. To obey God,
_as represented by man_, is that at which pride revolts. The authority of
the church in the household and kingdom of Christ is like that of the
father in the family and the monarch in his realm. An authority thus
objectively embodied has also a special power of working through the
affections; and to train them to be the handmaids of faith is one of the
special functions of the church. “My little children of whom I travail
again,” says S. Paul to his flock. What living church can be imagined as
thus addressing her children? Surely none save that one which claims
apostolic authority, and does not shrink from proclaiming that faith
includes obedience as well as insight. This is not an idle theory. What
men in the Roman Catholic Church have entertained the most filial and
affectionate reverence for their mother? Her saints—those who had the most
ardent love for their Lord, the deepest insight into his Gospel, and the
keenest appreciation of its spiritual freedom—the S. Bernards, Thomas à
Kempises, Francis de Saleses. To retain obedience as a principle, and yet
cheat it of its object, an authentic and _real_ authority, was the “Arch
Mock” of the “Reformation.”

A faith thus confirmed and steadied by authentic authority can alone
permanently sustain the ardent and enthusiastic devotion of strong minds.
Faith, or what seems faith, if resting exclusively on internal feeling and
individual opinion, will vehemently, if but transiently, excite the light
and the impulsive; but the graver mind will distrust it, even when visited
by the more sanguine mood, from a painful sense that it has no power of
discriminating between faith and illusion. It will be sure of its own
perceptions and sensations; but it cannot contrive wholly to ignore those
of its neighbor when they are opposite. It will remember that there are
two causes of uncertainty, the first arising when our own premises admit
of alternative conclusions, the second when, the conclusions being
obvious, the premises are disputed and cannot be proved. It will remember
that mathematical and moral intuitions, “though independent of evidence,
are yet backed by a practically universal consent (the result of their
being, in a large measure, intuitions independent of the will); and it may
be disposed to say that if it happened that most people denied that the
three angles of a triangle equalled two right angles, I could not indeed
believe that they made three, but I might come to believe that I had
wandered into a region in which impressions must always _seem_ certain,
but yet in which nothing could be authentically known.” Men cannot
exchange their _tastes_; but then they know that tastes are subjective;
whereas revealed truth must be objective. Some such misgiving will chill
faith commonly in large and steady minds, and thus the whole religious
life is struck dead. Enthusiasm will commonly, under such circumstances,
belong only to those minds which boil over before they have taken in much
heat. A church which makes its censers of paper, not metal, cannot burn
incense. A religion which, _in any form_, includes a “peradventure,” has
admitted the formula of nature and lost the “amen” of supernatural truth.
It is reduced and transposed. Its raptures are but poetry, its dogma but
science, its antiquity but pedantry, its forms but formality, its freedom
but license, its authority but convention, its zeal but faction, its
sobriety but sloth. It cannot admit of enthusiasm, as it cannot generate
it in its nobler and more permanent forms, because it can neither balance
nor direct it. Such a faith _must_ install reason in the higher place. A
church founded on nothing higher _must_ serve, not rule. It will end by
worshipping its bondage.

As in theology there is no possibility of separating dogma from dogma, so
there is no possibility of separating the religious affections from a
reverence for dogmas, if the mind be an inquiring one. What has been
called “loyalty to our Lord,” and contrasted with the “dogmatic spirit,”
is a sentiment which depends wholly on what we _believe_ concerning him.
But to believe him to be God and man involves an immense mass of profound
doctrine which may be held _implicitly_ by the many, but which the student
must hold _explicitly_, or be in a condition of doubt. These subtle
questions involve metaphysical speculations; and had we to settle them for
ourselves, we must all of us have mastered philosophy before we had
learned the lore of Christian love. But how many points are there of a
different sort which yet must be certain, if our faith is to be
certain—points which no man could settle for himself, and as to which no
authority save one secure from error could give us rest! Such are the
questions as to the mode of administering sacraments; what form of baptism
is _valid_, and what is _invalid_; the canonicity of the Scriptures,
which, if it depend on our individual estimate of historic evidence only,
can rise no higher than the level of opinion, and therefore can never
afford a basis for divine faith. No reasonable man can suppose that either
directly or indirectly he can reach to intuitions on _these_ points. He
may say that they are not essential to him personally; but he cannot but
suspect that they are essential to the integrity of that whole scheme of
theology which, _as a whole_, is essential to him. A leak in the ship is
not less dangerous because low down and out of sight; and the strength of
a chain is the strength of its weakest link. When the principle of
authority ceased to be held, as a revealed doctrine (the _complement_ of
that of personal spiritual discernment), the complete circle of faith was
broken, and an element of doubt entered in. The process was unperceived
because gradual, the _inherited_ faith concealing long the ravages of
innovating opinion. Human faith succeeded also to divine, and simulated
it. Science, imagination, enthusiasm in its ever‐varying forms,
contributed their aid. Protestant churches can hardly now even conceive of
an _authority_ acting simply and humbly under divine _faith_. They can
only imagine anathemas as proceeding from passion. But S. Paul and the
early church, as well as the Roman Catholic, thought differently.

Another principle lost sight of practically on the Protestant theory of
religious knowledge is that it is necessary to hold the Christian faith,
not only (1st) _in its fulness_, and (2d) _with certainty_, but also (3d)
_in its purity_. Now, whatever truths individual intuitions and studies
may bring home to us (legitimately or accidentally), it is certain from
experience that they will not exclude many errors, which apparently have
the same sanction, and are entertained with the same confidence—nay, are
so cherished that if but one be spoken against, the whole system of
thought is felt to be endangered. But this confusion of truth and error
introduces Babel into the heart of Jerusalem, and erects altars to false
gods in the temple of the True. The soul espoused to Christ must exclude
his rivals, and preserve ever the unrelaxed girdle of purity in spiritual
things. Faith is not only the mother, but the _virgin_ mother, of all
perfect belief, devotion, and practice. Error, _in the region of faith_,
is not only hostile but fatal to truth in its spiritual unity. We are
assured that “the letter _kills_,” not merely that it is void; and we know
that a little poison may corrupt much food, while a little needful
medicine may taste as bitter as poison. Now, that the Bible, by reason of
its very excellency, abounds in passages obvious to individual
misinterpretation, no candid reader of it or of history will deny. We
need, therefore, something which will preserve us from such dangers, as
well as from evils of deficiency. Animals are protected from many dangers
by the constant presence of overpowering instincts. The soul requires
equally the constant guidance of the Holy Spirit. Experience disproves the
novel and enthusiastic notion that the Spirit is _thus_ given—viz., as
inspiration—to the individual in his isolation. He requires, therefore,
the aid of the Spirit, both acting in his soul as vital heat, and also
shedding light on him from the church, round whose head the Pentecostal
flame ever plays. Within that church which teaches “with authority, and
not as the scribes,” a firmament is drawn between matters to be believed
_de fide_ and matters of opinion. Errors in theological opinion,
recognized as opinion only, are not necessarily more hurtful than errors
in science or politics. Let us now glance at the most ordinary form of
objection.

So inveterate are traditional habits of thought that we recur to them
after their fallaciousness has been ever so clearly pointed out. A wheel
of thought moves round in our head, and the old notions recur. What
convert, for instance, has not been plagued, while approaching to Catholic
convictions, by the reiteration of that thought constantly recurring to
his mind, “Is it likely that all England should have been in error for
three hundred years?” Though he cannot but feel the weight of the answer,
“It is at least more likely than that all Christendom should have been far
more deeply steeped in worse errors and corruptions, by their nature
affecting individuals as well as the body corporate, for at least twelve
hundred years.” It is thus that in the question of the “rule of faith” we
recur to the question, “Is it not obvious that the individual mind must
lose all freedom and spontaneity, if obliged to measure its movements by
an outward authority? Is not such obedience servile, not filial; carnal,
not spiritual? Who could move freely, if _obliged_ to walk always with
another, though that other were his dearest friend?” Now, far from all
this being obvious, it is obviously founded on a misconception of the
hypothesis objected to. Why does the soul partake of a higher _freedom_ as
it advances in _submission_ to God? How is it that, in the glorified
state, perfect freedom exists without the possibility of falling? Because
the Spirit that works in the redeemed and regenerate is the Spirit of God
himself. Why is it no bondage that our two eyes must, if in a healthy
condition, move together? Because the same law acts freely in both. Why is
it that a hand that has ceased to obey the brain is called a _powerless_
hand? Because its power proceeds from sympathy with the brain. Now, on the
hypothesis of the “visible church,” just such a sympathy, such a law, and
such a Spirit _work equally and simultaneously in the individual and in
the body_. To the church the Spirit is given indefectibly, to lead her
into “all truth,” even to the “end of the world.” The individual may or
may not co‐operate with the Spirit; but if he does, he must needs, _ex
hypothesi_, co‐operate with the church, and he cannot feel as a bondage
what is the law of his life, though the _less spiritual_ part of him may
often feel it as a salutary restraint. Rightly to serve is, in things
divine, the only possible spiritual, as distinguished from merely natural,
freedom. The real question, then, respects, not either the stringency of
the law or its character as external law, but its being or not being
divine—a rightful authority, not a usurpation.

The place of faith is not determined by controversial or even intellectual
needs only. Its functions are innumerable. It is the bond between the race
and God. It must affect the whole soul and be the health of every part. It
is God’s adamant diffused through every region of our being, as the rock
on which the church is built extends, in its solidity, throughout and
under the whole fabric. Our individual faith may be weak; but it is the
nature of faith itself to be infinitely strong; and our faith must so come
to us, and so stand towards us, as to _admit of_ its own infinite
increase, as well as of its permanence. It must enlighten the mind, erect
the will, warm and chasten the heart, live in every affection, kneel in
our humility, endure in our patience. It is an armor that covers us
wholly, leaving _no spot_ exposed to the flying shafts of an enemy, to
whom one spot is as the whole body. Its shield is a mirror in which
humanity beholds the whole of its being, individual and social, imaged
after the stature of the renewed man. That image is no idol with brazen
breast and feet of earth, but the likeness, everywhere glorious, of Him
who took our whole nature, and in it was obedient to “his parents” and his
country’s law, as well as to his Father’s will. Faith, in the Protestant
acceptation of the word, is unable to discharge for us all these high
offices. No Protestant community (and many have been tried) can point to
its heroic triumphs, and say, “Behold its fruits.” They have neither
converted heathen nations nor retained as much of the faith as they
started with on their new career.

The theory of the “Bible _interpreted_ by private judgment” seems, then,
to me to have been novel, rash, crude, not sincerely thought out when
promulgated—the only position that could affect to justify the revolt from
unity, but one not itself justified by the event. _My reason_, to which
rationalism ever appeals, would not have antecedently assured me that a
book would have formed even part of a revelation. _My reason_ tells me
that if the facts of Christianity be divine, its dogmatic truths divine,
and the book which records the facts and announces the truths be divine,
it is not _unreasonable_ that the interpreter of that book should be
divine. Such is the theory which Rome maintains, but which no one will say
that Rome did more than _retain_, walking thus in the footsteps of the
primitive church, and of the general councils. The patriarchal church had
no Bible; the Hebrew church but an incomplete canon, added to from time to
time. The Christian canon was not compiled for two centuries after Christ;
Providence did not allow of its diffusion by printing for fourteen. The
Christian world is still, for the most past, unable to read. _Most_
Protestants have therefore ever been compelled to be guided by an
authority which, without pretending to confer the spiritual gifts which
Rome confers, is exposed to many of the same objections. All religious
communities say practically, “Hear me.” One only says, with the apostle,
“Hear the church.” One only delivers a distinct and consistent message.
One only unites parental authority with maternal solicitude, fear with
love, enthusiasm with steadfastness, permanence of faith with progress of
defined knowledge, the doctrines with the ethical habits of the early
church, the lore of the Fathers with the propagandism of the early
missionaries and the courage of the martyrs. It is the church of Him who
was singled from his brethren as were Judah, Shem, Seth, and made to be
unity, that in his unity all might be one, in one Lord, one _faith_, and
one baptism.

A. DE VERE.

NOVEMBER 2, 1851.

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

Our readers will certainly be thankful to us for giving them the pleasure
of perusing the foregoing letter, which is a document of great interest
and value for several reasons. It is the work of an author whose prose is
only inferior to his poetry. It is a record of the process of reasoning by
which one of the many illustrious English converts was aided to make the
transition from Anglicanism to the Catholic Church, given in his own
language at a time when his thoughts and sentiments about the momentous
change were fresh in his memory, and remarkably different from any similar
production. The value of such a document, considered in the respect just
mentioned, depends on its being given precisely as it was written at the
time; and we have been, therefore, scrupulously careful not to change or
modify a single sentence, or even a word, in the author’s manuscript.

This letter is not, however, merely a psychological and literary
curiosity. Though it is the argument, not of a Catholic theologian, but of
a man of letters just recently converted to the faith, it is a remarkable
presentation of some parts of Catholic doctrine, more particularly of the
supernatural certainty of divine faith, and the essential difference of
faith from human science or opinion, even when the object of the latter is
natural or revealed theology. We think it important, however, to add a
short explanation of our own as a safeguard of purely natural certitude.
Sound Catholic philosophy establishes the certitude of knowledge received
through the senses, the understanding, and the discursive or reasoning
operation of the mind upon the concepts apprehended by both those
faculties. Physical, metaphysical, and moral demonstration produce,
therefore, true science, not mere opinion. The rational proof of the
Catholic religion rests on these three, and is sufficient to produce a
certain conviction. This is not, however, identical with divine faith. The
act of faith is distinct from the merely rational assent of the mind. Yet
these two acts may terminate on the same object. One may be convinced, for
instance, of the spirituality of the soul, by a metaphysical
demonstration, without believing in the divine revelation. If he afterward
believes in the revelation, he will have also a divine faith in the
spirituality of the soul. One may believe by divine faith that Christ made
S. Peter the head of the church, and afterwards acquire an historical
certainty of the same truth. We cannot be too careful to maintain the
supernatural quality of faith and the superiority of its divine light to
the natural light of reason; at the same time, we must be also careful not
to weaken or diminish the certainty and the scope of natural
knowledge.—ED. C. W.




The Church In F——.


Build up the church! Let its turrets rise,
With cross‐crowned summits, to kiss the skies;
Hollow its centre, in nave and aisle,
From its walls let heaven‐rapt faces smile.

Make its fair altars to glow with light,
Where priest and ministering acolyte
May kneel, with incense and book and bell,
The praises of God and his saints to swell.

Let the deep tones of the organ roll
With thunderous music, to stir the soul,
While spirits soar, as on wings of fire,
’Mid the holy chants of the surpliced choir.

But when the crowd has passed away,
And the lights burn low and the church is gray,
And in their solitude aisle and nave
Are still and stern as a martyr’s grave,

All is not over of praise and prayer:
The mourner, shrinking from crowd and glare,
May kneel in the shadow, and veil her eyes
Before the Lord of the sacrifice.

The sacred Presence that throws its spell—
An ever‐abiding miracle—
O’er the empty fane and the silent shrine,
Is there at all seasons—_the Host divine._




Are You My Wife? Chapter I.


By The Author Of “A Salon In Paris Before The War,” “Number Thirteen,”
“Pius VI.,” Etc.



Chapter I. A Few Pages From Clide De Winton’s Note‐Book.


It was not the reception I ought to have had; but that was my own fault.
The old house was not in the habit of giving such a cold welcome to the
eldest son who brought home his young bride. On the contrary, fireworks
and bonfires, and bells ringing, and flags flying, and universal rejoicing
both inside and outside the house, had been the traditionary mode of
proceeding, on such occasions, since the Conquest, when it first owned a
master of the name of De Winton. My earliest recollections of a distinct
kind are of my father bringing home my step‐mother to the old place, and
of my peeping out from my nursery‐window, and vaguely connecting the
strange lady, who came in the midst of us heralded by such noise and
splendor, with the story of the Queen of Sheba that my nurse read to me
very often on Sundays out of a pictured story‐book. This infantine
delusion had long vanished before I quite lost the sense of childish
bewilderment that accompanied the occasion. I was an odd child, I suppose;
old‐fashioned, but not at all precocious; and the dreamy impressions of
childhood held their grasp on me longer than usual, probably from my
having no children to play with and keep me from dwelling so long and so
exclusively on the fancies of my own hazy little mind. I can recall
vividly even now how I hated all the noise and fuss that followed the
wedding; how I shrank from being dressed in my scarlet cashmere frock, and
being sent for to the drawing‐room, and introduced to strangers, by my
stiff, stately step‐mother, as “my son, Master Clide de Winton.” There
seemed no end to the strangers that came trooping in to shake hands with
my father and to be introduced to his wife. And then the dinners that were
given, and the noise of music afterwards, that used to wake me up in the
nursery, and make me dream such noisy, confused dreams when I fell asleep
again! How I detested it all! And when I expressed something of this to my
nurse, and wondered why the house, that used to be so quiet when we had it
to ourselves, had become so full of noise and strange people from the
moment my new mamma came home, she found no better comfort than to tell me
that that was always the way after a wedding, and that when I was grown up
and married myself I should make just as much fuss, and a great deal more,
because I should be younger, and my wife too. It may sound absurd, like so
many other reminiscences of childhood that were once bitterly real to all
of us; but this horoscopic view of life poisoned many an hour of those
nursery‐days to me. The fact that the dreaded ordeal was yet distant gave
me no consolation. I leaped over the gulf that separated six years old
from five‐and‐twenty, and saw myself miserable in the midst of a
pandemonium of noise, and strange people, and dinners, and pianoforte‐
playing. I was no doubt a morbid little boy, and no doubt my nurse
discovered this, and with the unconscious cruelty of her race took
pleasure in playing upon my idle terrors. I know she used to terrify me by
graphic descriptions of the wedding ceremonial from first to last; and the
more I showed that I was terrified, the more eloquent and inventive—as I
afterwards discovered—she grew. She had been three times through the
performance herself, and thus was peculiarly qualified to speak of it. I
remember once when she told me I would have to stand up before all the
company at a long table and make a speech. I could bear it no longer, and
I began to cry. This did not soften her; she only laughed at me for a
silly little goose, and assured me that, when the time came, I would enjoy
it all as much as I now enjoyed flying my kite and other juvenile
amusements. I ran out of the nursery and away up to a garret where I
sometimes hid myself when I expected to be sent for to the drawing‐room.
and flung myself on the floor, and literally bellowed with misery. I
suppose I cried myself to sleep, for when 1 awoke I was still in the same
place, tired and cold. I considered quietly what I might possibly do to
avert the catastrophe that so appalled me in the distance. I could think
only of one thing: that was to run away before the wedding‐day arrived. I
had heard stories about boys running away from school when they were very
naughty or very unhappy; why should they not run away from home, if driven
to extremities? This resolution soothed me. I crept down from my solitude
a happier child than I had entered it.

If this account of myself sounds unnatural, I can only answer that it is
true. If my step‐mother had been a loving, motherly woman, she would
probably have found out something of these sufferings, and have sought to
modify them by moulding my character; but she was not a woman to win a
child’s confidence, even if she had tried; and she did not try to win
mine. She found me shy, reserved, ungracious, and she left me so. She did
her duty by me as far as she knew how. I was conveyed every day regularly
from the nursery to the dining‐room after dinner. I grew resigned to the
daily punishment after a time, and in reply to the usual questions, “Had I
been a good boy?” and “Would I like an apple?” I learned to answer boldly
that I had and that I would, and to stand straight on both legs and
without wriggling. My step‐mother patted me on the cheek, and observed to
my father that I was improving in my manners. She seldom went further than
this in motherly caresses for the first two years after her marriage. Then
my father died, and I can remember that she kissed me often, and was
altogether more gentle in her manner towards me, and that I felt it, and
liked the change, though I could in no way account for it. I was still
miserably shy, and I retained the same intense dread of notoriety and fuss
of every description. Perhaps it was this that partly decided her on
sending me to Eton when I was barely old enough to be in the school‐room.
Other motives may have added weight to this one, but I shall say nothing
of that now. If her object was to cure me of the painful timidity which
still beset me, it was perhaps a justification for sending the fatherless
and motherless boy away from the solitude and isolation of a gloomy home
into the stir and life of a public school, where shyness, like so many
other foolish weaknesses, is quickly rubbed off by contact with those
intolerant pedagogues—companions of one’s own age and rank. I was happy
enough at Eton, in spite of the dreaded future that still loomed in the
distance. I had forgotten the spectre of a possible wedding‐breakfast and
its accompanying horrors. I knew now that it was in my own hands to suffer
or to avoid them. Meantime, my natural timidity still asserted itself in a
way that was much deplored by my step‐mother. I was an intelligent boy,
and might have distinguished myself over my fellows, had I chosen; but the
same morbid folly that had embittered my childhood now paralyzed my
ambition, and prevented me trying for prizes in any department of study.
Public speaking comes into play very much with candidates for honors at
school, and the finest gold medal that was ever awarded for a Greek and
Latin essay would not have tempted me, if I foresaw the necessity of
reading the essay aloud before that redoubtable array of critics, my
assembled masters and companions. I passed for an oddity, and so I was. My
step‐mother sighed over it in her calm, correct way; regretted I had not
the honorable ambition to make a name for myself and conquer a position
amongst my fellow‐men, and so on. To this I modestly replied that I was
satisfied with the name my fathers had transmitted to me, and which I
hoped to carry honorably at least through life, if not proudly. Pride of
birth was one of the earliest lessons she had endeavored to instil into my
mind, and in this respect I did not prove as stubborn as in others. I
remember saying, in reply to some remarks of hers as to the advisability
of my distinguishing myself in some public career, “When a man has the
good luck to be born a De Winton he is distinguished enough”; and I
remember the smile of approval that accompanied her demure shake of the
head.

I left Eton in course of time, and went to the university. The change from
the now familiar world of school was accomplished with immense reluctance,
and perhaps would never have been accomplished at all without the combined
influence of my step‐mother, my uncle, Admiral de Winton, and Sir Simon
Harness, who was one of my guardians and my father’s oldest friend. I soon
grew to like my new life, and to make friends with a few of my new
companions. I was still too shy to form friendships easily, or to be what
is called popular. Everything however, went smoothly with me till I was a
little over twenty, and then a circumstance occurred which woke up the old
terrors, and showed too plainly that much of the puerile folly of
childhood clung to me still. I am almost ashamed to write it at this lapse
of time; but I shall have more grievous follies to confess by‐and‐by, so
there is no use passing over this one. It arose out of a proposal to give
a farewell dinner to a fellow who was one of our set and extremely
popular. I chimed in heartily with the scheme the moment it was broached,
but when one of my chums, out of pure mischief as I afterwards found out,
suggested that we should one of us make a farewell speech, expressing the
regret and so forth of the rest, and that I should be the speaker, I got
savage, and was for not appearing at all at the dinner, unless they gave
me a solemn promise that I should not be asked to open my lips, even to
propose a toast. We were near quarrelling over it; the others were so
amused at my anger and fright that they kept up the joke, and bullied me
until I was in a downright passion. When it was over, and I had joined in
the laugh against myself, my tormentor said, quite hap‐hazard, and not
with the least idea of rousing me again:

“I say, old boy, how will it be when you come of age? You’ll be giving a
grand blow‐out at the Moat, of course, and we’ll all drink to your health
with three times three; but you will have to return thanks, you know, and
address the tenantry, and that sort of thing. It will be awful fun to see
you stammering and haw‐hawing, and assuring us that the affecting occasion
is really—aw—too much for you—aw—and so forth. When is it to be? About
this time twelve‐month, eh?”

I don’t know what I said to him. I think I felt he was too great a brute
to be spoken to, except in a language which it would not do for a De
Winton to use. But could this be true? Was I making a fool’s paradise to
myself, while every day hurried me on to this dismal catastrophe?

I feigned a sudden call home on family business that required my presence,
and started by the six A.M. train next morning for the Moat.

My step‐mother was surprised to meet me on coming down to
breakfast—surprised, not startled. She was not a woman to be startled.

“Madam,” I said, after greeting her ceremoniously, according to my step‐
filial habit, “have you any plan in view respecting the event of my
majority?”

“You speak in enigmas, my dear Clide. Pray explain yourself,” replied Mrs.
de Winton; and went on washing her hands in that deliberate way of hers
that always exasperated me. Perhaps it was this trick of perpetually
washing her hands that made me think her so uncommonly like the picture of
Lady Macbeth hanging over the library mantel‐piece.

“To be explicit, then,” I replied, “do you intend making a Coming of Age
of it? Do you purpose setting the tenantry into fits making a fuss over
me? In a word do you purpose calling up the seven devils commonly catted
rejoicings and loyal demonstrations? Do you mean to do these things,
madam?”

Whether she thought I had gone suddenly mad, or that, notwithstanding the
early hour, I had been indulging too freely in convivial libations, I
could not tell; but she decidedly thought I was laboring under some sort
of cerebral inflammation. Suspending abruptly the ablutionary movement,
she joined her hands coldly, and looking at me with a severe countenance,
not devoid altogether of pity, “Clide, you surprise me,” she said. “I
hoped that you had sufficient respect for yourself and for your ancestors
to understand....”

“Madam,” I broke in, trembling with excitement, “I respect you and I
respect my ancestors; but as to making a fool of myself for the
gratification of their ante‐diluvian crotchets, I won’t do it. No; if
every De Winton from the Flood down were to stalk out of his coffin and
bully me, I won’t.”

“Won’t what?” demanded my step‐mother, looking now rather alarmed.

“I won’t have those seven devils let loose over the place,” I said
defiantly; “and unless you pledge me your word of honor that there will
not be anything of the sort, as sure as I’m a living De Winton I’ll bolt
from the country, and never set foot in it again!”

“You misapprehend our relative positions altogether, Clide,” resumed Mrs.
de Winton. “When the time of your majority has arrived, you will, by the
very fact of its advent, be master to deal with it as you choose, quite
independent of my wishes. I should hope, however, that by that time you
will have conceived a better notion of your duty to society in your own
person, and to the traditions of the illustrious race from whom it is your
privilege to descend, than you seem to possess at present. It has been
from time immemorial the custom in the family to celebrate with pomp and
festive gatherings the majority of the heir. I am at a loss to understand
why this venerable custom should inspire you with such irrational fury;
why you should anticipate the welcome that awaits every De Winton on his
coming of age otherwise than with a sense of grateful and honorable
pride.”

I had calmed down when I discovered that I was my own master in the
matter. Otherwise I should not have listened so patiently to the end of
her tirade. When it was over, I began to feel rather ashamed of myself. I
had been making a storm in a butter‐boat.

“If I have forgotten in the least degree the deference I owe you, madam,”
I observed, twisting my wide‐awake to give myself what the French call a
countenance, “I apologize for it.”

“I trust you will learn to control yourself, in future, for your own
sake,” observed Mrs. de Winton, washing her hands again. “Be assured of
one thing: I shall take no steps towards the celebration of the event,
which is looked forward to by the tenantry with very different feelings
from yours, without having your consent. I would not expose them or you to
such an exhibition as that I have just witnessed. But you have twelve
months to wait, and to improve, I hope, before your coming of age makes it
necessary to remind you what that circumstance involves.”

“If it involves a fuss, madam,” I said emphatically, and waxing wroth
again, “once more, I won’t have it. I’d rather never come of age!” And
having delivered myself of this decided opinion, I wished her good‐
morning.

I came of age in due time, and fearing that, in spite of my commands to
the contrary, the tenantry might get up some insane rejoicings and
caterwaulings, I feigned illness and waited in London till the anniversary
was a week old.

That Rubicon was no sooner safely passed than the other, the fearful one
that had been the nightmare of my childhood, threatened to overtake me. I
had so constantly announced at school my determination never to marry that
my views on that subject were known to all who knew me, and the reputation
of a woman‐hater preceded me amongst my own people. Still, the Moat being
a fine old place, with a clear rent‐roll of fifteen thousand pounds a
year, and I being an only son and in all other respects what dowagers call
an “eligible young man,” the female mind of ——shire resented such a
resolve on my part as premature and absurd, and set to work diligently to
bring me to a better way of thinking. I pass over the history of that
merciless campaign of match‐making mothers and enterprising daughters. The
very thought of it now is painful to me. Enough that I came out of it
unscathed. After two years of comparative quiet—for I persistently refused
to be lured to the sirens’ caves in the neighborhood, and forced them to
beard the lion in his den, which gave me no inconsiderable vantage‐ground
over the enemy—the fire slackened, and I was left in peace.

My step‐mother did not attempt to coerce me; on the contrary, she
commiserated my position, and more than once expressed her disapproval of
the way in which, as she said, I was hunted down by all the marriageable
womanhood of the county. She insisted on giving one ball when I came home,
to introduce me to her own and my father’s friends and such members of the
family as I only knew by name or very slightly; but after that she
subsided, and my life was as free from fuss as any life in this fussy
world could be.

“Clide,” observed Mrs. de Winton one morning, as we sipped our tea over
the breakfast‐table, “do you think it quite impossible you should ever
marry?”

“Well,” I said reflectively, “as far as a man can answer for himself, I
should say quite impossible.”

“But how far is that?” observed my step‐mother with a sceptical smile.
“You have not yet been put to the test. You have not yet come across the
woman who could persuade you that marriage is the Elysium of man here
below. Supposing—I merely put it in the light of a remote supposition—that
you should come across her some day...?”

“I should probably accept my fate as many a wiser man has done before me,
and capitulate on reasonable terms—namely, that we should be executed at
six o’clock in the morning, no wedding‐dress, no bridemaids, no
speechifying—no fuss, in fact, and nobody present but a beggar‐woman and a
policeman. Then, when we come home, no entertaining, giving and taking
dinners, and that sort of fuss that comes like the farce after the
tragedy. If I ever meet with a pretty girl willing to take me and the Moat
on these conditions, then I will not answer for the consequences.”

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

One year after this conversation with my step‐mother I met that pretty
girl; the result was what I tacitly foretold it would be. I married her.
It happened in this way: I was seized with a desire to travel, and,
instead of beginning with the stereotyped grand tour, I determined to go
first to America. I had a hunger for grand, wild scenery. The vast
primeval forests of the far West, the awful grandeur of Niagara, drew me
powerfully; so off I set, accompanied by a confidential servant named
Stanton. Shyness went for something in the choice. I felt attracted
towards the new young continent as by a sense of homelikeness and kindred.
I was not disappointed. Everything I saw there was at once novel and
familiar. I could converse with the people in my own language, and was
thus spared the mortification of stuttering out my inquiries in dubious
French or German, or trumpeting them through an interpreter, as must have
been the case on the grand tour.

Niagara appalled and fascinated me. Day after day I stood contemplating
the torrents of foam that surged up to meet the great sheet of water that
flung itself in a majestic arch of hard green crystal down into the
boiling, creamy gulf. I gazed and gazed till sight was dim and sense was
lost in a torpor of exquisite delight—neither trance nor vision, but a
state that hovered between both. The thunder of the rushing waters, the
sparkling of the prism that danced and flashed and faded with the changing
lights, reflecting every tint in the sunset, until the cataract blazed
before my dazzled eyes like a thousand rainbows melted into one, then
fainted and died, leaving a uniform sheen of emerald in its place—all this
was like some magnificent apotheosis that kept me spell‐bound, fascinated,
entranced. I had come intending to remain three days; but a week slipped
away and found me still at Niagara. At last I determined to break the
spell. I must tear myself from the spectacle before it overmastered my
reason; for there were moments when, after standing for hours looking down
into the seething abyss of foam, I felt as if an invisible chord were
drawing me on and on, nearer and nearer, luring me in a dreamy way towards
the water. Then I would rouse myself and rush away; but it would not do to
go on playing with a danger that was sweet and potent as a magician’s
spell. I came out one morning to take my last look. It was just after
sunrise. The falls had never looked so beautiful, the booming of the water
had never sounded so solemn, the light had never evolved such a fairy
tracery of jewelled glory on the silvery vapor and the green crystal. The
effect was overpowering. For one moment it seemed to me that I heard the
voice of Jehovah speaking in the roar of many waters; that I stood within
the sanctuary, separated by an impenetrable and mysterious wall of thunder
from the outer, visible world. A spontaneous and almost unconscious
impulse made me uncover myself and stand bareheaded, as in the presence of
the Unseen and Omnipresent. How long I stood thus I cannot say; I know
that I was roused from my revery by a sound that struck in upon my dreamy
deafness with strange and thrilling effect. It was the singing of a human
voice; the words were inarticulate, but I knew the music well. It was a
wild, weird Highland melody; the rhythm was barely distinguishable, as the
notes rose and fell through the roar and boom of the waterfall, sounding
nevertheless preternaturally clear and sweet, like the wail of a spirit or
some sweet sea‐bird’s cry. What was it? Some Undine risen from the spray,
and pouring out her lament to the wave? I dared not look round, so fearful
was I to banish the songster. When the voice ceased, I turned my head and
looked. Was I dreaming, or was it indeed a spirit that I beheld? I doubted
at first. But as I kept my eyes steadily fixed on the figure, it moved
towards me, and I knew that it was neither sprite nor shadow, but a woman,
a young girl rather—for she seemed barely emerged from childhood to
maidenhood—more beautiful than any picture I had ever seen or that my
imagination had ever painted. She was small, below the middle height. Her
hair fell in profuse ringlets or coils—it seemed an accidental
arrangement—down her back; it was black and glossy as jet. Her eyes were
lustrous and dark as a gazelle’s; her complexion almost colorless. She was
dressed in dark green, a loose, unconventional sort of garment that draped
her something after the fashion of a Roman stola; her straw hat had either
fallen off or she had taken it off, and held it dangling from her arm; her
hands were clasped, and her eyes fixed on the fall, as it plunged from the
rocky ledge down, down into the eternity of waters.

She had come within a few yards of me before she seemed conscious of my
presence—of anything but the majestic spectacle that was riveting her
whole soul through her eyes. She walked on like a somnambulist. A sudden
dread seized me. Was she asleep, or was she experiencing in its uttermost
degree the terrible attraction that I had felt more than once, and walking
on unconsciously to death? I advanced a few steps, so as to stand in her
path as she drew near. The effect was instantaneous. She started as if
some one had struck her. I thought she would have fallen, and rushed to
prevent it by stretching out my arm. The movement apparently recalled her
to the sense of where she was. With a slight acknowledgment of my
courtesy, she turned quickly away, and hurried on out of sight. I followed
her, and it was with an unreasonable thrill of delight that I saw her
enter the hotel where I was staying. Who was this siren, or how did one so
young and so beautiful come to be alone in this lonely place? Before the
day was over I met her again. Chance brought us together once more in the
same spot. This time she was not alone. An elderly man, whom she addressed
as uncle, accompanied her. He was not prepossessing in his appearance, and
I doubt whether I should have overcome my natural shyness so far as to
address him, if he had not himself broken the ice by asking me if I had
ventured to walk under the fall, and whether the experience was worth the
risk. I assured him that it amply compensated for any imaginary danger
that might exist, and volunteered to accompany him if he decided on trying
it. This brought us into communication, if not into sympathy. I did not
like him, consequently he did not like me. We both felt this
instinctively, no doubt; there was an opposing element of some sort
between us that made friendship impossible, though it did not prevent that
kind of superficial intimacy which is almost inevitable amongst people of
the same country who find themselves thrown close together under the same
roof in a foreign land. He was Scotch, as I knew at once by his name,
Prendergast, and by his accent. He was a thin, medium‐sized man, and could
not have been more than forty, though his silver hair gave him a
prematurely old look, which was perhaps increased by a settled expression
of ill‐temper about the mouth, arising, so his niece affectionately
alleged, from chronic tooth‐ache. He seemed indeed a martyr to that trying
complaint, and wore his head tied up in a woollen comforter, which must
have been miserably uncomfortable; for the days were hot and the nights as
balmy as June. I fancied that his beautiful niece disliked him, or at
least feared him considerably more than she loved him. I noticed how the
merry, bright little creature started at the sound of his voice when he
called to her sharply, and how she quailed when his cold, hard eye lighted
on her in the midst of one of her childish peals of laughter, checking it
as by a cold bath. It struck me even more than once that she cast a glance
towards me, as if claiming my protection—against whom or what I could not
imagine; but I was resolved to ascertain, and, if my assistance or
sympathy could avail her, to let her have them at any cost. We happened to
be alone on the third day after our first meeting. Isabel—so I heard Mr.
Prendergast call her—was apparently as pleased at the opportunity as I
was. She talked to me with the frank, artless _abandon_ of a child; and,
without in the least intending it, she told me enough of her antecedents
and position to satisfy me that I was right in supposing her not very
happy with her uncle. She told me he was her guardian, and had brought her
up since she was quite a child, her parents having died when she was five
years old. Her mother was his sister; her father’s name was Cameron. He
held a large tract of land in Canada, and had a great deal of money—“heaps
of money,” was her childish estimate of it—in banks and things in England;
and she, being the only child, was heiress to all this wealth. Mr.
Prendergast had had the management of it up to the present, and continued
to treat her as an infant, though she was now of age, she said. He had by
nature a tyrannical temper, and it was increased and rendered irritable
and fierce by years of tooth‐ache. He had been away in hot climates to
seek relief for his exasperated nerves, and it was only on her account
that he had returned to England of late. He had come out to America to
look after her property, and also for the benefit of her health, which had
required change and a long sea‐voyage. I felt grateful to him for this at
least, as the sacrifice had evidently been crowned with success. Miss
Cameron looked the very picture of health, and she said the voyage had
made her stronger than she had ever been in her life. It had, however,
proved very disastrous to Mr. Prendergast, whose teeth had not given him a
day’s rest since they left England; “and of course this makes him very
cross,” his niece observed deprecatingly, with a little sigh.

After this conversation we became perfectly at ease with each other, and
tacitly watched for opportunities of renewing it. I need not say that I
relinquished my plan of leaving the falls, which day after day grew more
beautiful, more irresistibly attractive, to me. A week passed in a dreamy
state of blissfulness, and then a crisis came. Mr. Prendergast, who had
been howling all night in the room next to me with the tooth‐ache, set off
after breakfast, in spite of his swelled face, with a party that were
being taken to walk under the arch of the fall. He wound a quarter of a
mile of Shetland shawls round his head, and, thus fortified, donned the
leathern costume of the occasion, and down he went. Everything went well
enough until he was emerging from the tremendous roar that had covered him
in like a curtain, and was setting his foot on dry land above, when he was
seized with a rush of blood to the head, and fell insensible to the
ground. He was carried to his room, and lay there dangerously ill for
several days. Isabel was not allowed to see him. The doctor enjoined
absolute quiet as of the first necessity; no one entered the sick‐room but
the medical man and a nurse whom he sent for to the nearest town. This
catastrophe naturally threw Miss Cameron and me a good deal together. We
wandered out to admire the falls by sunrise; we were to be seen there
again at sunset, when the clouds rolled in golden cascades over the
western sky, and made a spectacle of rival glory above and beyond the
everlasting glory of Niagara. What could come of all this but what came of
it? We loved each other, and we confessed it. It was a wild act on my
part. I knew nothing of Isabel’s family and antecedents but what she had
accidentally told me; but to a man in love, first love, what more was
wanted? She bore a name that was ancient as my own. As to her fortune, I
cared nothing for that. She told me it was already legally in her own
power; that she was twenty‐one. I believed this, since she said it, but it
required a strong effort of faith to credit that beaming young face with
more than seventeen years in this cold world. Those were blissful days
while we walked arm‐in‐arm through the yellowing forest, and alongside the
river beyond the falls, cooing our young loves to one another, as foolish
and as tender as any two Babes in the Wood. But Mr. Prendergast was
getting well now, and called Isabel constantly to his side, and sternly
catechised her as to what she did when she left him. He was to be down‐
stairs to‐morrow, and they were to leave Niagara in a few days, and sail
for England by the next boat that left Quebec. She whispered this to me
with white lips one morning, and then rushed up‐stairs to answer the call
of the dragon, who was shouting to her from his open window. I waited till
she came down again, and then drew her out into a favorite spot of ours at
a little distance from the house.

“Isabel,” I said, “does your uncle know that we love each other?”

“Oh! no, no; he would kill me if he knew it,” she replied, speaking in a
whisper, and looking up at me with an expression of terror and trust that
nerved me to anything.

“What, then, are we to do? Shall I speak to him at once?” I asked.

“There is no use speaking to him; he will never let me marry you, Clide.
Forgive me for making you unhappy,” she said, clasping her hands on my
arm, while the big tears ran down her face. “I never ought to have let you
care for me. I never ought to have let myself love you, but I could not
help it; I could not help it.”

Her head fell on my shoulder, and the sobs shook the frail little figure
that leaned against me with the artless confidence of a child.

“You _shall_ marry me, darling,” I cried; “no uncle that ever lived shall
separate us. I swear it! We shall be married before we leave this. Trust
to me to do everything; we will arrange it all before that old Turk knows
or suspects anything. Promise only to trust to me entirely and to do as I
ask you. Promise me, Isabel.”

She promised, placing her hand confidingly in mine.

Next morning, soon after sunrise, while Mr. Prendergast was still asleep,
we two stole out to the little church where a few stray worshippers sang
their hymns to the music of the waterfall, and were married by the old
clergyman of the place. My man, Stanton, and the sexton were the only
witnesses. It was indeed a wedding after my own heart, all done as quietly
as if marrying a wife were as much an every‐day accident in life as taking
a walk before breakfast. Isabel was, if possible, more delighted with the
mode of proceeding than I was. I forget how she came to make the avowal,
but I know it was quite spontaneous, that she hated the fuss and
paraphernalia of a wedding in England as she hated a thunder‐storm; and
that if she had been given her choice, she would infinitely have preferred
this quiet little marriage of ours to the most magnificent display that
could have been got up for her in Scotland. We were as happy as two
children as we walked home together. But then came the business of telling
Mr. Prendergast. Isabel declared she would rather die than enter his
presence now alone; he would read her rebellious act on her face, and he
would kill her. He was capable of anything when he was roused. I was not
going to risk my treasure within his reach. I sat down and wrote a
respectful letter, informing him that I had become the husband of his
niece, and requesting his forgiveness for what might seem a violation of
good faith, but which his own conscience would, I felt sure, find an
excuse for in my behalf. I stated my fortune and position more accurately
than I had been able to do to Isabel, who put her hand to my mouth when I
attempted to speak of settlements and so forth, saying she wanted to hear
nothing about my money. I now begged of Mr. Prendergast to let me know
what his wishes were concerning his niece’s fortune, and pledged myself
beforehand to conform to them, and prove by my conduct in this respect
that money was the last consideration that had actuated me in marrying an
heiress. In answer to this I received a curt line informing me that I had
behaved like a scoundrel, and that, as a gentleman, Mr. Prendergast
declined to meet me, and that I had better take myself off with my wife
before chance threw me in his way again. Isabel was overjoyed at this
unexpected issue. I was stung by the man’s insolence and his unjust
accusations, but, on the whole, it was the easiest way of getting rid of
him and securing myself and Isabel from his brutal temper and ungovernable
violence.

We left Niagara that day. I wrote to my step‐mother, acquainting her that
I was a married man, and announcing the day she might expect to see us at
the Moat. I wrote for places in the next steamer, and we were fortunate
enough to find two vacant ones at nearly the last moment in a splendid
vessel that sailed from New York. It had occurred to me that before
leaving America it would have been prudent and rational to make some
inquiries concerning the landed property which my wife held in Canada; but
as she did not propose this, I feared it might strike her unfavorably if I
did, and suggest that her uncle’s insulting insinuations were not as
unfounded as I wished her to believe. I therefore abandoned the idea, and
we left the United States without my asking a single question on the
subject.

The voyage homeward was delightful. Isabel formed plans for the future
that sounded like songs from Arcadia, and drew a picture of our life at
the Moat that looked like a vision of the Elysian fields. We stopped a
week in London to extemporize a trousseau and purchase some trinkets, and
then I took my wife to her Welsh home. My step‐mother gave her a gracious,
if not a hearty, welcome. It was a very quiet home‐coming; nothing,
indeed, could have been tamer. There were no tenantry to meet us, no
rejoicings either in the village or at the house. I thought this strange,
though it was strictly in accordance with the desires I had always
expressed on the subject to my step‐mother. Isabel, however, was entirely
satisfied, and confessed to me that she had been in a nervous flutter all
the way home, fearing to find some horror in the shape of a deputation
from the tenants or something awaiting us at our journey’s end.

A few days after our arrival, when I came down to breakfast alone, my
step‐mother said to me, “Clide, it is time that you thought a little of
business now. I think you told me that your wife’s fortune is in her own
right; this is very desirable to begin with, but of course it cannot
remain so. Your rights as a husband must be properly protected.”

“My wife’s affection and my confidence in her are the only security I
require on that, madam,” I replied stiffly.

“The sentiment does honor to you both,” observed Mrs. de Winton, with an
undertone of sarcasm that did not escape me; “but you do not expect
Admiral de Winton or Sir Simon Harness to be satisfied with such a
sentimental guarantee.”

“I understand you, and I respect your motives,” was my cold rejoinder;
“but as I am not responsible to any one but myself for the good or bad
management of myself and my property, I do not recognize any one’s right,
trustee or relation, to interfere with me, and still less to interfere
with my wife.”

“Who talks of interfering with your wife? You tell me she is an heiress
with forty thousand pounds in the Funds and an estate in Canada. Your
father’s widow and your late guardian and trustee have certainly a right
to ask the whereabouts of the money and the land. Admitting that your wife
be as devoted and as disinterested as you believe, is she entirely her own
mistress? This tyrannical old uncle who has kept her in such bondage—how
far did he or does he hold control over her fortune? For her sake as much
as for your own you should put yourself in possession of these facts.”

This view of the case had not occurred to me. I saw the justice of it, and
frankly said so.

“Isabel will put no obstacle in the way of a just and prudent arrangement;
I am quite sure of that,” I said emphatically. “My only fear is that she
should see in this horrid investigation a desire on my part to count my
prize, and perhaps suspect me of having had a base, ulterior motive in
marrying her; and rather than wrong myself or wound her by such a
suspicion, I would sooner never see a penny of her money or an acre of her
land.”

“And does your wife share these sentiments? Is she quite as indifferent
about the matter as you are?” inquired my step‐mother.

“Every bit!” I answered vehemently.

“Did she tell you so?”

“Do you suppose I would ask her?”

“Ridiculous boy!” sneered my step‐mother. “But taking for granted that
just at present she does share your juvenile folly and poetical want of
common sense, how long will it last, do you think? A bride in her
honeymoon is a very different being from a wife of a few years’ standing.
She knows nothing of the value of money now; but when she finds herself
the mother of a family, with daughters growing up to be married and
portioned, she will awake to the value of it in a way that will astonish
you. And when a few years hence she asks you for an account of her own
splendid fortune, what answer will you make to her? You were too delicate
to hurt her feelings by any inquiries about so insignificant a matter, so
you left it to her uncle to see to it!”

“I said I was prepared to do what was necessary to protect her interests,”
I replied. “I will speak to her on the subject this afternoon. What am I
to do next?”

“Write to Sir Simon Harness, and beg him to fix a day to come down here;
and when he has done so, you will write to the family lawyer, and request
him to be here to meet him. Of course you will write to Admiral de Winton,
as your father’s executor and your nearest relative now.”

“What a confounded fuss it will be!” I exclaimed impatiently, and, kicking
over a footstool, I started up and began to walk up and down the room. “I
wish I had married a milkmaid!”

“Don’t talk like a fool, Clide!” said my step‐mother. “I do believe your
pretended delicacy and fear of hurting Isabel’s feelings are nothing but a
cloak to cover your dread of a fuss!”

I was going to protest, but the door opened, and Isabel walked in.

She looked so beautiful in her pink cashmere drapery, breaking into the
brown old wainscoted room like a sunbeam, that even my step‐mother was
surprised into an involuntary tribute of admiration; and when my wife,
coming up to her in that pretty, kitten‐like way that was so bewitching,
stooped down to be kissed, my step‐mother responded quite warmly, and
actually put up her hand to caress the sunny face after she had kissed it.

I felt so proud of my lovely Isabel, and so grateful to my step‐mother for
this unfeigned recognition of her loveliness, that I was seized with a
strong impulse to embrace them both on the spot. I restrained it, however,
and we sat down to breakfast; my wife, as mistress of the house, presiding
over the cups and saucers.

“Clide,” began my step‐mother (she prefaced every remark by my Christian
name), as soon as Isabel had provided us respectively with tea and coffee,
“what are we going to do to make Mrs. de Winton welcome amongst us? Now,
don’t answer me with your usual lazy outcry about fuss. My dear,” she
said, turning to Isabel, “you will have a great deal to do in the way of
reforming him; and if you succeed, it will be little short of a miracle.”

“Isabel will find out my vices soon enough, without your enlightening her
beforehand,” I protested. “It’s not fair to take away a man’s character
without giving him a chance of redeeming it.”

“Then begin and redeem it in time,” said my step‐mother. “Here is a good
opportunity. Have some people down from London to put the house in order,
and then give a series of proper entertainments to introduce your wife to
her new family and friends.”

“Oh! please ...” cried Isabel, pursing up her rosebud of a mouth, and
joining her hands with a delicious little pantomime of fright.

“What! are you as silly as himself? Or has he spoilt you already?”

“I was ready spoilt for him, dear Mrs. de Winton. I hate being introduced;
and as to refurnishing anything, I wouldn’t have it for the world. I adore
old furniture!” declared Isabel.

“Old furniture is one thing, and shabby furniture is another,” observed my
step‐mother, resuming the chronic rigidity of manner which Isabel’s beauty
and sweetness had thawed for a moment. “If Clide had done me the honor of
confiding his intentions to me in time, I certainly would have taken upon
myself to make the house decently clean to receive you. I had for some
time past urged on him the necessity of getting new carpets and curtains;
it was not surprising he shrank from the annoyance of a few days’
hammering merely to make it habitable for _me_, but I fancied for his wife
he might have undergone as much.”

“I shall be delighted to hear the hammers going for a month, if Isabel
likes it,” I replied evasively.

“But I don’t like it; I hate it, Clide!” exclaimed my wife passionately.

“Well, then, you sha’n’t have it, my darling,” I said. My step‐mother sat
back in her chair and washed her hands. She said nothing, but this was
sufficiently suggestive.

“Have you announced your marriage to Sir Simon Harness?” she resumed after
a pause.

“Not yet. I mean to write to him to‐day.”

“Who is Sir Simon Harness?” inquired Isabel.

“He was my father’s particular friend and the trustee during my minority,”
I explained.

“You had better ask him to come down here for a few days to make your
wife’s acquaintance,” suggested Mrs. de Winton.

“No, he sha’n’t!” broke in the angel in pink. “I don’t want to make his
acquaintance. He’s a mean, disagreeable old man. Trustees always are. I
hate them!”

I thought this charmingly innocent and childlike, though, it must be
confessed, she put more vehemence into her manner than the case warranted;
but remembering the type of trustee on which she had built her opinion of
the class, I could not resent her prejudice against my old friends. My
step‐mother took a less indulgent view of the _sortie_. Seeing me cast a
smile of tender indulgence on the culprit, she looked at me very sternly.

“Do you mean to requite years of faithful kindness and interest in your
concerns by such a gross breach of respect and common courtesy as not to
invite Sir Simon Harness to your house on such an occasion as this?” she
demanded.

“Isabel is mistress of her own house. I cannot insist upon her receiving
any one against her will,” I replied; “but when I have explained to her
what kind of man Sir Simon is, I think she will consent to make his
acquaintance.”

Isabel peeped at me from behind the urn, and made a face indicative of
anything but consent.

Luckily, my step‐mother did not see the little by‐play, and, taking her
silence for acquiescence, she said, addressing me:

“And Admiral de Winton—of course you mean to ask him down?”

“Is that another trustee?” asked Isabel.

“Not exactly, though he often acted with Sir Simon in my affairs, being
next of kin,” I said. “He was my father’s executor.”

“Executor! Why, that’s worse than a trustee! I won’t have him come here,
Clide! You’re going to fill the house with horrid old men who will worry
me to death. I know they will. But I won’t submit to it!”

She pushed away her cup with a sudden gesture that made the china rattle,
and, flushing up scarlet, walked away from the table, and flung herself
into a chair near the fire. If she had flung the tea‐pot at my head, I
could not have been more taken aback. It was impossible to deny that the
burst of temper was very becoming to her complexion, but ... I was
conscious of a very distinct sense of disappointment. Yes, disappointment;
there was no other word for it. As to my step‐mother, she looked from me
to my wife, and from my wife to me. Isabel, meantime, sat trembling and
excited, her eyes sparkling, her face glowing like an angry rose.

“Dearest....” I began, “really....”

“Oh! don’t,” she shrieked, and burst into a torrent of tears.

Mrs. de Winton, prompted either by delicacy or by disgust, got up and left
the room, leaving me to conjure as best I could the storm that had
suddenly broken out in my conjugal paradise. I was utterly at a loss to
understand Isabel. She said she was inconsolable at having vexed me, but
to all my entreaties and arguments would answer nothing except that she
was frightened at strangers, and above all at horrid old men; and that if
I loved her, I was not to introduce her to anybody, but to let us live all
our lives alone in the dear old Moat. She wanted no society but mine, and
surely, if I loved her, I ought not to want any but hers! This was
irresistible logic to my heart; but my reason, being less infatuated,
perversely refused to abide by it. There was no use at this crisis in
broaching prudential arrangements as an excuse for inviting down my two
friends. Such an insinuation would only have added fuel to the fire. Yet
the new aspect in which my heiress‐wife was revealing herself made it
clear that some such measures as my step‐mother had suggested were
absolutely necessary to protect Isabel against her own folly and
deplorable ignorance of life.

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

The storm of sobs and tears subsided by degrees. Isabel declared she was
ready to make any sacrifice of her own feelings to mine; that if I liked
to invite all the trustees in Lincoln’s Inn and Chancery Lane down to the
Moat, she would do her best to receive them properly, so that I should not
be ashamed of my wife; but of course there was an end to her happiness.
Arcadia was gone. All her dreams of romantic bliss had vanished into thin
air. She was after all to be nothing more than a humdrum wife with a house
to look after and guests to entertain.

“O Clide, Clide! is this what you promised me?” she cried, her voice still
broken with sobs. “Is this my dream? or was it only a dream, nothing but
the baseless fabric of a vision?”

She clasped her hands, and, throwing back her head, fixed her eyes on the
ceiling, as if the vision were disappearing in that direction, and she
were straining for a last glimpse of it.

I was so spell‐bound by the extraordinary beauty that borrowed a new charm
from her emotions and from the despairing tenderness of her voice and
manner that I entirely lost sight of every other point in the picture. In
fact, I lost my head. I was after all no more than a man, and the wisest
of us is but a fool in the hands of a woman. What could I do but what I
did do? Fall upon my knees and swear that she should have Arcadia back
again, adjure her to build up a new vision, and, if she loved me, never to
talk about baseless fabrics and such like again; and as to her sinking
down into a humdrum wife, it was preposterous nonsense. She could never be
anything but an archangel to me, and that.... But why do I bear witness in
this wanton way to my own folly? We made up our quarrel, as all such
quarrels are intended to be made up. Isabel went to her room, and I went
round to the stables. I had no fancy for meeting my step‐mother just now,
and I had a vague sense of something having gone wrong with me which a
gallop over the downs would set right.

It was a cold February morning—bitterly cold, but bright and bracing, just
the sort of day to enjoy a ride across country; so as soon as I was out of
the park I set spurs to my horse and galloped away, taking flying leaps
over everything, hurdle, and ditch, and brook, as if the hounds were
ahead, and my life staked on being in at the death. After five miles of
this going‐in‐for‐the‐Derby pace I drew rein at the foot of a hill, and
walked my horse to the top. The hard riding had made him so hot that his
flanks smoked like a steam‐engine, and sent up clouds of vapor that
enveloped me in a tepid bath; but I did not feel that the violent exercise
had produced any effect on myself. I was not clear as to the nature of the
effect I had expected, and still less could I analyze the cause that
demanded it. Something was wrong somewhere. I looked about me vacantly,
persistently, as men do when they feel they ought to look within
themselves for the object of their search, and dare not.

I cast my eyes to the sky. It was as blue as liquid sapphire, and as
cloudless. But it said nothing to me. The river winding round the foot of
the wooded hill was ice‐bound and silent as death. The trees stood up
naked and grim against the blue, like skeleton giants, and whispered
nothing. There was no rustle of leafy tongues. They were dead and gone
down into the dumb sod. There was no ripple of tiny cascades; no buzzing
of insects holding council in the grass that grew high and free on the
hill‐side; no song amongst the birds. Nothing spoke to me. Everything was
dumb. Everything was cold. Everything was a disappointment. I began to
whistle. The sound of my own voice echoed merrily through the wood, but it
woke no responsive note from linnet or blackbird or robin. Silence
everywhere.

“What can it mean?” I said aloud, the apostrophe not being addressed to
the birds that could sing, and would not sing, but to my own perplexity
concerning the scene at the breakfast‐table. There was something out of
all reason in the passionate energy Isabel had displayed. Excuse it as my
heart and my vanity would on the ground of a jealous love that shrank from
any intrusion on our solitude capable of distracting my thoughts from her,
which she chiefly urged as her motive of dislike to my two friends’ visit,
I could not see it in a satisfactory light. Again, it was simply
preposterous that a girl of one‐and‐twenty, who had seen even as little of
the world as Isabel had, could be so morbidly shy as to cry herself into
hysterics at the mere idea of being introduced to two old gentlemen in her
own house. There was some motive in the background which it behooved me
for my own peace of mind to discover.

Removed from the magnetic influence of her beauty, and her distress, and
her pretty, endearing ways, I was able to look back dispassionately at the
morning’s entertainment; and the more I looked at it, the less I liked it.
The undisciplined outburst of temper which revealed to me the painful fact
that Socrates was henceforth to be my model, and patience under an
inevitable evil the sustained effort of my life, was in itself no small
matter for regret. But this, though the most tangible of my cares, was not
the one that chiefly possessed me. No; I could have signed away every
penny of my wife’s fortune on the spot to feel sure that it had been a
genuine outbreak of mere temper; but it was borne in on me, not by
circumstantial, but by strong internal evidence that she was actuated by
_fear_. Fear of whom? Of what? What could her young life have done, or
suffered, or known, that she should be afraid? Her uncle had been very
tyrannical, and was now very much incensed with her on account of her
marriage. But she had nothing to fear from him now. He might storm and
fume, but she was out of his reach; he could not hurt her. Besides, she
had not hinted at any fear of malice or vengeance on his part as a reason
for shunning the society or acquaintance of other men. Who or what was she
afraid of? “She hated fuss, and I promised her this and that and the
other.”

Nonsense! Two old friends of my father’s sleeping a night or two in the
house did not constitute a fuss. “She hated trustees; they were
always....” Stop! No; I’m a fool and a brute to wrong the child by such a
thought. Besides, I never hinted, even indirectly, at anything like
inquiries and settlements. I avoided the subject scrupulously. No; there
could be nothing in that.

The fact is, the dear child is in love with me, and wants to play at Romeo
and Juliet for the rest of her life; and here am I, like a born idiot,
making a mountain out of a mole‐hill, instead of blessing my stars for my
luck. This, by a natural train of thought, led me to picture her standing
on the balcony by moonlight, and myself in the garden below looking up and
worshipping.

“What a distracting Juliet she would have made!” I exclaimed aloud,
carried away by my imagination. Then—I can’t for the life of me tell
why—but I remembered how she had looked a while ago with her hands clasped
and her head thrown back, and how she had suddenly checked her passionate
complaint to assume the rapt attitude, the _pose_ of picturesque despair,
and how very melodramatic the effect had been. If it had not been the
purest nature, it would have been the most finished piece of acting that
ever drew down the house to a Siddons or a Kemble. But it _was_ pure
nature. Then why do I start, and why does my heart begin to thump against
my coat in this inexplicable way? Pshaw! Because I am a fool. I set spurs
to my horse, and galloped home, whistling defiantly all the way.

My wife was watching for me, Juliet fashion, from the window of her turret
chamber, and, as soon as she caught sight of my horse entering the park,
flew down to meet me in the hall.

“Why did you stay away so long, Clide? Mrs. de Winton ‘sent me her
compliments to know if I wouldn’t like to go and see the dairy’; but I
didn’t like. I was afraid it was just an excuse to get me all to herself
and scold me. I knew I was naughty this morning, and you may scold me as
much as you like; but I won’t be scolded by anybody else.” And nestling up
to me in her childlike way, Isabel laid her cheek on my shoulder, and
looked up at me with two eyes that would have melted a judge and won from
any twelve men in England an unhesitating verdict of—innocent as a babe
unborn. Linking her arm in mine, and whispering all the way as if we were
a pair of lovers stealing a clandestine interview, she carried me off to
her boudoir. Then, when we were safe in the room, she turned the key in
the door, and began to skip and dance about like an emancipated kitten,
giving me chase round the room, clapping hands and laughing and singing in
frantic merriment. We kept up this impromptu game of puss‐in‐the‐corner
till she was fairly tired out and allowed herself to be taken prisoner and
held in durance vile on my knee, while she panted for breath, and shook
back her hair, that had slipped from its imprisoning pins, and fell in
long, black ripples down her shoulders. Thinking the moment opportune,
“Now, my darling,” I said, “let us have a quiet little talk together. How
are we to make it straight with the dowager? It won’t do to have her
suspect my dear little dove of not being as good and as sweet‐tempered as
I know her to be, and I’m afraid that silly pout at breakfast has put you
in a false light with her.”

Isabel said nothing for a moment, but went on shaking her curls.

“Do you wish me to go and beg her pardon?” she said at last. “I will, if
you like, Clide.”

“My angel! no. I doubt the wisdom of that,” I replied, laughing at the
_naïveté_ of the proposal. “It would be better if we took some more
practical means of pacifying her. Suppose we give in about asking down
these two old friends of mine?”

“Very well. I will do anything you like, Clide,” she answered
indifferently, rolling a curl on her two fingers, and not looking up at
me.

“The admiral is the jolliest old tar in the world,” I continued, “and will
never talk a word of politics or business, or anything you don’t care
about; and as to Sir Simon, my only fear is that you will fall in love
with him, and some fine morning elope after him, or with him if he stays
long enough. He’s the most unmerciful lady‐killer in the three kingdoms.”

“Is he?”

This was said in a sort of absent way, as if she had been only listening
with one ear to what I was saying; all her thoughts were intent on the
curling operation, that was again recommenced and completed for the tenth
time.

“Then shall I tell Mrs. de Winton that we will ask them both for
Wednesday—till Saturday, say? If you like them, it s very easy to renew
the invitation.”

“Of course,” assented Isabel, and began a fresh curl.

“How proud I shall be introducing my wife!” I said, pushing back the heavy
veil of hair that partly hid her face from me.

She shook it down again, not roughly, but there was a touch of impatience
in the movement that surprised me. I thought it best, however, not to seem
to notice it. Suddenly she started from my knee, flew to the piano—I had
ordered a Cottage Pleyel for her private use—and broke out into a gush of
song that made the air literally thrill with melody. Passionate, tender,
angry, and entreating by turns, her voice poured out the florid Italian
music with the full‐throated carol of a thrush. Singing was as natural to
her as speaking. In fact, she appeared to find it an easier medium of
emotion, whether of pain or pleasure, than speech; and when she was
excited, her first impulse was to break out in thrills and cadences just
as a bird might do. Once started, she could go on for ever. I sat a full
hour this morning listening to her running through a _repertoire_ of
varied power and beauty. Schubert, Rossini, Beethoven, Verdi—she was at
home in every school, and her rich soprano voice adapted itself to each as
if that one had been her sole and special study. But while I sat there
drinking in the intense delight, my mind divided between it and the beauty
of her face, some sudden expression of the latter every now and then
startled me. The wonderful mobility of her features reflected every
changing emotion of the music with a responsive fidelity which it is
impossible to describe. I suppose it was the absence of the artistic
instinct in me, combined with a total ignorance of the emotional law of
music, that made this appear to me unnatural, and filled me with a sudden
and painful misgiving as to the genuine truthfulness of Isabel’s nature.
Was it possible to feign so perfectly, and to be at the same time
thoroughly truthful?

But I was cut short in my perplexing reflections by the luncheon‐bell,
that sounded a vigorous carillon at the foot of the stairs leading up to
my wife’s boudoir. She shut the piano quickly, and, passing her arm
through mine, marshalled me down to the dining‐room, humming the “Valse de
Venzano” all the way.

I observed casually during lunch that we had fixed on Wednesday to have
Sir Simon and the admiral down to the Moat. Mrs. de Winton slowly elevated
her eyebrows, but gave no articulate indication of surprise.

I did not look at Isabel while I made this announcement, but when, a
moment after, I stole a glance at her, she was as pale as the table‐cloth.
Instantaneously I grew a shade paler. I felt I did. My heart stood still.
What in the name of wonder was behind this dislike of hers to see these
two men? There was a mystery somewhere. She was afraid of somebody or
something. At any and every cost I must find it out.

To Be Continued.




Religion And State In Our Republic.


The great questions which concern the relation of the state to the church
have already been partially treated of in this magazine. The vast
importance of the subject, however, demands that we should return to it
once more, and will serve as a sufficient excuse if we even repeat many
things which have already been said in previous articles. The relation
which the state ought to have to the church according to sound principles
of philosophy, the relation which it is intended to have according to the
principles of the Constitution of this republic, the relation which it
ought to have according to the principles of the canon law and theology of
the Catholic Church, and the bearing of these various questions severally
toward each other, both in their theoretical and practical import, make up
together a complex topic which is under a perpetual and ardent discussion,
and which is felt by all parties to involve momentous issues. We have no
unwillingness to express fully and unreservedly all our convictions and
opinions upon any of the several parts of this question. It is undoubtedly
much desired by many who are hostile to the Catholic religion or
suspicious of it, on account of its bearing upon the science of politics,
that competent persons should make such full explanations of the real and
genuine principles by which all sound and thoroughly‐instructed Catholics
of the present time in our own country, as well as elsewhere, are and will
be guided. We see no reason why their desire should not be gratified, but,
on the contrary, every motive and reason worthy of having any weight with
a sincere and courageous advocate of the Catholic cause, why the
discussion should be brought as speedily and directly as possible upon the
merits of the case fully exposed.

The leaders of the Catholic body, and, in due measure, the great body
itself, are credited by many persons with certain views and intentions
concerning the institutions, laws, and political destinies of this
republic which necessarily cause them to regard the increase of our
numbers and the extension of our influence in the nation with alarm. Such
persons would like to know what we would really undertake to do with this
republic, if we had the power to do what we pleased. We are willing to let
them know precisely what our opinion about the matter is, and to use our
best endeavors to explain what those principles of the Catholic Church are
which must form the conviction of every one of her devoted and instructed
members upon the right and just method of applying the divine law to the
various conditions in which a state may exist; from that in which the
church is at her lowest point of depression, to that in which she is at
the summit of her influence. In our own case, as citizens of the United
States, the manner in which Catholic principles require us to act, as
voters, judges, legislators, with that degree of influence we now have,
and in which the same principles would require us to act if we were equal
or superior in number and influence to non‐Catholics, if we were in the
majority, or if we were practically the whole people, is a topic upon
which we think it desirable that all should be enlightened, as well those
who are members of the church as those who are aliens from her fold.
Stated in an abstract form, the question is, What is the ideal Christian
state when actualized in its perfection, and what is the difference
between that state and the one which is the best practically in our real
circumstances?

In discussing this theme we must beg the indulgence of our readers if we
begin at a considerable apparent distance from the practical point we
intend to come at eventually. We have to lay down some general principles
about government, and to make some explanations about the American
Constitution, before we can grapple with the main difficulty. In our
opinion, many maxims usually taken for granted by speakers, writers, and
by their blind followers, in treating of political constitutions, and
specially of our own, are sheer assumptions which will not bear
examination. Such are, that in general, the spiritual and temporal orders
are in their nature and ought to be kept separate from each other, and are
really separated in our own political constitution. Those sophistical
maxims have been combated by Dr. Brownson so frequently and victoriously
that we can scarcely hope to produce any new arguments or more lucid
expositions to convince those whom he has not been able to satisfy.
Sometimes, however, a sound from an unexpected quarter startles the
attention which has remained sluggishly insensible to a louder and more
continuous booming to which it has been accustomed for a long time. We
trust, therefore, that the authority of a great foreign writer, who is a
Protestant withal, and one of the most celebrated historians of the age,
will claim some little deference from those who may refuse it to any one
of ourselves. And we accordingly resort to Prof. Leo, of Halle, rather
than to any Catholic author, for an exposition of the general relation of
the state to the church, and of the particular form of that relationship
in the United States.

In the introduction to his great work, _Lehrbuch der Universalgeschichte_,
Leo develops with masterly force of reasoning the fundamental principle
upon which his entire work is constructed, and which is, in truth, the
architectonic law of the history of the human race. The history of mankind
is the evolution in successive and progressive stages of the grand plan of
God to conduct the human race to its prefixed supernatural end of
beatitude in God through the incarnation of the Word. The organization of
the various portions of the human race in distinct nations, with their
laws, political institutions, and governments, is subordinated to this
end, and therefore subordinated to that higher and more universal
organization in which all are included, and which dominates over all—the
church. The nations which have been broken off from the church which God
established from the foundation of the world for all mankind, have been
broken off through sin, revolt against God, defection from the movement of
the human race on the line marked out by the Creator towards its end and
destiny. Yet, even in this defection, they derive all their constitutive
and organic principles and forces from their previous union with the
divine society or church, and are formed by religious ideas which are
merely perverted, corrupted, travestied imitations of the revealed dogmas
which their forefathers had received. All true reform, restoration,
renovation, and improvement must be effected by a return to unity, a
reincorporation into the church, and a reflux of organic life from the
centre into the chilled and deadened members.


    “No religion can unfold itself among men, extend itself, or
    maintain its existence, without social relations existing between
    men themselves. Every religion presupposes a state originating
    together with itself or already previously formed; but it is
    equally true that no state is conceivable without a religion, for
    every state includes a system of moral conceptions, and is itself
    a system and manifestation of moral conceptions; and a system of
    moral conceptions without a religious force underlying it is
    something unthinkable.”


Here we have the statement of the universal principle that the religious
and political orders, the spiritual and the temporal, or, otherwise,
church and state, are, like soul and body, though distinct, inseparable in
living, organized humanity. The author then goes on to prove the truth of
his assertion by the example of our own republic, apparently the most
notable exception to his rule, and an instance sufficient to disprove to
most men of modern habits of thought the universality of the rule as an
organic principle of society.


    “In appearance, some particular religion may leave the state free
    to shift for itself or make itself free from it, and some
    particular state act in the same way toward religion; but this is
    only in appearance, for when, for example, the North American
    state proclaims that the religious confession is a matter of
    indifference in respect to its existence, it proceeds on the
    assumption that there could not be any religious confession,
    except such an one as should _include in itself that which
    constitutes its own proper religious force_. Just suppose that a
    religion like that of the Assassins or Robber sects of the East
    should make its appearance in North America, and you would
    speedily see how the entire body politic would be violently
    agitated by efforts to cast out this foreign religious force, and
    to annihilate it within its own precinct. You would see then at
    once that the North American state, in spite of all its contrary
    assurances, has its own religion, and a state religion at that, as
    the collision of some of the North American states with the
    Mormons has already amply proved. This North American religion of
    state only avoids assuming the name and aspect of a religion or an
    ecclesiastical organization, and manifests itself rather
    altogether in the ethical institutions of the state as they are
    for the time being, and consequently permits a most extraordinary
    variety of religious doctrines and churches to exist alongside of
    the state, yet only under the tacit condition that they all
    acknowledge that which is the religious force of the state as
    their own. If, therefore, the North American state proclaims that
    religion is an indifferent matter, it proceeds from an absurd
    imagination that there cannot be any religion which does not
    include in itself that particular religious force which its own
    moral subsistence has need of. In point of fact, religion and the
    state form _one_ ethical whole, precisely as in individual men the
    soul remains an inseparable whole, although we separately consider
    particular faces of its exterior surface as special
    faculties—understanding, will, etc. Religion and state are one
    single ethical whole, which, although divided into distinct
    members, and apparently separated in these, must always be united
    in one germinating point and a common vital root.”(151)


A singular corroboration of the doctrine of Leo in its application to the
United States is furnished by the following extract from the _New York
Herald_. If it seem to any one singular that we cite the _Herald_ on such
a question, it will cease to appear so when we explain our reason for
doing it. This well‐known paper is remarkable for a certain tact and
sagacity in divining and expressing the instinctive dictates of American
common‐sense upon questions which concern practical, temporal interests.
We cite it, therefore, in this instance, as a proof of the fact that the
public sensibility is stirred by any practical collision of a foreign and
hostile religious force with the latent religious force underlying our own
legislation, just as Leo says it must be. Theories and phrases are
disregarded; and the mouth‐piece of popular opinion strikes at once,
promptly and surely, upon the very head of the nail, and drives it home.
It is very singular to see, in the extract we are about to cite, how the
instinct of self‐interest and self‐preservation evolves by a short process
the same conclusion which the philosopher establishes as the result of
long study and thought. Here is the extract in full, with some passages
marked in italics by our own hand, to which we wish to call special
attention, as containing the nucleus of the whole matter, and agreeing
almost verbally with the language we have quoted from Dr. Leo:


    “Brigham Young And Polygamy—Will The Prophet Take Sensible Advice?

    “Judge Trumbull, United States senator from Illinois, has just had
    a conversation with Brigham Young in Salt Lake City, which, as
    reported, is of more than ordinary significance and importance. It
    seems that as the judge was taking leave of Young, the latter
    remarked that on returning to Congress he (the judge) might hear
    of some persons—obnoxious federal officials—being put out of the
    Territory, and, if done, he might be sure it would be for just and
    good reasons. Judge Trumbull replied by requesting Young, before
    he took any step of that kind, to make known his grievances to
    President Grant, remarking that the President was a just man,
    intending to do justice to all, but that he would not permit a
    violation of law to go unpunished, and adding that it would ‘not
    be safe to molest public officers in the discharge of their
    duties.’ The judge then asked Young if he promised obedience to
    the Constitution and the laws of the Union. The latter replied
    that he would adhere to the Union, but that there was ‘one
    enactment of Congress which the Mormons would not obey,’ namely,
    the one forbidding polygamy.

    “Here, then, is the whole Mormon question in a nutshell—the
    positive declaration on the part of the Mormon leader that federal
    officers, sent to Utah, unless acceptable to himself, should be
    banished the Territory, and that there was at least one law of
    Congress he positively refuses to acknowledge or obey. Now, what
    is the plain duty of the national government in the face of these
    revolutionary averments? It is to see that the enactments of
    Congress are enforced _without respect to persons or religions_,
    and that the representatives of the federal government legally
    appointed for that purpose shall be upheld and protected, if it be
    necessary to employ the whole power of the nation. This Mormon
    matter demands decisive action on the part of the administration.
    President Grant has already declared his purpose of enforcing the
    laws impartially, even the most obnoxious, and there is no good
    reason why the Mormons should be exempted from the operations of
    this policy. The fact is, Brigham Young and his satellites have
    been treated with too much leniency and good‐nature by the United
    States government ever since they settled upon the national
    domain, and whatever they have done for the improvement of the
    wilderness in which they settled they have done for their own
    benefit, and have reaped the rewards of their industry and
    frugality. Among the many other settlements that have sprung up in
    the great West and grown into populous cities and States since the
    Mormon hegira from Nauvoo, where can one be shown to have defied
    the United States government, and to have treated its laws and its
    public officials with the contempt and insolence the Mormons have?
    On the contrary, among the most loyal States in the Union, and
    among those which sent into the field the greatest armies during
    the struggle for our national existence, are States in which the
    earlier pioneers had to undergo as many perils, hardships, and
    privations in organizing their communities, in subduing the
    forests and the savage, and in implanting the seeds of civil and
    religious liberty and constitutional law, as ever the Mormons did
    in erecting their Salt Lake empire, and in establishing in the
    heart of the nation’s public domain _a religious organization the
    corner‐stone of which is a dogma abhorrent to modern civilisation
    and in violation of all the received rules of decent social and
    domestic life and society_. Therefore the claims of these
    impertinent and rebellious Mormon squatters for immunity from the
    operations of the general laws of the country, on account of the
    service they have rendered in improving a barren waste, but more
    properly in making fortunes for themselves out of the Gentiles and
    the government, are idle and ridiculous. Greater hardships and
    more personal sacrifices, we repeat, have been undergone by
    settlers in other tracts of territory, now become great and
    prosperous States, respecting the laws and fighting for the
    national flag, than ever these Mormon adventurers encountered from
    the time when old Joe Smith went into the tablet business, after
    the manner of Moses, and founded the Mormon sect, up to the moment
    of the conversation Brigham Young held with Senator Trumbull, as
    related above. They have no claims for political sympathy, for
    immunity from legal responsibilities, nor for hardly the
    consideration paid to other religious communities; for the odor of
    their sanctity is foul, and _their moral practices are unlike
    those of all modern Christians_. We say, therefore, to Brigham
    Young and his deluded followers, that they had better accept the
    sensible advice of Judge Trumbull, consult with President Grant
    before they proceed to extremities, _accept the laws of Congress
    in regard to polygamy, as well as in regard to everything else
    they are required to, and either haul in their rebellious horns or
    prepare to pack up their baggage for a tramp to some distant
    country outside the boundaries of the United States_. _You must
    obey the law, Prophet Brigham, or you must march. Uncle Sam has
    stood your nonsense long enough. He will tolerate it no longer._”


What is it which is thus asserted by a paper always considered as
advocating the most extreme modern notions respecting religious liberty?
It is that there is something in our civilization, our received rules of
morality, our lawful principles and acts of administration, intolerant of
certain religious dogmas and tending to exclude them. This latent
something is what Leo calls our state religion, the religious basis of our
institutions and laws, of our whole political and social fabric.

The first point we wish to come at, in our evolution of the whole question
under discussion, is, what is this religious basis or fundamental
religious law, essentially and precisely? According to Leo and excellent
authors of our own, it is the moral law, so far as that law governs
political and social relations. Whatever is _contra bonos mores_ is
prohibited and excluded by it, and nothing more. But this is too general.
We are obliged to ask what moral law, what standard or criterion of good
or bad morals, is tacitly understood? To this we reply that, in our
opinion, it is the Christian law, as embodied in the common and statute
laws under which we have been living since the origin of our nation. If we
ask, further, what fixes and determines this Christian law—that is, what
criterion determines that which is really prescribed or forbidden by this
law—we can assign nothing more definite and precise than the common and
general conscience of the sovereign people, as this exercises its
controlling power through legislative and judicial enactments and
decisions. It is therefore not an unchangeable quantity, but variable and
varying in the different laws of the distinct States, and in the different
laws of separate epochs which are the result of the change for better or
worse which takes place in the moral sense of the community. We cannot
enumerate a definite number of moral canons forming our state religion in
every part of the country during every period of its history. But we can,
at any one time, designate a certain number of things required, permitted,
or forbidden by our state code of morals, without respect to the doctrines
of any particular religious body. Whatever religious doctrine professed by
any set of men contradicts any part of this code, although it may be
maintained and advocated theoretically with impunity so long as this can
be allowed without immediate danger of inciting to an open violation of
the laws, cannot be reduced to practice without bringing the offending
parties within the coercive jurisdiction of the courts of justice. A
Mahometan or a Mormon will be allowed to advocate in speech or writing the
claims of Mahomet or Joe Smith as the great prophet of God, and to defend
polygamy as a divine institution; but if he attempts to keep a harem, the
law will condemn the act, and will punish it, at least to a certain
extent, by inflicting legal disabilities on every one of his wives and
children who is not regarded as legitimate by the statutes of the State
where he lives. Any enthusiast may give himself out as an inspired
prophet; but if he is directed by his fancied revelations to kill some
one, to set up a kingdom for himself, or to undertake anything else
against the laws, the laws will avenge themselves without regard to his
liberty of conscience or his interior conviction that he is executing the
commands of God. A very piquant and characteristic expression of this
principle was once given by General Jackson. After the capture of the
Indian chief Black Hawk and his adviser, the Prophet, an interview took
place between the warlike president and these dusky potentates of the
forest. The president demanded of the chief an account of the reasons and
motives which had led him to make war on the United States. The
crestfallen warrior laid all the blame on the Prophet, who was in turn
subjected to the stern glance and imperious demand of the formidable old
general. Quailing and abject beneath the superior moral force of the great
white chief, the trembling Prophet excused himself by saying that he had
been deceived by what he thought was the voice of the Great Spirit, but
which was only the whispering of his own mind. Upon this the old general,
gathering up all the dignity and force of his character into his brow and
attitude, and raising his voice to a tone of thunder, turned upon the poor
Prophet, and anathematized him with this terrible dogmatic decree: “If you
ever again mistake the hallucinations of your disordered imagination for
the inspirations of the Divine Spirit, by the Eternal! I will send you
where it will be for ever impossible for you to repeat the mistake!” Our
chief magistrate spoke according to the written and unwritten law of our
constitutions and our traditions. There is a certain point beyond which
the practical carrying out of opinions or beliefs, whatever claim they may
make to be derived from a superhuman source, will be resisted by the
entire coercive and penal force of the law. There are and must be certain
inherent principles in our laws, whether these are vague or definite,
variable or fixed, which determine this point of physical resistance to
liberty of conscience or liberty of religion. These constitute our state
religion, which claims for itself a legal infallibility, as exacting and
unyielding as that of the Holy See, so far as outward submission and
obedience are concerned.

We come now at our immediate question, namely, the attitude of the
Catholic religion towards this state religion; and if we are able to
designate and define this accurately, we are able by logical consequence
to conclude precisely what degree of agreement or opposition is contained
in the essence of Catholic and of American principles respectively to each
other. We intend to meet this question fairly and squarely, without trying
to twist either the one or the other set of principles, or to invent a
medium of compromise between them. We take the Catholic principles as they
are authoritatively promulgated by the supreme authority in the church,
the Roman Pontiff, particularly as contained in the encyclical _Quanta
Cura_, with its appended Syllabus, and as they are taught and explained by
the most approved authors in canon law. These definitions and expositions
alone have authority in the church, and these alone have any weight or
significance in the minds of thinking men who are not members of the
church, but are more or less positively hostile to her extension in our
country. Private versions or modifications of Catholicity count for
nothing, for they are merely the theories of individuals, and will have no
influence over the real development of the church, in so far as they
disagree by excess or defect with her authoritative teaching. For
ourselves, we are purely and simply Catholic, and profess an unreserved
allegiance to the church which takes precedence of, and gives the rule to,
our allegiance to the state. If allegiance to the church demanded of us
opposition to political principles adopted by our civil government, or
disobedience to any laws which were impious and immoral, we should not
hesitate to obey the church and God. We should either keep silence and
avoid all discussion of the subject, or else speak out frankly in
condemnation of our laws and institutions, if we believed them to be anti‐
Christian or, which is the same thing, anti‐Catholic in their principles.

We do not try and judge Catholic principles and laws by the criterion of
the American idea, as it is called, nor do we justify and vindicate these
principles on the ground that they are in harmony with, or reconcilable
to, the maxims and ideas upon which our political fabric is based. We aim
at making an exposition of the case as it really is; and if we take a view
of it favorable to our American political order, it is for the sake of
justifying that order, and proving both to our own adherents and to our
opponents that our duty to God does not require us to make war on it, so
that all the arguments and motives for creating a conflict on the
political arena may fall to the ground, and the battle‐field be restricted
to the fair, open ground of theological polemics.

What is it, then, which furnishes to a certain set of violent enemies of
the Catholic Church in this country a pretext for making the issue between
Catholic and Protestant principles a political one, and inclines a great
number of the mass of the people to believe or suspect that this pretext
is valid? The newspapers, publications, and speeches which have been
giving utterance to the sentiments of those who dread and oppose the
spread of our religion, ever since it began to show signs of vitality and
growth in this country, furnish the answer. The pretext is that all
Catholics who thoroughly understand and are loyal to the principles of
their religion wish to change or overthrow the republic, and substitute
for it a political order fundamentally different; and that, if they ever
become strong enough, they will do what they can to carry out their
design. Is there any truth in this pretext? We will express our own
convictions on the matter as fully and clearly as possible, and leave them
to exert what influence they may upon those really sincere and intelligent
persons who may honor us with their attention.

In the first place, as to the republican form and constitution of our
government. There is no doubt a difference of opinion among our clergy and
intelligent laymen in regard to the abstract question what form of
government is the most excellent and perfect. In regard to this subject,
it is a part of our American liberty that we should be free to form and
express our own opinions, and there is undoubtedly a diversity of opinions
regarding it among non‐Catholics, as well as among ourselves. It is
certain that many of our bishops, clergy, and educated laymen have a very
decided preference for the republican form of government, where it can be
established under conditions favorable to order, stability, and success.
And as to the mass of our people, they have suffered so much from tyranny
and oppression that they are inclined to go to the extreme left rather
than the extreme right in all questions of political authority and
liberty. If we look at the question closely, we shall see that the
difference of opinion which may exist in regard to the form of government
among those who hold to the divine institution of the state, and the
divine sanction to political authority and law, is really not concerning
essentials. S. Thomas teaches that the best form of government is one
which combines the monarchical, aristocratic, and democratic elements in
just proportions. Bellarmine maintains that absolute monarchy is ideally
the most perfect form of government, but that, considering the actual
state of men, the mixed form is the best in practice. It is our opinion
that very few men among the leading classes in the Catholic Church could
be found, either in this country or in Europe, who would not agree with
the second member of Cardinal Bellarmine’s proposition. This is quite
enough for the justification of the governmental order established by our
constitutions and laws in our United States. We have the monarchical
principle in our president, and governors, and the mayors of cities. We
have the aristocratic in the legislators, judges, and magistrates. The
existence of the democratic element need not be proved. The difference
between our monarchy and aristocracy and those which are hereditary is
only that ours is elective, and the difference between them and certain
others which are elective is that our election is only for a certain term
and by a popular vote. The Pope is an elective monarch. The governing
aristocracy of Belgium is elective. The essential principle of the mixed
government is simply a stable and legitimate order, under which the
monarchy, aristocracy and democracy are created and sustained in the
regular exercise of certain functions of government. Catholics are
therefore bound by their own principles to recognize the political order
in the country as lawful, and to give it their allegiance. Moreover,
without any question, apart from singular and individual opinions which
Catholics as well as Protestants may entertain, the Catholics of this
country are agreed in the conviction that the republican institutions of
the United States are the best and the only possible ones for our own
country. They have no desire to subvert them, and there has never been any
conspiracy against them, except in the malicious or deluded brains of
fanatical anti‐Catholic writers and speakers and of the crowd which they
have duped. Genuine Catholics will never conspire against our government
and laws, but will always be true and loyal American citizens. If the
majority of the people or the whole people were to become Catholics, they
would not use their power to subvert our American institutions, or
substitute for them those of any European nation. On the contrary, nothing
could happen which would secure the perpetuity of the republic and promote
its political prosperity and glory with anything like the influence which
the Catholic religion would exercise in producing such desirable results.
The dangers we have to apprehend come from the sectarian divisions which
waste and neutralize the religious sentiment and force of the country,
from infidelity and radicalism, from vice and immorality, from secret
societies, from public and private corruption and profligacy, from
swindling and maladministration in high quarters, from principles akin to
those of the conspirators of Europe, from detestable books like _Lothair_,
atheistical magazines and unprincipled newspapers—evils for which the
Catholic Church alone can furnish a remedy.

Another part of the subject is worthy of much more serious consideration,
and requires far more elucidation in order to be presented in its true
light. This relates, not to the outward form of the government, but to its
inward spirit; to the scope and quality of the legislation, and not to the
manner of designating the legislators or judges. All forms of government
are lawful before the church, whether absolute monarchies or republics. It
is evident that a republic may be governed in perfect accordance with
Catholic principles, and that an empire may be governed in complete
discordance with the same. A sensible man would not, therefore, be likely
to consider the form of our government as the object which demands his
particular solicitude in view of the progress of the Catholic religion. He
would consider, rather, that the gist of the matter lay in the relation of
Catholic principles to that which we have called, after Leo, the state
religion. If we are correct in our preliminary statements, the Catholic
religion always tends to infuse itself into the state in which it exists,
and succeeds as soon as it has become the governing moral force which
constitutes the soul of the body politic. Now, what is the relation of the
Catholic religion to the actual state religion in our country, and, when
they come strongly in contact, what degree of struggle will ensue between
them, and what amount of change would be produced by the predominance of
the Catholic force?

In the first place, let us consider the case in reference to those things
which the Catholic conscience positively enjoins or positively prohibits.
In every case of this kind a Catholic must obey his conscience; and if he
is subject to a civil law which requires him to violate it, he must die
rather than submit. Formerly we have had to make this passive resistance
to laws existing in the American colonies; and in some cases—as, for
instance, in regard to certain oppressive laws passed in the State of
Missouri, it has been necessary to resist some state laws. On the whole,
however, we may say that our laws do not put the Catholic citizen into the
alternative of incurring a penalty from either the human or the divine
law. This part of the case can be therefore dismissed as not practical.

In the second place, we have to consider those things which are the rights
and privileges of the Catholic conscience, but which do not concern its
indispensable obligations. In regard to these things, a Catholic must obey
the law, and he must refrain from all violent and seditious conduct. He
must submit to the abridgment of his rights and liberties so long as he
cannot obtain their free possession and use by lawful means. But, under
our free institutions, it is the right of the Catholic citizen, by
argument, influence, and voting, to secure as much as possible of his just
religious liberty without prejudice to the natural or civil rights of
others. Therefore, as a matter of course, whenever Catholics obtain
sufficient power to command a majority of votes, they will, if they act on
Catholic principles, demand and obtain all their rights and full equality
before the law with other citizens. For instance, in regard to schools,
prisons, hospitals, ships of war, fortresses, etc., they will secure the
complete right of Catholics in these places to practise their religion and
to be free from the interference of non‐Catholic religious teachers
appointed by the state.

But what would be the action of Catholics, if they should ever become the
majority, in regard to requiring or prohibiting by law those things in
which the Catholic conscience differs from the Protestant and non‐Catholic
standard of right and wrong? It is always necessary in such a case for all
parties to exercise the greatest forbearance, moderation, and fairness
toward one another, in order that these questions should have a peaceable
solution. Therefore those violent and fanatical or selfish demagogues,
both clerical and lay, who seek to exasperate the non‐Catholic citizens of
this country against their Catholic fellow‐citizens, are the most
dangerous enemies of the public peace. We appeal to all candid, impartial,
intelligent American citizens to say who are they who seek to fan the
embers of strife into a flame; are they Catholic leaders, or are they the
chiefs and orators of a violent, sectarian, anti‐Catholic party? Our
Catholic citizens, if fairly treated, will always respect the rights of
their fellow‐citizens. They will never take part in despoiling churches,
societies, colleges, or other institutions of their property or chartered
privileges, as radicals and infidels most assuredly will, so far as they
have any power. Catholics will not do anything of this sort, even in case
they should in certain States become an overwhelming majority. They will
never seek to tyrannize over their fellow‐citizens, to establish their
religion by force, or to compel any one to do those things which are
required only by the Catholic conscience. The difficulty lies chiefly in
respect to those laws which forbid certain things as contrary to the
divine law. The civil code consists chiefly of laws prohibiting crimes
against the moral law, and annexing penalties to the commission of them.
The law must therefore have some ethical standard of right and wrong, and
must be based on some interpretation of the divine law, or, in a Christian
state, of the Christian law. Now, if the interpretation of the Christian
law of morals held by one large portion of the community differs from that
of another large portion, what is to be done? This is the precise question
which we are seeking to answer in reference to the Catholic and non‐
Catholic portions of the community in any State where the former should be
in the preponderance. The case of divorce and marriage is one precisely in
point, and the most important and practical of all others which could be
mentioned. Let us suppose, then, that the reformation of the marriage code
were to come up before a legislature in which the majority were Catholics,
under the leadership of sound jurists who were also strictly conscientious
in fulfilling their duty of obedience to the church. Would they make the
canon law also civil law _in globo_, without regard to the opinions or
wishes of the minority? We think not. In our view of the case, the right
and the wise thing to do would be to bring the law back to the condition
in which it was during the earlier and better period of our existence as a
people, in so far as the assent of the whole people could be secured with
a moral unanimity. As for the rest, it would be altogether in accordance
with Catholic precedents and Catholic principles not to legislate at all,
but to leave the church and the other religious bodies to exert their
moral influence over their own members.(152)

If we suppose the entire people of the United States to become a Catholic
people, we must suppose, as a matter of course, that the entire law of the
Catholic Church, in so far as it is an ethical code, becomes _per se_ the
sovereign law of the collective people. This follows by a rigorous
deduction from the principles we have laid down respecting the religion of
the state. The religion of the state, as we have seen, is its body of
ethical principles. This body of principles came by tradition from the
Christian teaching which created European civilization. It is, in a vague
and general sense, the Christian law. It is good so far as it goes, and in
harmony with Catholic principles. But it is imperfect and liable to
change, for the want of a competent tribunal to pronounce upon its true,
genuine sense in disputed cases. This is seen in the instance of marriage,
there being in courts and legislatures no right or power to decide from
the New Testament or any other source what the divine or Christian law
really prescribes. Let the collective conscience of the country become
Catholic, and it at once, without changing the fundamental principle of
our organic law, obtains an infallible and supreme interpretation of that
law which raises it to the standard of ideal perfection. It becomes a
perfect Christian republic, passing under the control of a higher law in
all that is comprised within the sphere of ethical obligation, but
retaining political, civil, and individual liberty in all other respects,
guarded by more powerful sanctions than it ever before possessed.

Do our fellow‐citizens who are not Catholics think it possible that this
will ever take place? We suppose not. Nor have Catholics any certain
grounds for expecting it, whatever they may hope from the power and grace
of Almighty God. There is no reason, therefore, for making a controversy
about what the Catholic Church would do in the United States if the whole
people were her docile children. The question of real importance relates
to the action which Catholics ought to take, and probably will take, as
one factor of greater or less power in the political community. Our aim in
discussing topics of this kind is, first, to animate Catholics to a manly
and honorable determination to secure their own equal rights, and to obey
strictly their conscience in all their political and civil relations. It
is, in the next place, to persuade our fellow‐citizens that conscience and
obedience to the teaching of the Catholic Church do not require or permit
Catholics to make an aggressive party, to disturb the peace of the
commonwealth, to subvert our laws or liberties, or to invade the rights of
our fellow‐citizens, and seek the opportunity of establishing the
supremacy of the Catholic religion by violent and forcible means. We have
no expectation of convincing, conciliating, or silencing the greater
portion of our active opponents. We have not the slightest hope of seeing
them desist from their utterly unfair and fallacious method of conducting
the controversy between us. Their only chance of success lies in
sophistry, artifice, appeals to prejudice, ignorance, and passion, and the
evasion of all serious argument. We have, however, great hopes of gaining
more and more the hearing, the attention, and the confidence of that vast
body of thinking and reading Americans who, if not convinced of the divine
origin of the Catholic religion, are certainly devoid of all respect for
every form of fanatical sectarianism. They know well that these violent
parties, however loud in the assertion of liberal sentiments, are
invariably tyrannical when they have power; and we hope to convince them
that the Catholic Church, while condemning a false liberalism, is ever the
guardian angel of true right and liberty.

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

All the foregoing portion of this article was written four years ago, and
has been waiting until the present moment for a suitable occasion of
publication. The controversy aroused by Mr. Gladstone’s pamphlet in
November of the last year has furnished a better occasion than we could
have hoped for, and we have therefore offered this contribution to the
discussion now going on. The statements we have made in regard to the
essential relation between religion and the state with reference to our
own republic are equally applicable to the European nations. They cover
the whole ground of allegiance due from Catholics to an infallible
authority, in respect to the domain of political ethics. This infallible
authority is the proximate rule of faith in regard to what must be done or
omitted in order to obey the law of God. It is the higher law, the
objective rule, directing the subjective conscience, or practical judgment
respecting right or wrong, in the individual. It is of course, supreme;
for it is an unerring promulgation of the divine law. The definition of
the infallibility of the Pope has not made the slightest practical change
in respect to his authority of defining and proclaiming this infallible
Catholic rule of conscience. All Catholics, bishops included, even when
assembled in general council, were always required to assent to and obey
his judgments in matters of faith and morals, as final and without right
of appeal. The assent of the church could never be wanting, since it was
obligatory on every bishop, priest, and layman to give it at once, under
pain of excommunication. If some were illogical enough to maintain that
the infallibility of his judgments depended on this assent, the erroneous
opinion which they held did not subject them to excommunication as formal
heretics before the solemn definition of the Vatican Council had condemned
and anathematized their error as a heresy. Yet the Roman Pontiff always
exercised his infallible prerogative without hesitation, and was always
obeyed, except by heretics and rebels. In respect to the promulgation of
the divine law to the consciences of all men, the Pope has always been, by
divine right, just what he now is—the supreme teacher and judge of the
whole earth, as the Vicar of Christ. His power is spiritual, and its
executive is the conscience of each individual. Infallibility is obeyed
only by interior assent, which is a free act of volition not subject to
any coercive force. It is utterly silly, therefore, to say that this
submission is a surrender of freedom, or that obedience to a rule of
conscience subsisting in an infallible tribunal interferes with allegiance
to civil authority one whit more than obedience to any kind of rule
whatever. In fact, what Prince Bismarck denounces and wishes to crush is
the resistance of _subjective_ conscience to the absolute mandates of the
state, for which we have his own plain and express words. His doctrine is
the very quintessence of the basest and most degrading slavishness—the
slavishness of intelligence and conscience crouching abjectly before pure
physical force—_la force prime le droit_.

Legislative and governing authority in the church is something quite
distinct from infallibility. It proceeds from the power delegated by Jesus
Christ to his Vicar to exercise spiritual jurisdiction over all bishops
and all the members of their flocks, and in general over all the faithful.
No direct temporal jurisdiction is joined with it by divine right. The
direct temporal jurisdiction of the Pope in his kingdom is from human
right, and his ancient jurisdiction as suzerain over sovereign princes was
also a mere human right. The indirect jurisdiction which springs from the
divine right is only an application of spiritual jurisdiction, varying in
its exercise as the civil laws are more or less conformed to the divine
law, and depending on the concurrence of the civil power. Suppose, for
instance, that a bishop revolts against the Holy See. The Pope judges and
deposes him. This act deprives him of spiritual rights and privileges. If
he is to be violently expelled from his cathedral, his palace, and the
possession of his revenues, the civil magistrate must do this in virtue of
a civil law. If he were one of the prince‐bishops of a former age, and
were deprived of his principality, the civil law would deprive him. If he
married, and incurred temporal penalties thereby, it would be through the
civil law. The judgment which pronounces him guilty, deposed,
excommunicated, invalidly married, and therefore liable to all the
temporal penalties incurred under the civil code, is an act of spiritual
jurisdiction. The temporal effect of this judgment is indirect, varies
with the variation in civil jurisprudence, and depends on an executive
clothed with a direct temporal and civil authority.

Nothing is more certain than that the church has always recognized the
immediate derivation of the civil power in the state from God, its
distinction from the spiritual power, and its sovereign independence in
its own sphere of any direct temporal jurisdiction of the Pope. The
statements made above show how the immutable rights of the Pope as
Christ’s Vicar in respect to indirect jurisdiction in temporal matters
have a variable application in practice, according to the variation of
times, laws, and circumstances. It is futile, therefore, to attribute to
the Holy See or to Catholics in general, on account of the doctrine of
Papal infallibility and supremacy, the intention of striving after a
restoration of all that actual exercise of ecclesiastical power in
political affairs which was formerly wielded by popes and bishops. Much
more futile is it to suppose that a claim to revive ancient political
rights derived purely from human laws and voluntary concessions is always
kept in abeyance, and to be ever dreaded and guarded against by states.

Catholics ought to beware, nevertheless, of regarding the ancient
constitution of Western Christendom under the headship of the Pope as
something needing an apology, or as a state less perfect than the one
which has supplanted it. We do not share in or sympathize with this view
or with the political doctrines of those who hold it, however estimable
they may be, in the slightest degree. Although convinced that the mediæval
system has passed away for ever, and that the present and coming age needs
a régime suited to its real condition, and not to one which is ideal only,
we glory in the past which partly realized that Christian ideal.

France was _par excellence_ the Christian nation, as even Duruy, advocate
though he be of the principles of ’89, proclaims with a Frenchman’s just
pride in the _Gesta Dei per Francos_. Her golden age was the period
between Louis le Gros and Philippe le Bel. Her decadence and disasters
began with the contest of the latter sovereign and the infamous Nogaret,
precursor of the Cavours and Bismarcks, against Boniface VIII. Crecy,
Poitiers, and Agincourt, the dismemberment of France, the conquests of
Edward III. and Henry V., the apparition of Etienne Marcel, the father of
Parisian revolutionists and communists, were in logical sequence from
Philippe’s rebellion, and the logical antecedents of the modern French
Revolution and the disasters of 1870. In that olden time France was
rescued only by the miraculous mission of Joan of Arc, a kind of living
personification of the Catholic Church, in her three characters as virgin,
warrior, and victim. So, at a later period, S. Pius V., that pontiff whom
Lord Acton has so vilely calumniated, saved Europe from the Turkish
invasion to which the recreant sovereigns had exposed it by basely
abandoning the Crusades to despoil each other. It needs but small
knowledge of history to see through the sophisms of second‐class writers
like Buckle and Draper, who seek to despoil the Catholic Church of her
glory as the sole author and preserver of civilization in Western
Christendom. The history of Europe from the fall of the Roman Empire to
this moment is only the record of an effort of the popes to lead the
nations in the path of true glory and happiness, and of the ever‐recurring
struggle of the civil power, of sophists, and of revolutionists to drag
them aside into the path of degradation and misery, for their own base and
selfish purposes. Faithless priests, unworthy heirs of noble names, men
who have perverted the highest gifts of nature and grace, have, during
this long, eventful course of time, been mixed up with the arrogant
tyrants, cunning politicians, bold blasphemers, shameless sensualists, and
their common herd of followers, in the war against the vicegerent of God
and the spouse of Christ. What is now, has been in the time past, and will
be until the curtain drops after the finished drama. There are similar
actors on both sides now, and a similar struggle, to those recorded in the
history of the past. We may expect a similar result. La Pucelle was
falsely accused, unjustly condemned, suffered death by fire, and
triumphed. The Catholic religion is La Pucelle. Abandoned, falsely
accused, doomed to the flames, by an ungrateful world, recreant or
cowardly adherents, and open enemies, it will be hailed in the age to come
by all mankind as the saviour of the world.




Release.


I sometimes wish that hour were come
  When, lying patient on my bed,
My soul should view her future home
  With eager, trembling wings outspread
And earnest faith; that age and pain
  Should pass at death’s divine behest,
As the freed captive leaves his chain
  When he has ceased to be the guest
Of prisons—on the dungeon floor
A burden dropped for evermore.

Eternal joy, eternal youth,
  Await beyond that portal gray—
Which all must pass that hope for truth—
  The lonely spirit freed from clay;
But suffering only bids us yearn
  For that mysterious, strange release
Which through the grave, the funeral urn,
  Brings such infinitude of peace.
Oh! in that dread, ecstatic hour
Uphold me, Saviour, with thy power.




The Veil Withdrawn.


Translated, By Permission, From The French Of Mme. Craven, Author Of “A
Sister’s Story,” “Fleurange,” Etc.



XXXIV.


I pretended to be very much surprised the next morning when Lando informed
me Gilbert was obliged to take his departure the following day in order to
join an English friend of his who was to accompany him to Egypt and had
sent a despatch he should be at Malta by the end of the week.

I recollect nothing more concerning that morning except my depression,
which only increased as the day advanced. Towards night this sadness
assumed a new character, and became still deeper in consequence of a
letter from Lorenzo, announcing his return the following day.

He had left Milan, and was now at Bologna. He was really there this time,
and not pretending to be, as when he went to Sorrento to see Donna
Faustina! Oh! what bitter thoughts, what feelings of indignation, were
awakened by the perusal of this letter, at once devoid of affection and
sincerity! He doubtless supposed a scandal published in so many
newspapers, though only the initials of the persons concerned were given,
had come to my knowledge, but he was in that sort of humor in which the
wrongs one has to endure produce an irritation against those who have the
most to suffer in consequence. It was evident he felt some regret for the
past, but there was not a symptom of repentance; and though he did not say
so directly, his letter seemed intended to warn me, as he had once done,
with regard to questions, advice, and promises, that he was not disposed
to endure the slightest reproach. Not a word that appealed to my
generosity, not one that could touch my heart! I could see nothing to
cheer and console me in that direction. All was dark and cold. Such was my
conviction on reading this letter. But I did not appear the less cheerful
when evening came to remind me that my interior struggle would be over in
a few hours, and the next day I should feel at liberty to yield without
restraint to thoughts I should no longer be afraid to betray.

The large drawing‐room on the ground floor which opened into the small
garden after the fashion of Pompeii, with its pillared portico, had been
arranged for the occasion by Lando, who had constructed a platform,
ornamented with lights and flowers, where the concert he had improvised
was to take place, varied by speeches.

Gilbert was to explain its object at the commencement, and at the end,
Angiolina, for whom Lando had begged this exceptionally long evening, was
to go around with a basket to collect the money intended for the poor
people whose lives had been saved by her mother.

Lando excelled in such arrangements, and, to tell the truth, he had left
nothing here to be desired. I must also add that all of our little
coterie, except Gilbert, Stella, and myself, eagerly participated in the
work.

My aunt, in particular, looked with a favorable eye on this mixture of
charity and amusement, which at once satisfied her kind heart and
gratified her dominant passion. It seemed to her a more delightful
invention had never been brought from beyond the Alps. Besides, she had
that very day made a discovery which put an end to her maternal indecision
with regard to her daughter’s fate. This indecision, in consequence of
Lando’s intentions, which became more and more evident, was caused neither
by the frivolity for which he might have been reproached, nor by the
extravagance with which he had squandered his modest patrimony, nor by any
other motive dictated by prudence, but solely by a difficulty which
vanished in the twinkling of an eye as soon as my aunt discovered a fact
she was before ignorant of, to wit, that Lando Landini, like a great many
younger sons of good family in Italy, had a right to assume, on marrying,
a title he had not heretofore borne. Oh! from that instant nothing more
was wanting. She had always found Don Landolfo nearly faultless, but now
he could offer her daughter the charming title of the Countess _del
Fiore_, he was perfection itself. After such a revelation, her consent was
not deferred for an instant. Lando, in the midst of the preparations he
was making, had taken time to come in haste to communicate the news. This
explained the air of triumph, as well as joy, with which my aunt made her
appearance in the evening, and the unusual brilliancy of Teresina’s black
eyes, greatly set off by the white dress and coral ornaments she wore. Her
sister had also something in her manner that evening that differed a
little from the unmeaning placidity which usually characterized her. She
was not as pretty as Teresina, but she had a more agreeable expression,
and a better right to the epithet of _simpatica_ which was sometimes given
her. Their faces were both flushed with the excitement produced in advance
by the pleasure of singing in company when it could be done without fear
and without any doubt of success. And my cousins had voices of superior
quality, such as are often met with in Italy, and harmonized wonderfully
together. They were, moreover, very good musicians, and though their style
was not perfect, every one listened to them with pleasure, more especially
the young amateur of music who had been appointed to accompany them that
evening. For some time, the Baron von Brunnenberg had regarded Mariuccia
in a most sentimental manner; but hitherto the handsome young Englishman,
Harry Leslie, seemed to please her more than the baron, and consequently
she had always treated the latter with more or less coldness. It was
evident, however, that Leslie, since the evening on Mt. Vesuvius, had not
a thought or look, or scarcely a word, for any body but Stella. I often
wondered if this had any effect on her, as I observed her occasionally
pensive air so unlike her usual self. However the case might be, Mariuccia
had drawn therefrom a practical conclusion for her own personal benefit:
Leslie did not care for her; she must therefore resign herself and turn to
some one else. This resignation led her to favor the baron with such
smiles as he had never obtained before, so that he also was radiant, and
the group around the piano presented an appearance of the utmost
satisfaction. I felt a sensation of surprise as I looked at their smiling
faces and heard their merry voices. I seemed to be separated from them by
an impassable grate that permitted me to see and hear them, but absolutely
prevented me from approaching to participate in their liveliness and joy.
“Happiness ... gaiety ... hope ... all these are at an end for me!” said I
to myself. Nevertheless, I fulfilled all it was incumbent on me to do, and
succeeded in appearing nearly the same as usual.

At length, all the company arrived, and when they had taken their places
and every eye was turned towards the platform, I took Angiolina, and,
going to the embrasure of a window, I sat down where I was half concealed,
and took the child on my knee. The company of this angelic little creature
was not only always delightful and soothing, but she had a singularly
precocious instinct of the beautiful which excited my wonder and made me
keep my eyes on her while she was listening to music, and even to poetry
whose rhythm delighted her ear even when the words were beyond her
comprehension, especially when it was her mother who was repeating it. At
such times nothing was more touching than to behold the animated
expression of her sparkling blue eyes and the tremulous movement of her
childish mouth!... I now clasped her in my arms, and it seemed as if the
agitation of my heart subsided as I embraced her!

The baron first played, by way of overture, a piece of Mendelssohn’s which
disposed the audience to be attentive: then, after a moment’s silence,
Gilbert made his appearance. He was extremely pale, and seemed to be
making a great effort to rise above some great moral or physical
suffering. This was so evident that he might have claimed the indulgence
of the audience and excused himself on the plea of a real or pretended
indisposition. But presently his voice grew stronger, the orator was
roused, and his manner, usually so unpretending, became what it always was
when he spoke in public—imposing, brilliant, and impressive. What he said
at first I cannot tell. Too many recollections crowded on my mind at once
as he made his appearance, reminding me of the day when I first heard him
at the Hôtel de Kergy. I remembered what I was then, what my feelings,
what my hopes were. I thought of all the changes that had since taken
place, and what a singular coincidence it was that he should appear before
me on the day of our separation in the same way as when we met for the
first time! My attention was soon drawn to the words of the speaker by the
murmur of approbation, that soon increased to enthusiastic applause, with
which they were received. To speak of Vesuvius at Naples, and to
Neapolitans, in a way to excite their interest, requires a _tour de
force_, and this feat he was able to accomplish. With the ready
appreciation of ability which characterized his audience, the difficulty
he had to surmount was felt, and lively spontaneous applause interrupted
him at every instant, as he mingled poetry, art, and history with an
originality and grace that did not permit the least appearance of pedantry
to diminish the charm of his profound, unstudied erudition. But when he
finally came to the account he was appointed to give of our recent
excursion, and began by describing the spot where we had witnessed the
eruption together, I could not repress a thrill of emotion. I fancied, his
eyes had detected me in the corner where I was concealed, and when he
added _that he felt in the presence of that spectacle a profound emotion
the remembrance of which could never be effaced, however long the duration
of his life_! I leaned my forehead against Angiolina’s fair head as if
everybody could understand the double meaning of his words, and for some
minutes I heard nothing but the rapid beating of my heart....

All at once the child looked eagerly up, and touching my cheek with her
little hand to attract my attention, she said in a joyful tone:

“Listen, listen to what he is saying about mamma!”

Then everything else was forgotten for an instant but the pleasure of
hearing Stella’s courageous deed related in the noble, incomparable
language peculiar to Gilbert. There was a burst of applause on all sides,
and I was about to add mine when my attention was suddenly attracted and
concentrated in an unexpected direction, as if dazzled by one of those
repeated flashes of lightning that set the heavens aflame, and which is
distinguished from the others by a more terrible brilliancy.

It had occurred to Lando to ornament the platform with shrubs and flowers,
in order to conceal from the spectators those who were to take part in the
performance till it was their turn to appear. Stella was in this way
concealed from everybody but me. From the place to which I had betaken
myself I could see her distinctly, and follow every movement she made,
without her being aware of it. I was soon surprised and struck with the
effect of the address she was listening to. It was not merely attention;
it was not interest; it was a breathless emotion which contracted her
features, and to such a degree that I thought she was going to faint. I
had already risen to go to her assistance, when I was struck with a sudden
idea which nailed me to the spot—an idea that no sooner crossed my mind
than it became a certainty, and caused me such terrible anguish that I was
frightened. I looked at her steadily, trying to imagine and read her
thoughts, and while penetrating to the depths of her heart, I felt mine
sink within me. Alas! Why should the discovery I thought I had made thus
cause me to tremble and shudder? Why did it seem as if I had been struck
by an arrow that pierced me to the heart?

I endeavored to overcome the repugnance I was so weak as to feel in my
soul. Yes, I tried to regard Stella in the new light that had just dawned
on me, and to consider him in this same light—him!... I tried to say to
myself without shrinking that before me was the very one of whom I had
spoken the evening before; who was at once beautiful, good, noble‐hearted,
and worthy of him—and one whom he could love without fear, without
scruple, without remorse. I tried to do all this, and like every effort to
rise above self, this did me good, perhaps, and rendered me stronger; but
I did not gain the victory.

As soon as Gilbert finished speaking, I watched him, in spite of myself,
while Stella’s name was mingled with his in the enthusiastic acclamations
of the audience, and—shall I avow it?—I noticed with pleasure that he left
the platform without the least thought of approaching her. He slipped away
as quickly as he could through a little door that opened on the portico,
and from the shadowy recess where I was sitting, I could see him in the
moonlight leaning against a pillar in the attitude of one who is reposing
after some great effort or long constraint.

I was for some time incapable of giving the least attention to what was
going on around me. I vaguely listened to _A te sacrai Regina_, to which
Mariuccia’s fine contralto voice gave wonderful expression; and after this
duet from _Semiramis_, various other pieces were played by the baron. One
of these gave me a thrill, and brought me back to a sense not only of the
present but of the past. It was the air of Chopin’s which Diana de Kergy
played at Paris on that other farewell occasion! Everything to‐night
seemed combined to overwhelm me with recollections and emotion! I could
hardly bear to listen to this music, it so overpowered me with its
heartrending, passionate character. My eyes, in spite of my efforts, were
already filled with tears when the young amateur abruptly stopped and
struck up a waltz from Strauss, with so much spirit and _brio_ that
Angiolina jumped down, as if drawn by some irresistible impulse, and began
to whirl around, holding her little dress up with both hands. All those in
the assembly who were still in their teens seemed strongly tempted to
follow her example; but the waltz soon ended, silence was restored, and
Angiolina returned to my side as Stella, in her turn, made her appearance.

The object of the _soirée_ sufficiently accounted for the acclamations
with which she was received—a marked homage to the noble deed that had
just been eulogized in such eloquent terms. When these subsided, the
silence became profound.

Stella remained motionless while all these demonstrations were going on
around her in her honor, and did not seem to be aware of them. I can see
her still in her white dress, the flowing sleeves of which displayed her
hands and arms. Her only ornament was a circlet of gold, which confined
the waving masses of her thick, brown hair. She did not look paler than
usual, for her complexion, of dazzling whiteness, rarely had any color;
her eyelashes and eyebrows were as dark as her hair, and her eyes, when
nothing animated her, were of a rather dull gray; but at the least emotion
the pupils seemed to dilate, and deepen in hue, and then nothing could
surpass their brilliancy! This change was especially remarkable when she
exercised the natural talent for declamation which she possessed without
having ever cultivated it. Her sense of the poetic was profound and
accurate, and her voice, full and sonorous, was precisely adapted to
express what she felt at the moment in her heart. To this were added
simple, natural gestures, which the mere movement of her beautiful hands
and arms always rendered noble and graceful. There was no affectation
about her, and yet her face, usually animated by extreme gaiety, possessed
a strange tragical power. Such was Stella’s talent—a sufficiently faithful
reflection of the character of her soul.

During the noisy manifestations that greeted her appearance, she was
apparently very calm, as I have just described her; but her hands were
clasped nervously together, and an almost imperceptible movement of her
lips indicated more agitation than she manifested outwardly. But this
repressed emotion added to the very charm of her voice when she began with
incomparable grace a sonnet from Zappi; and when, striking another chord,
she repeated a scene from one of Manzoni’s finest tragedies, there was a
genuine thrill of admiration in the audience. I noticed poor Harry Leslie,
in particular, who was touched, excited, amazed. I looked around for
Gilbert—and (pardon me, O my God!—forgive me, Stella!) I was glad to see
he was not present. The very power which each of them possessed in a
different way of moving an audience seemed to establish a relationship
between them, the bare thought of which made me suffer, and this suffering
was as harrowing as remorse!

Finally, Stella began the canto at the end of the _Divina Commedia_, which
commences with this prayer—certainly the most beautiful ever inspired by
genius and piety: “_O Vergin Madre! figlia del tuo Figlio!_”(153) At that
moment Gilbert reappeared. He did not enter the room, but remained leaning
against the door. Nevertheless, I saw a slight flush pass over Stella’s
brow; I heard her voice tremble; and I knew she was aware of his presence
and had lost some of her self‐control. As for him, I saw he was surprised
and astonished. He added his applause to that of the whole assembly. But
when they all rose at the end to crowd around Stella, his eyes turned in a
different direction, and it was evident he thought of her no longer.

At that instant, little Angiolina, who was leaning against my shoulder,
mutely contemplating her mother, and only saying from time to time in a
low voice, “How beautiful! Isn’t it beautiful?” as if she were listening
to some musical strain, was borne away by Harry Leslie, who, as was
appropriate, had been appointed to accompany the little _quêteuse_. There
was now a bustle and general confusion, as is often the case after
prolonged silence and attention, and everybody seemed wild with gaiety. To
this merriment was added the noise of a deafening march which the baron
played, as he said, by way of accompaniment to the triumphant progress of
the child borne around the room on Leslie’s shoulder to receive the
contributions that were to end the _soirée_.

The contrast between the state of my mind and all this tumult, animation,
and gaiety, only served to heighten the agitation of my soul to the
utmost. All the doors and windows of the room were open, and I
mechanically went out and leaned for a moment against the same pillar
where I had seen Gilbert only a short time before. While standing there, I
suddenly heard his voice beside me:

“Adieu! madame,” said he in a low, trembling tone.

“Adieu, Gilbert! May heaven protect you!” I replied, extending my hand. He
took it, pressed it to his lips, gave it a slight pressure, and that was
all.... He was gone! I followed him with my eyes, by the bright moonlight,
till he disappeared under the trees of the avenue.

I remained motionless in the place where I was, looking alternately at the
garden around me bathed in the light of the moon, and at the brilliantly
illuminated _salon_ within. And while my eyes wandered from one to the
other, it seemed as if everything before me disappeared never to return,
that these bright lights were about to be extinguished never to be
relighted again, this numerous assembly dispersed never to be reunited,
and it was the last time I was to mingle in the gay world surrounded by
all the display that wealth could afford. The impression was singular; but
what is certain, I felt at that very moment all my happiness was over,
that which was dangerous as well as that which was legitimate, pleasure as
well as repose, joy as well as peace, memory as well as hope! It was a
moment of agony, but the sufferings of such agony, however terrible they
may be, are they not, like a mother’s throes, the signs and prelude of
life?



XXXV.


When I returned to the drawing‐room, I found scarcely any one left. Leslie
came to tell me Stella had gone away without bidding me good night,
because she was in a hurry to take Angiolina home as soon as the
collection was ended. Presently nobody remained. Silence once more
reigned, and I found myself alone, face to face with myself!

But I by no means experienced the happiness that so often results from the
accomplishment of a duty, or the consummation of a sacrifice. On the
contrary, I felt a desolation which was the prelude of a state of mind
which was to render the following days gloomy beyond any I ever spent in
my life—gloomy! yes, as the profound darkness of night just before the
dawn!

While Gilbert remained, I did not allow myself to analyze my feelings for
fear of shaking my resolution. I was able to maintain it to the end; but
as soon as he was gone, I gave free course to every thought that could
aggravate my sufferings. I now experienced that isolation which, from
childhood, I had dreaded more than death! Lorenzo no longer cared for me,
I should never behold Gilbert again, and the friendship of Stella, the
only one who comprehended and pitied me, I was not sure of preserving!

I now began to recall, and study, so to speak, all that had taken place
during the evening just at an end, but this only seemed to increase the
conviction that had taken such strong possession of my mind. I felt
determined, however, to ascertain the truth. I would satisfy my mind. I
would question her till she told me exactly all that was passing in her
heart.

But Stella, with all her gaiety, was not a person who could readily be
induced to make a confidential disclosure of her most secret thoughts.
Without the least dissimulation, she was impenetrable. She knew how to
enter fully into the feelings of others—their joys and, above all, their
sufferings. But if, on the other hand, any one sought to participate in
hers, a smile, the opening of her large eyes, or a slight movement of her
lips and shoulders, seemed to forbid looking beneath the serene expression
of her smiling face. The truth was, she thought very little about herself.
There was no duplicity in the habit she had acquired of never lifting the
veil that concealed the inner workings of her heart, for she did not try
to raise it herself, and was by no means curious to fathom all that was
passing there.

When I saw her again, I found her, therefore, nearly the same as usual—a
little graver, perhaps, and somewhat more quiet, but that was all. As to
questioning her, I did not dare to, and the query soon rose in my mind:
Have I read her heart aright? And to this immediately succeeded another:
Has she read mine? I dwelt on these questions a long time without being
able to answer them to my satisfaction.

What inclined me to decide in the affirmative was the care we both took to
avoid mentioning Gilbert’s name, the tacit agreement we made not to
prolong our interview, and the facility with which, under some trifling
pretext, she excused herself from driving out with me, though she
consented to let me take her little Angiolina.

I set off, therefore, with the child, and drove beyond Posilippo where the
road descends to the water’s edge. There I left the carriage, and taking
the child, I went down to the shore and seated myself so near the sea that
the waves died softly away at my feet. I had a particular fancy for this
spot. Seated there in full view of Nisita, with Ischia, Procida, Capo
Miseno, and Baja in the distance, Pozzuoli at the right, and the heights
of Posilippo and Camaldoli at the left and behind, I seemed to be a
thousand leagues from the inhabited world, in a spot where it was easier
than anywhere else to forget all the rest of the universe.

While I sat there silently gazing around me, Angiolina was running about
gathering sea‐shells to fill the little basket she had brought for the
purpose. Occasionally she stopped and clapped her hands with delight as
she looked around. More than ever did I at that moment envy Stella the
happiness that prevented her from feeling the isolation and intolerable
void in which I was plunged! I envied her, and forgot to pity her! I
forgot, moreover, to tremble for her! One would have thought the saying:
“_Aux légers plaisirs les souffrances légères; aux grands bonheurs les
maux inouis_,” or, at least, the evident truth they contain, had never
struck my mind!

At that time I only dreamed of human happiness under every conceivable
form—a happiness that seemed to be accorded and permitted to others, but
of which I was for ever deprived. And while Angiolina continued to ramble
about, not far off, I ceased admiring the spectacle before me, and
suddenly burying my face in my hands, I burst into tears. At the same
instant I felt Angiolina’s little arms around my neck.

“Zia Gina!” she exclaimed (she had heard her mother call me Gina, as well
as sister, and composed therefrom the name she always gave me). “Zia Gina,
what makes you cry?”

“I am sad, Lina,” said I, my tears falling on her beautiful fair curls.

“Why?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Can you tell the good God?”

What a singular question!... She made me blush, and, after a moment’s
reflection, I replied somewhat evasively:

“One can tell him everything, Lina, for he is our Father.”

“Yes, I know he is our Father; I call him so every day.”

Her attention was diverted an instant by a butterfly she saw floating by.
She watched it till it flew away, and then resumed:

“Then, my dear Zia Gina, you must pray God to console you.”

“Pray for me, _carina_.”

After some reflection, she said: “I only know two prayers—the Our Father
and Ave Maria: which shall I say for you?”

“Say both of them.”

“Yes, certainly: Our Father first; I like it so much.”

And there on the shore she folded her hands, raised her eyes, as blue as
the heavens to which she raised them, and with her clear, silvery voice
softly repeated the divine words. If ever there were lips on earth worthy
of being the echo of that voice which once uttered this prayer that we
might learn it, they were certainly the innocent lips now repeating it
beside me! I too clasped my hands and joined in her prayer.

When it was ended, she stopped a moment with a thoughtful air, and then
repeated: “Deliver us from all evil.”

“But, as I am praying for you, ought not I to say to Our Father: Deliver
Zia Gina from all evil?”

“Yes, my darling,” exclaimed I, embracing her: “yes, pray always in this
way for me, and may God hear and bless you!”

Her angelic face, her piety and innocence, completely diverted my mind
from my sorrows. I only felt an infinite joy at not having rendered myself
unworthy to hear the words she had just uttered. I had suffered; I still
suffered, of course; but I had prayed, and still prayed, to be delivered
from temptation and sin, and it seemed to me a ray from heaven had fallen
on me in answer to this angel’s prayer!

But this impression, though lively and consoling, was only momentary, I
had to return to the reality of life, and this reality was painful. It
became much more so the following day when Lorenzo at last returned.

He did not, of course, appear like a man who returns to the fireside he
loves and respects. Nor could he be expected to present himself in the
attitude of a penitent. I was far from being prepared, however, for the
stand he took and the complete change I found in him, but Lorenzo had been
endowed by Divine Providence with such rare gifts that, in giving himself
up to evil instead of good impulses, he had to suffer from the law which
condemns those to stray further away and fall lower who would perhaps have
become guides to others had they not erred from the right way. The serious
errors into which he had fallen, less excusable than they would have been
at any other epoch of his life, were this time accompanied by a
shamelessness and indifference to scandal that at once wounded and
disgusted me. The consciousness of faults he would not acknowledge caused
him insupportable uneasiness, and this produced a complete change in the
expression of his face, his language, and even in his manners, formerly so
dignified and courteous, but now haughty and not unfrequently rude. But
what was specially evident was, the fatal fascination he did not cease to
feel. The fact was, he had not been driven from her by disgust: repentance
and duty had not led him to return to me. She who had forsaken him still
reigned in his heart, and the influence I had over him so short a time
before, was now utterly destroyed!

All this was clearly perceptible from the first day of his return. I saw
he was even rather irritated than pleased at having no reproach to make
me. In fact, he did not propose peace, but imposed it, on the condition of
absolute silence on my part. The slightest reproach from me, I felt, would
have been the cause of a violent scene and perhaps of open rupture!

Such was the aspect my life assumed at Lorenzo’s return. Will any one be
astonished at the revolt I felt in my heart in spite of my apparent
submission, which was only a mixture of pride and disdain? Will any one
wonder at the harrowing regrets, dangerous recollections, and profound
discouragement which threw me into the deepest melancholy, and sometimes
into utter despair? I began my life over again in imagination with
Gilbert, and dwelt on what it might have been, that I might suffer the
more for what it was!

This remembrance seemed to be my only resource: these vain desires and
regrets my only solace. I gave myself up to them with my whole heart, and
thus, while I considered myself irreproachable, I was as much separated
from Lorenzo as he was from me, and I allowed myself to live interiorly in
a world over which I had no scruple in allowing another to reign almost
absolutely!

The following Saturday I was at the grate of the convent parlor a long
time before my usual hour. The anguish of my soul was at its height, and
for the first time, without regard to the place where I was, and perhaps I
ought to say, to her who listened to me, I made known all my troubles to
Livia, not only Lorenzo’s new offences, but also my other trials, my
inclinations, my regrets, and what at the same time I called my
“courageous sacrifice.”

She turned pale as she listened to me, and an expression of grief, such as
I had never seen her wear, came over her face, which remained anxious,
even when I told her that she unawares had given me the strength to
accomplish it.

“So much the better,” said she; adding, with a grave smile, “If that is
the case, I certainly did not this time play the part of a
_jettatrice_!... But, Ginevra, you escaped a less fearful peril the day I
saw you borne by that furious horse towards the abyss. You were saved when
I saw you again, whereas to‐day....”

“To‐day?... Are you not satisfied? Have I not obeyed what I felt were your
wishes?”

“Yes, my poor Gina, you have made an effort, a courageous effort; and yet
you deceive yourself like a child. Lorenzo certainly ought to conduct
himself very differently; but even if he did, you would still be deprived
of the happiness you dream of. As to that other mirage,” continued she
with a shudder. “O merciful heavens! do you not see whence comes the light
that has caused it? Ginevra, I can only say one thing to you—what I have
said before: pray!”

“I pray every day.”

“With fervor?”

“Yes, Livia, with all my heart, I assure you, I pray as well as I know
how. I tell you the truth.”

As I uttered these words, a celestial smile came over her face for the
first time since the beginning of our conversation, and she exclaimed:

“O dearest sister!”...and then stopped.

Rather vexed than consoled by the manner in which she received my
communications, I remained with my forehead leaning against the _grille_,
feeling for the first time how truly it separated us, that my sister felt
no pity for me, did not render me justice as she ought, and that she knew
neither the world, nor its difficulties, nor its temptations, nor its
pains. My tears fell like rain as I made these reflections, but it seemed
as if Livia, usually so compassionate, beheld me weep with indifference.

All at once she asked:

“Ginevra, is it long since you went to confession?”

I abruptly, raised my head, my tears ceased to flow, and I wiped my eyes
with a gesture of impatience. It was certain Livia could find nothing to
say that did me any good. I made no reply.

“You will not tell me. Why not, _carina_?”

Was I really out of humor with her—with Livia? And on the point of showing
it? . . . Oh! no; I at once felt it was impossible. Besides, the touch of
severity that chilled me had disappeared. She now spoke in a tone I never
had refused to listen to. I therefore replied without any further
entreaty:

“Yes, Livia, longer than usual.”

No sooner had I uttered these words, than a lively color suffused my whole
face. It at once occurred to me that the time corresponded exactly with
the length of Gilbert’s visit at Naples. Livia did not observe my
confusion, and calmly resumed:

“Listen, Gina. You believe, as well as I, that the Sacrament of Penance is
a remedy, do you not? It has been called, I think, ‘the divine
prescription for the maladies of the soul,’ and you are conscious, I
trust, that your soul is really ill.”

“Oh! yes, my soul, my heart, my mind, my body, my whole being! O Livia! I
suffer every way!”

“Well, if you were physically ill, you would certainly consult the best
physician in the city, and, who knows? if there were a better one still at
the other end of Europe, you would perhaps, like many others, undertake a
long journey to consult him as to the remedy.”

“Perhaps so! What then?”

“Listen, dear Gina. I have just thought of a piece of advice to give you,
and as it has occurred to me in a moment of pity for you, when my whole
heart is filled with affection and sympathy, perhaps it is a good
inspiration you would do well to follow.”

“O Livia!” I exclaimed, greatly affected, for I recognized the accent of
affection I had been so doubtful about—an affection more than human,
because it was an emanation of divine charity: “Yes, tell me, dear sister,
what it is. Say anything you please. Command me, and I will obey you.”

She proceeded to inform me that a saintly monk had recently arrived at
Naples who was universally known and respected on account of his extensive
knowledge, and was remarkable for the unpretending simplicity of his
manners. His words went to the heart, led sinners to return to God, and
made those who were pious better than they were before.

“Go to him humbly, I beseech you, and open your heart to him before
God—your whole heart. I feel a conviction he will be able to give you the
remedy you need, and if you have the courage to apply this remedy,
whatever it be, I feel the assurance, Ginevra, you will be healed.”



XXXVI.


Let those who do not wish to enter the region into which I am about to
lead my readers, now lay aside this book. I assure them, however, there is
nothing in the previous portion of this narrative more strictly true than
what I am going to relate. I affirm, moreover, that it refers to a point
that interests every Christian soul; I might say, every human soul, but I
know beforehand that they alone will comprehend me who have faith in these
words: “I believe in God the Father Almighty,” that is to say, they who
with the Catholic Church firmly believe His Omnipotence is present, living
and acting in our midst, and there is not a single instant in which the
material and spiritual world, the world of nature and the inner world of
the human soul, cannot feel its supernatural and _miraculous_ effects. At
the mere sight of this word, I suppose every sceptical, incredulous, or
scornful reader has taken the alarm and made his escape, and I shall
henceforth address only those who speak, or at least comprehend, the
language I am about to employ.

I left the convent without deciding on the hour for following Livia’s
advice, and was already on my way home when I took the sudden resolution
to proceed without any delay to the church she had indicated. This church
was one of the finest in Naples, the only one, perhaps, in which the eye
is not offended by any of the incongruities so often found in Italy
between the beautiful proportions, the marbles, the frescos that adorn the
walls, and certain objects of devotion whose choice or execution indicates
more piety than taste. Here everything harmonized, and this harmony was
favorable to devotion. I took a chair and knelt against it on the marble
pavement; then, according to the Neapolitan custom at confession, I took
off my hat and threw over my head a scarf of black lace I wore over my
silk dress, and patiently waited for others to enter the deserted church.
It was nearly three o’clock.

I did not have to wait long. As soon as the clock struck, I saw quite a
number of men and women of every rank and age, as well as young ladies and
even children, come in and gather around the confessional, near which by
chance I had stationed myself. I turned towards a lady who knelt beside
me, and asked the name of the confessor she was awaiting. She looked up
with an air of surprise.

“Father Egidio di San Mauro, of course,” said she. “Do you not know his
confessional?”

Father Egidio was the name of the priest to whom my sister had directed
me. Chance had led me to the spot I wished to find. I was obliged to wait
a long time; but this delay, and the profound silence around, aided me in
concentrating my mind on the act I was going to perform, and enabled me, I
think, to make a good preparation. Besides, I had already gained a victory
over myself by the very act of coming here, for I had been obliged to
surmount a mixture of timidity and embarrassment one always feels about
going to a strange confessor.

At length the priest we were waiting for made his appearance. He came
slowly out of the sacristy and proceeded directly to the high altar, where
he knelt for some time in prayer. He then rose, and, crossing the church,
passed before me on his way to the confessional. He was of lofty stature,
but bowed down by years and still more by that sanctity which does not
spare the body. His white hair and bald forehead gave his mild, delicate
features a grave, imposing aspect, which at once inspired respect, though
it was impossible to feel any fear.

I ought to have been the first to approach, as I arrived before the
others; but as soon as Father Egidio seated himself in the confessional,
which, according to the Italian style, was only closed by a low door, he
perceived the children awaiting him, and, leaving the door open, he made
them a sign to approach. One by one they presented themselves before him.
He bent down his head as he addressed them, and the innocent faces raised
towards him were marked by a pious attention that was touching. He smiled
occasionally as he listened to them, and the hand they kissed when they
were done, he afterwards placed on their heads in benediction.

When the children had finished I was obliged to wait still longer, for a
young man brushed hastily by me and fell on his knees in the place they
left vacant, and this time the confession was long. Father Egidio, resting
both hands on the shoulders of his new penitent, bent his head to listen
without interrupting him, and when the young man ceased speaking, the
advice he gave in return must have touched his penitent’s heart, for, as
he listened, he bent his head lower and lower towards the old priest’s
knees, and when he rose his eyes were inundated with tears.

At last my turn came, and I knelt in the place usually taken at
confession. My voice trembled as I began, but grew stronger by degrees,
and I continued with clearness and the wish to be sincere. My troubles,
alas! were closely connected with my faults, and I not only opened my
heart and soul, but laid before him my entire life, feeling, as I did so,
the relief there is in the avowal of one’s weaknesses in confession that
can be compared to no human confidence, however great the wisdom or
sympathy that wins it. He murmured two or three times as he listened,
“Poor child!” but did not otherwise interrupt me till I had finished.

The words he addressed me then were the mildest and yet most powerful that
ever roused the human heart to a sense of duty. But when he finally told
me that though I had banished him whose presence was so dangerous to my
soul, I must likewise banish his memory with equal resolution; that the
recollections in which I still indulged without scruple ought to be
resisted, overcome, rooted out, and rejected, I felt an insurmountable
repugnance, and replied:

“No, father, I cannot do it.”

He again repeated, “Poor child!” and then said in a tone of mingled
compassion and kindness:

“You are not willing, then, to give God the place he has a right to in
your heart?”

I did not understand his meaning, and replied:

“Father, I cannot help what I think and feel, or what I suffer.”

Without losing anything of his mildness, but with an authority that
subdued my rebellious spirit, he said:

“I know, my child, what is in your power, and what does not depend on your
will; but in the name of Him who now speaks to you through me, I ask you
to repeat with a sincere heart these words, which comprise all I have just
said:

“O my God! root out of my heart everything that separates it from Thee.”

These words, the accent with which they were uttered, and the prayer that
I have no doubt rose from the depths of the holy soul from which they
sprang, inspired me with the wish and strength to obey.

O my God! enable me now to make others understand what then took place in
my soul.

I leaned my head against my clasped hands, and after a moment’s silence,
during which I summoned all the strength of my will, I slowly repeated
with the utmost sincerity the words he dictated:

“O my God! root out of my heart everything that separates it from
Thee.”...

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

O merciful, divine Goodness! how shall I speak of Thee? how tell of thy
marvellous grace and love? While uttering these words, before they were
even ended, I felt touched by some strange, mysterious, supernatural
influence. My heart and soul seemed filled with light. My whole being was
transformed. I was inundated with a joy that could not be expressed in
human language, and the source of this joy, the sensible cause, which I
still feel, and shall never cease to feel, was the conviction made audible
in some miraculous manner that _God loves me_!

God loves me. Yes, I heard these words. I comprehended their entire
signification. _The Veil was forever withdrawn._ The mysterious enigma of
my heart was solved as clearly and obviously as my eyes beheld the light
of day.

I loved, not as we try, but in vain, to love our fellow‐creatures; I loved
with _all_ the strength of my heart! and with so much strength that I
could not have loved more without dying!...

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

All human language is inadequate, I know, to speak of supernatural grace.
I can only stammer as I attempt it, and will no longer dwell on the
ineffable moment which wrought an entire transformation in my life. I no
longer recollect what words I then uttered, or what was said to me: I only
remember the holy absolution I received with bowed head, and these words,
afterwards uttered in a tone of emotion: “Be calm, my child, and go in
peace.”

I had knelt down overwhelmed with sadness. I rose up so happy that I
suffered from the great intensity of a joy my heart was too weak to
endure!



XXXVII.


Long years have passed by since that day, and perhaps long years still
await me; but whatever be the duration of my life nothing will ever efface
the remembrance—not of the moment I have just described, for that moment
is always present, it can never become a memory of the past—but of the
effect which the sight of the earth, the sky, and the sea had on me when I
issued from the church where I had received so great a blessing.
Everything seemed to have assumed a new aspect, a new meaning, a more
glorious signification; for the torrent of happiness in my soul seemed
diffused over all nature! I no longer wished for anything. I had found
all. I was freed from all anxiety. Hope had become certitude—a certitude
more complete than can be derived from the surest of earthly things; for
great indeed is the certitude of that assurance which _nothing_ can
deprive us of, except _through our own will_!...

_Nothing_ could quench the source from which sprang my joy, or deprive me
of its benefits: _nothing_, for my will was henceforth absorbed, and, so
to speak, _lost_ in the most ardent love!

To love with strength, disinterestedness, and passion the worthiest object
on earth, and learn all at once we could not be deprived of it without the
consent of our own heart, would not this induce us to utter the word
_never_ with an absolute meaning that the things of this world do not
admit of? It was thus God gave me the grace to love, to feel sure of
loving always, sure of the impossibility of ever being deprived of the
object of my love!

The beauty of the natural world around me now seemed a mere ray of this
joy. Never had I found it so lovely. And yet (those whom I _alone_ address
now will understand this, however contradictory it may appear) I felt an
almost equal disgust for all created things, an ardent desire to renounce
everything, a profound contempt for all that had hitherto seemed worthy of
so much esteem. Wealth, honor, dress, display, luxury, even the beauty, so
uncertain, which I prized so much—they all lost their importance and
became worthless in my eyes, not through satiety, or a feeling of
melancholy, but through the disgust one naturally feels for the mediocre
after seeing the beautiful, and for the beautiful after seeing the
perfect!

On the other hand, in spite of this fountain of inexhaustible joy, I by no
means imagined I was released from suffering; and what was also strange,
perhaps, I did not desire to be. I already felt there was a lively,
poignant, and sometimes terrible suffering inherent in the divine love I
had just begun to experience. He who has described this love better than
any other human being, doubtless because he felt it in a greater degree;
he who more than six centuries ago wrote the following words: “Nothing is
stronger than love, nothing more generous, nothing more pleasant, nothing
fuller or better in heaven or earth.... When weary it is not tired, when
straitened is not constrained, when frightened is not disturbed, but like
a lively flame and a torch all on fire, it mounts upward and securely
passes through all opposition;”(154) he who uttered these and so many
other burning words, likewise said these: “There is no living in love
without some pain or sorrow.” I knew it, and my heart was as ready to
embrace the one as the other. As to the ordinary trials of life, it seemed
to me I had sufficient courage to encounter them all, and that henceforth
I should have nothing in the world to fear, nothing to complain of....

To the reader who comprehends me, and knows all this is perfectly true, I
need not say that the state I have just described, though a blessed and
rare one, has in all ages, as well as ours, been one to which a great
number of souls have arrived by slow but natural progression. When,
therefore, I speak of this as _miraculous_ and supernatural, I merely
apply the word to the sudden wonderful grace which shortened the way for
me, making me pass in an instant from a totally different frame of mind to
a plenitude of faith and happiness!

And now ... how did they who were much more closely interwoven with my
life than the natural world around me, appear in this new light? How did I
now regard them in my heart?—Lorenzo! Livia! Stella! Gilbert! What were
the feelings of my heart and soul towards them now that I was so suddenly
brought to see and feel what was clear and right?...

In order to express my sentiments with regard to them, I will employ an
illustration that may seem obscure, and yet I know no better way of making
myself understood. It seemed to me that all the pure, tender, legitimate,
and noble feelings of my heart found in this luminous flame a new and
powerful aliment, while all others were consumed by this flame as quickly
as pernicious weeds cast into a fiery furnace!

Nothing, therefore, was changed in my feelings towards Livia and Stella,
unless I loved them more tenderly than before, one seeming more than ever
an angel, and the other the dearest of friends!

As to Lorenzo, the change was great, sudden, and profound!... My affection
for him, which he had mortally wounded and extinguished, was now rekindled
at the divine source of all true love, and became equal to that I had felt
at the time of my brightest hopes. The wish I once so ardently felt seemed
now to be the only one worthy of occupying my mind. What did a little more
or less of human love matter to me now? As Livia had predicted, my heart
was satiated; I was rich, even if I did not possess the affection of a
single heart on earth. It was, therefore, no longer through a selfish
thirst for happiness I now wished to set his soul at liberty, but from a
desire a thousand times more ardent—so ardent that it seemed to become my
only passion!

And now, Gilbert! ... how shall I speak of him? How, in the light of this
divine flame, did the dangerous attachment, the enervating, subtle
affection that had so absorbed my mind, appear to me now? And those vague,
false hopes—those impossible dreams—those harrowing regrets? And my
foolish and culpable longing for his return?

All this was consumed like the pernicious weeds I have just spoken of, and
I distinctly saw the abyss on the edge of which I had been walking. I
turned away from the danger I had escaped with terror. I felt with
profound gratitude that I was saved! ... and like one who has escaped from
the perils of the sea, I looked back with horror on the waves that had so
recently threatened to engulf me.

This impression was so strong that it began to render the memory odious
that I so recently thought the only joy of my life—the joy I could not
make up my mind to deny myself. The miraculous effect of the divine mercy
had been in answer to the very essence of my prayer; the obstacle that
separated me from God had been completely rooted out of my heart. In this
respect, more than any other, I felt changed and transformed. But this
powerful impression was modified by degrees, and I was soon able to see
Gilbert in so clear and true a light as to think of him henceforth without
the least disturbance of mind. I now thought of his danger, and the
thought filled me with regret. I perceived my secret participation, the
primary, and often the only, cause of others’ faults, from which it is so
rare to be wholly exempt in such cases, and I prayed God to pardon me and
heal the wounds of his soul as perfectly as he had healed mine!

Perhaps I have dwelt too long on this event—the greatest, the only great
event of my life—and the effect it had on me in so many ways. But it was
necessary to describe the transfigured state of my soul in order to
explain what I still have to relate—this day having, thank heaven! set its
ineffaceable seal on every succeeding day of my life.



XXXVIII.


For several days I had some difficulty in concealing the irrepressible joy
I betrayed in my face in spite of my efforts, and which there was
apparently nothing to justify.

Lorenzo’s attitude, in fact, remained the same. He continued, as he had
done since his return, to appear only at the hour of his repasts. A part
of the morning he remained shut up in his studio, which he now rarely
allowed me to enter, and he spent all his evenings abroad. Mario had
returned to Sicily; Stella had not yet wholly resumed her usual ease with
me, and Lando, absorbed in his own affairs, was less interested than usual
in mine.

Our customary reunions continued, however, and the same visitors assembled
every evening, as before. I frequently heard my aunt loudly lament the
departure of _quel Francese simpatico_, and declare how much il Kergy was
missed by everybody. In fact, Gilbert’s name was continually repeated, and
I sometimes thought Stella was astonished at my calmness, which was
incomprehensible to her, whereas, on the contrary, I was not in the least
surprised at her silence, which I understood perfectly. But we continued
our tacit agreement never to speak of him to each other. Several days
passed in this way, during which Livia was the only person from whom I
concealed nothing. How great her joy was when, on seeing me again, she
read with a single look the recovered peace of my soul, it is useless to
say here. From that time we seemed to be united by a stronger tie than
that of blood, and to have become more than sisters. But when, in the
transport of my new joy, I declared that the luxuries of my beautiful home
now seemed a burden and a fetter, and that I preferred the austere
simplicity which surrounded her, she at once checked me.

“Our tastes should correspond with our vocation, Gina. Yours is not to
leave the world, or even to lay aside its superfluities. Endeavor to
please Lorenzo, to win him back. That is your mission, which is as high as
any other; and when you feel your former affection for him revive in your
heart, believe me, _carina_, it will meet with no opposition from the love
God has revealed to your soul! You have dreamed of great things for
Lorenzo. Come, Gina, courage! now is the time to realize them!”

It was thus she led me back to a great but evident truth. I comprehended
it in spite of the different feelings I had experienced, and trusted time
would give me an opportunity of winning back my husband’s heart, which was
even sorer than mine had ever been. My eyes were often filled with tears,
in spite of myself, as I saw the alteration in his face, his anxious look,
his brow furrowed before the time, and all the sad indications by which a
soul that is tarnished betrays the reaction which has such an injurious
effect on physical beauty itself. But the time was gone by when it seemed
possible to form some project, and achieve it in a day. I had learned the
value of the words _patience_ and _silence_.

I rose now every morning as soon as it was light, and went with Ottavia to
the church of a neighboring convent to seek strength for the day and, so
to speak, draw fresh joy from the inexhaustible fountain. I afterwards
carried myself the alms which, in my pride and indolence, I had hitherto
been contented to distribute by her hands. This was the only outward
change in my way of life, and it was one that nobody perceived. But it was
not quite the same with the change that had unconsciously taken place in
my language, manners, and even in the expression of my face, and though
Lorenzo seldom had an opportunity of noticing me, I soon fancied he had
recovered a certain ease of manner towards me. Until now, he had been, not
only wounded in his pride and passion, but especially humiliated in my
presence; and it must be acknowledged that the coldness and disdain that
constituted the mute form of my reproach were not calculated to conciliate
him. The freezing haughtiness of his air in return, which seemed to add
outrage to perjury, increased my exasperation to the utmost, and irritated
me more than his actual offences did at the time I gave myself up with
desperation to the thought of Gilbert, as a kind of intoxication which
made me at once forget my grief and my anger. Now I no longer sought to
escape from the one, and the other was wholly extinguished. This new state
of my soul produced an outward calmness and serenity I had never possessed
before.

Lorenzo’s quick, penetrating eye soon detected the change without being
able to imagine the cause. One day, after looking attentively at me for a
moment, a sad, thoughtful expression came over his face, and I thought
there was something like affection and respect in his look.

This did not prevent him, however, from spending the evening away from
home, and I anxiously followed him in spirit as usual, not daring to utter
a word to detain him, and still less venture to question him. A whole week
passed in this way, in the vague hope of finding some means of influencing
him, but nothing of the kind happened. All at once, one morning, by some
extraordinary accident we happened to be alone a moment together, and
after causing me some anxiety by the gloomy expression on his face, he
gave me a great but pleasant surprise by saying:

“What would you say, Ginevra, if I proposed your taking a journey to
Sicily with me?”

I uttered an exclamation of joy.

“What a question, Lorenzo! You know well nothing could give me more
pleasure than to see my father again, and Messina, the dear old palace,
and....”

Here I stopped, too much affected to continue, and fearing to awaken
remembrances that might seem like a reproach. He perceived it and was
grateful.

“Well, my lawsuit is about to be tried. Don Fabrizio desires my presence,
and I would not for anything in the world renounce the pleasure of hearing
him plead. We will start next week, then, if you are willing.”

This proposition caused me the liveliest and most unexpected pleasure. To
leave Naples! To go with him! and to a place where, more easily than
anywhere else, it seemed to me I could overcome the fatal remembrance in
his heart I had to struggle against! And from there—who could tell?—induce
him perhaps to go to some distant land; persuade him to let me follow him,
go with him to the ends of the earth, if necessary, in search of the pure
air he needed to restore him to health! All this crossed my mind in the
twinkling of an eye, and for the first time for a long while I saw a ray
of hope before me.

When I announced the projected journey to Stella with a satisfaction I
made no attempt to conceal, she looked at me with an air of surprise.

“You have entirely forgiven Lorenzo, then?” said she.

“Yes.”

“Then I conclude he has at last acknowledged his offences and begged your
pardon.”

“No.”

“No?... In that case, Ginevra, you have greatly changed.”

“Yes, a blessed change has come over me.”

“I have noticed it for some days, and if I ask what has produced it, will
you answer me sincerely?”

“Yes, without hesitation. I will tell you the plain truth.”

And without turning my eyes away from hers, which were fastened
attentively on me, I calmly continued:

“Between my violent indignation against Lorenzo, and my strong fancy for
Gilbert, I went very far astray from God, Stella. A single instant of
extraordinary grace enabled me to see this. Everything is clear to me now.
I no longer seek happiness: I possess it.”

The moment Stella heard me pronounce Gilbert’s name, which we had
invariably avoided of late, the pupils of her eyes dilated, and, as I went
on, took that intensity of color and expression which all emotion imparted
to them. But she merely replied:

“I do not wholly understand you, Ginevra, I confess, but I see you are
happy and courageous: that is sufficient.”

After a moment’s silence, I resumed:

“And will you allow me to ask you a question in my turn, Stella?”

She blushed without making any reply. I hastened to say that my question
only concerned Harry Leslie. At his name, she resumed her usual
expression, and a double smile beamed from her eyes and lips.

“Certainly, ask anything you please.”

“Well, he came yesterday with a gloomy air to announce his departure. Am I
wrong in thinking you have something to do with it?”

“No,” replied she, smiling, “not if it is true he cannot remain in Naples
without marrying me, for I have not otherwise ordered him to go away.”

Desirous of drawing her out on this point, I continued:

“But, after all, Mr. Leslie is kind, handsome, excellent, very wealthy
they say, and of a good family. You are very difficult, Stella.”

“Yes, perhaps so,” replied she with agitation and a kind of impatience.
Then she continued in a melancholy tone of anguish:

“Ginevra, never speak to me again, I beg, either of happiness or the
future. I do not know as I shall ever be any happier than I am now, but I
know I can be less so.... Oh! may what I now possess never be taken away
from me. I ask nothing more.”

She shuddered and stopped speaking, as if she could not give utterance to
her fears. It was not the first time I had seen her seized with a kind of
terror when the words future and happiness were mentioned before her. One
would have said she thought there was no happiness in reserve for her,
unless at the price of that she already possessed, and this thought came
over her like a vision of terror.

Poor Stella! Alas! how insecure the joys of earth! To be deprived of them,
or tremble lest we may be—that is to say, to possess these joys with a
poignant fear that empoisons every instant of their duration, and
increases more and more in proportion to their prolongation!...

Is it, then, really necessary for a supernatural light to open our eyes to
force us to acknowledge that this world is only a place of promise, of
which the realization is in another?

To Be Continued.




The Brooklet.


From The German Of Goethe.

O brooklet silver bright and gay!
For ever rushing on thy way,
I, lingering, ever ask thee whence
Thou comest here, where goest thou hence?

“From the dark rock’s deep breast I come,
O’er flow’rs and moss I toss and roam;
While on my bosom smiles and lies
The hovering vision of the skies.

“Ask not of me, a laughing child,
Whither or whence my foot steps wild;
Him do I trust to guide me on
Who called me from the senseless stone.”




The Colonization Of New South Wales By Great Britain.(155)


Some few years ago it became known that the government of Great Britain
were thinking of renewing the experiment of transporting convicts to
Australia with the object of affording them a chance of reformation. This
time, however, it was its western shore which was to be tried, and that,
too, on a scale not inferior in magnitude to that on which the attempt had
been so unsuccessfully made in New South Wales and Van Diemen’s Land. The
bare suggestion of such a proposal sufficed to kindle a flame of
indignation throughout the whole Australian continent—for such must an
island be called which is as large as Europe. To judge from a letter which
we shall have occasion to quote further on, the system as pursued in
Eastern Australia, although upon so insignificant a scale, is fraught with
evils similar to those which so signally characterized its more important
precursor in the west. Yet were the eastern colonists, or an influential
and active portion of them, ready to risk the reproduction of the baneful
curse which for nearly half a century blighted the prosperity and checked
the growth of their western rivals, and from the consequences of which the
latter are suffering to this day. So bitter, however, was the remembrance
of this system amongst the western colonists, so keen their sense of the
dire mischiefs still resulting from its action, that they went the length
of avowing their fixed determination to separate from the mother‐country,
if the experiment were attempted, although some thousands of miles
intervened between them and the spot where the experiment was proposed to
be renewed.

What were the causes of a failure so disastrous? The objects proposed in
the original undertaking were of the noblest. To colonize a newly‐
discovered country of great extent and promise, to develop its resources,
and to bring it under the sway of a benign and noble civilization, was a
worthy object of ambition. To unite with this a scheme for the reformation
of criminals, in a land where they would be entirely removed from old
associations, where they might enter upon a new career without being ever
dogged by the spectre of the past, was a great and beneficent design. How
was it that the proposed reformatory became a horrible curse alike to the
convicts and the colony, and that no prospect of progress in any form
could be reasonably entertained until the original scheme was utterly
swept away, and the local administration taken altogether out of the hands
of the home government, and placed upon its present independent footing?

The question of the reformation of criminals is not only of pressing
importance, but one that appeals to our higher feelings; and it has of
late become a subject of special investigation to the somewhat interested
philanthropy and eminently shallow psychology of the day. It is impossible
to say that any solution of the question was seriously attempted in the
original transportation project to Botany Bay. It was the one object,
nevertheless, which assumed a prominent place in the experiment; and to
the history of its failure we propose to devote our chief attention. The
colonization of the country was distinctly announced as forming part of
the scheme; nor, indeed, is it easy to see how it could very well have
been dissociated from it. On this subject, therefore, we will offer a few
remarks by way of introduction.

The recolonization of Southern Europe by the Northern tribes in the Vth
and VIth centuries of the present era offers a striking contrast to the
colonization of Australia by a nation calling itself Christian. Anything
but prepossessing is the description given us by the historians of those
Northern invaders, whose deeds but too faithfully bear out the
description. Over depopulated provinces, cities in ashes, and the ruins of
the noblest monuments of religion and art, they swarmed into their new
settlements. Vandals, Franks, Goths, and Huns, all alike were
distinguished for an unpitying cruelty, although the Huns surpassed the
rest in licentious profligacy and crime. Yet amidst the ruin they had
made, and the prodigious havoc with which they had desolated the fairest
countries of Europe, the winning accents of Christian civilization stole
into their ears and subdued their untutored souls. In one respect they had
the advantage of the first English settlers in Australia. They had not
been flung out of their own country like garbage. They came under no ban
of law. They bore not with them the consciences of convicted criminals.
They marched to the spoil under the (to them) legitimate banners of
ambition, or to satisfy their greed of gain. The untutored instincts of
humanity, grand even in their lawlessness and ferocity, urged them on.
Deformed, as might have been expected, with many of the gross vices of the
savage, they were not wanting in some of the more attractive features of
the nobility of nature. Their ears had never listened to the loving voice
of the Virgin Daughter of Sion. Their hearts had never been disciplined
nor their minds formed by the revelation from heaven committed to her
keeping. Theirs was not the guilt, as it has been of some of the nations
of this XIXth century, to have _apostatized_ to the barbarous maxim that
“might makes right.” They knew no better. No sooner, however, did the
majestic vision of the Spouse of Christ—the Catholic Church—meet their
gaze, than, far from treating her with insult and outrage, they threw
themselves with loving veneration at her feet, bowed their necks with the
truthful docility of children to her discipline, and arose to prove
themselves her most faithful defenders.

But whilst the men‐eating aborigines of Australia had no civilization to
communicate, the first invaders of its shores from Great Britain were,
some of them, of the worst class of barbarians—the barbarians of
civilization. They were of those whose untamable souls law, civilization,
and religion had failed to subdue. They were the offscouring of the
criminal class of the three kingdoms. The society they had outraged had
cast them out from itself upon the coasts of Australia. They stepped on
shore convicted as felons. They had forfeited the citizenship of their own
country; and, although still undergoing their respective sentences, it was
understood that they were to have the opportunity of making a fresh start
in their new country, should their conduct correspond with the clemency of
the executive. On a career that, more than any other, requires a spirit of
enterprise, light‐heartedness, and courage, they had set out under the ban
of expatriation, the burden of shame, and all the depressing influences of
detected guilt. Of such were the first settlers of Australia.

On the evening of the 26th of January, 1788, the English dominion over
what has been called the fifth division of the globe was inaugurated by
the solemnity of pledging the king’s health round a flag‐pole. His
majesty’s subjects in New Holland, at the period of this imposing
function, numbered one thousand and thirty souls. Of these seven hundred
and seventy‐eight were convicts. The remaining two hundred and fifty
consisted of the soldiers who formed the garrison of the new settlement,
and their officers, together with a few civil functionaries. In this rude
germ of future commonwealths the elements neither of agriculture nor of
commerce as yet existed. An encampment of huts was its first abiding‐
place. For food it depended on the stores brought with it from the mother‐
country; amongst which was neither seed nor other provision for future
crops. At the moment at which we write, after a lapse of eighty‐six years,
the flocks and herds of a wealthy agricultural population range over an
area as large as that of Europe; five splendid provinces, each with its
own court and parliament, can boast of cities equal in size to many
European capitals, and constituting commercial marts second to none on the
face of the globe.

Of the prodigious strides they have made in material prosperity, Mr.
Therry, in his interesting _Reminiscences_, gives the following striking
illustration:


    “It has been ascertained that our South Pacific colonies take from
    us in imports for every man, woman, and child of their respective
    populations, on the average, from £8 to £10 per head per annum,
    while the United States were only customers to us in 1859 (before
    the war began), at the rate of 17s. per head. The amount of
    imports received by Canada, which comes nearest to Australia, is
    £5 per head; that of New South Wales alone is £21 3s. 4d. per
    head; of Victoria, £25” (p. 9).


The commerce of these colonies with all parts of the world is nearly three
times larger in money value than was the whole export commerce of England
less than a century ago; and they receive from the United Kingdom upwards
of twenty times the value of exports which the North American colonies
were receiving at the time of their separation from the mother‐country. To
crown the social edifice, a contented people live and prosper under the
shadow of the freest institutions, in many respects surpassing, in this
particular, the much‐vaunted model on which they have been framed.

It is certain that the prevailing motive of the English government in
despatching a penal colony to Botany Bay was to supply the place of her
lost American colonies. No doubt the idea of colonizing the country was
present to their minds. But it never went beyond words. Not a single
provision was made for colonial development. On the contrary, the whole
constitution of the exiled community was fatal to such an object. For
nearly half a century the inherent vices of the system struggled against
and forcibly restrained any efforts to profit by the advantages of a
country of such wonderful promise; nor was it before the original
government scheme had been quite abandoned that the colony rose from its
inaction, like an unfettered giant, and, as it were, almost at a stride,
arrived at a pitch of prosperity unexampled, in so short a period of time,
in the annals of the world, with the single exception of the American
colonies after they had disembarrassed themselves of the yoke of the
mother country.

The defection of those colonies had stopped an important outlet for the
criminal population of the three kingdoms. We are told by Bancroft, in his
_History of the United States_, that


    “The prisoners condemned [in England] to transportation were a
    salable commodity. Such was the demand for labor in America that
    convicts and laborers were regularly purchased and shipped to the
    colonies, where they were sold as indented servants.”


The Irish malcontents, moreover—of whom, owing to the long misgovernment
of the kingdom, Ireland was full, and whose disaffection had been
stimulated by the revolt of the North American colonies—threatened to
increase the convict population by a large and particularly unmanageable
element. It was only a year or two before that a country happened to be
explored and taken possession of in the name of England so happily fitted
for colonization, and of which such admirable use has since been made. The
discovery was the result of sheer accident, so far as the British
government was concerned. The expedition to which it owes it was sent out
by the Royal Society for scientific purposes; the object being to make
accurate observations of the transit of Venus from the island of Otaheite.
The islands of New Zealand and the east coast of New Holland were explored
on the way home. The astronomical expedition returned to England in the
midsummer of 1771.

In 1786, the government decided on establishing permanent settlements on
the coast lately explored by Captain Cook, accompanied by Messrs. Green
and Banks and Dr. Solander. The colony consisted exclusively of the
convicts and the military in charge; of prisoners and their jailers. Any
class out of which a free civil community might be formed could only arise
out of chance settlers, or of those among the convicts whose position was
the result rather of untoward circumstances than of any irreclaimable
criminality of disposition, and who were prepared to re‐commence in those
distant lands a career from which their misfortune or their fault had shut
them out at home.

The constitution of the expedition was as follows: A governor, lieutenant‐
governor, judge‐advocate, commissary, and chaplain; a surgeon and two
assistant surgeons; an agent for the transports; two hundred and twelve
soldiers and mariners, including officers; their wives, numbering forty,
and their children; five hundred and forty‐eight male convicts, and two
hundred and thirty female.

The neighborhood of Botany Bay having been judged unsuitable for the new
settlement, the expedition landed at a spot situated at the head of one of
the coves of Port Jackson Harbor, which had been judiciously selected by
the governor as the site of the future capital. The 26th of January, 1788,
was the day of disembarkation, and it was on the evening of that day that
the inaugural rite, to which we have before alluded, was solemnized. After
a lapse of eleven days, consumed in putting up the public and private
structures needful for the new colony, the ceremony of inauguration was
supplemented by one of a yet more imposing character. On the seventh of
February was held a formal assembly of all the members of the new
commonwealth. An occasion of greater interest could not be imagined. Upon
no band of colonists was ever lavished a greater wealth of hope and
fortune. No guilt of diplomatic fraud or commercial overreaching marred
their title to the new territory. Through no bloodshed, no violence, but
quite unopposed, they had entered on its peaceable possession. No foreign
power, to whom the new state might be calculated to give umbrage,
threatened its future welfare. A magnificent harbor sheltered its ships
and transports; and it was only one of many such with which a coast of
vast extent was indented. A whole continent of virgin soil stretched out
before them, which, under the influence of the finest climate under
heaven, waited only the bidding of man to quicken within itself an
exhaustless luxuriance of vegetable life. A mighty Empire of the South
offered itself to any hands that were willing and able to grasp it. It was
only reasonable to expect that England, having just lost her supremacy in
the New World, would have devoted her utmost resources of civilization and
statesmanship to laying deep and wide the foundations of her new dominion.
If none of the members of an aristocracy enjoying more advantages and more
power than were ever possessed by the most privileged class of any the
most privileged nation, were willing to leave the home of their ancestral
traditions, the softness of hereditary ease, and an absolute independence
of fortune’s caprice, in order to join in the struggling life of a young
community, we should at least have expected that the mother‐country would
despatch a contribution from each of the other classes of her citizens to
assist in the formation of the new settlement. Her system of
jurisprudence, admirable in spite of the inextricable jumble of statutes
and precedents amidst which it has been reared, would be represented, one
would have thought, by a sufficient number of lawyers of character; her
merchant princes would be encouraged to carry their spirit of enterprise
to so rich and promising a field; still more, that which forms the only
true and solid basis of material prosperity—agriculture—would be
abundantly cared for in the shape of a due supply of competent masters and
sturdy laborers; last, though not least, some provision would be made, not
only for the moral and religious training of the people, but for such
mental cultivation as was compatible with the condition of an infant
community. What no one in his senses could have anticipated was that the
government of a great and ancient nation should have sent out as the
founders of a new colonial empire a contingent of malefactors, guarded by
a few marines. Upon the occasion of the formal inauguration ceremony the
whole colony were assembled around the governor. Nearest to himself were
the lieutenant‐governor, the judge‐advocate, provost‐marshal, commissary,
adjutant, doctor, and chaplain. The two hundred and twelve marines,
including no less than fifteen commissioned officers, were drawn up in
battle array. Apart from the rest, as under the ban of crime, stood the
bulk of the community—namely, the convicts. To this assemblage the judge‐
advocate read the royal commission and the act of Parliament which
constituted the court of judicature. After the reading of which documents
the one hundred and ninety‐seven marines shouldered old “Brown Bess,” made
ready, presented, and fired three times.

The ceremony was not imposing, but it was on a par with the rest of the
proceedings. The governor, Capt. Phillip, wound it up with a speech in
which, in spite of grammatical errors which may be pardoned in a sailor,
he displayed considerable ability and eloquence, but a marvellous absence
of common sense. In the course of a somewhat inflated panegyric on England
and her fortunes, his excellency went on to portray his native country as
the peculiar favorite of heaven, and to ascribe her successful
colonization of New Holland—a matter considered by anticipation as already
accomplished, and that, too, in the teeth of the recent defection of her
most splendid colonies on the plea of tyrannical misgovernment—to a
prolonged special intervention of Divine Providence.


    “Nor did our good genius desert us,” continued the governor, “when
    we reached our destination. On the contrary, it was then that
    her(?) crowning favor was bestowed. Witness the magnificent harbor
    which before us extends its hundred beautiful bays. Witness the
    beautiful landscape, the islands, capes, and headlands, covered
    with waving foliage, rich and varied beyond compare. Witness every
    surrounding object which, as regards a situation for our future
    homes, our necessities could demand or our tastes desire. Happy
    the nation whose enterprises are thus favored by the elements and
    by fortune! Happy the men engaged in an enterprise so favored!
    Happy the state to whose founding such propitious omens are
    granted!”


It is clear from the following passage, incredible as it may appear, that
the government of the day did really contemplate founding a new state
beyond the seas out of the criminal population, the moral refuse of
society. Gov. Phillip even challenges for the scheme the praise of
magnanimity.

“The American colonies,” he said in his inaugural address, “smarting under
what they considered a sense of injustice, had recourse to the sword, and
the ancient state and the young dependency met in deadly conflict. The
victory belonged to the American people, and Britain, resigning the North
America continent (?) to the dominion of her full‐grown offspring,
magnanimously seeks in other parts of the earth a region where she may lay
the foundations of another colonial empire, which one day will rival in
strength, but we hope not in disobedience, that which she has so recently
lost” (_Flanagan_, vol. i. p. 30).

It is, however, remarkable that Mr. Flanagan grounds his own attribution
of magnanimity on the absence of those very features of the new territory
on whose conspicuous presence the governor, standing on the spot,
congratulates his fellow‐colonists, as one of the signs of a special
interposition of Providence in their favor.


    “To incur vast expense,” writes the author of the _History of New
    South Wales_, “encounter great dangers, and overcome great
    difficulties, in order to possess and colonize a country more
    remote than any hitherto brought under subjection by Europeans—a
    country presenting _no pre‐eminent attractions in soil, destitute,
    so far as was then known, of the precious metals_, and inhabited
    by a people in the greatest degree barbarous and devoid of all
    riches—while countries possessing all those attractions which New
    Holland wanted were within her reach, is the best evidence which
    can possibly be afforded of national magnanimity” (_Flanagan_,
    vol. i. p. 2).

    “How grand is the prospect which lies before the youthful nation!”
    exclaimed the enthusiastic governor to the new colony in his
    inaugurative speech. “Enough of honor for any state would it be to
    occupy the first position, both in regard to time and influence,
    in a country so vast, so beautiful, _so fertile_, so blessed in
    climate, so rich in all those bounties which nature can confer;
    ... _its fertile plains tempting only the slightest labor of the
    husbandman to produce in abundance the fairest and the richest
    fruits_; its interminable pastures, the future home of flocks and
    herds innumerable; _its mineral wealth, already known to be so
    great as to promise that it may yet rival those treasures which
    fiction loves to describe_—enough for any nation, I say, would it
    be to enjoy those honors and those advantages; but others not less
    advantageous, but perhaps more honorable, await the people of the
    state of which we are the founders.”


“To these,” continued the governor, addressing that engaging instalment of
British civilization which the imperial government had sent forth from the
shores of their country to take possession, in its name, of this new land,
and develop its abundant resources, “will belong the surpassing honor of
having introduced permanently the Christian religion and European
civilization into the southern hemisphere. At no distant date it will be
theirs to plant the standard of the cross and the ensign of their country
in the centre of numerous populous nations to whom both these have
hitherto been but little known. Such are the objects which will arouse the
enterprise and stimulate the energies of the people of this young
country—enterprise and energy, directed not toward conquest or rapine,
chiefly because Australia, rich beyond measure in her own possessions,
cannot desire those of others, but towards the extension of commerce, the
spread of the English language, the promotion of the arts and sciences,
and the extension of the true faith. Such are the circumstances and
conditions which lead to the conviction that this state, of which to‐day
we lay the foundation, will, ere many generations have passed away, become
the centre of the southern hemisphere—the brightest gem of the Southern
Ocean” (_Flanagan_, vol. i. pp. 32, 33).

Were these, then, whom Capt. Phillip addressed the men to introduce the
Christian religion and European civilization in a newly‐discovered
continent? Were a detachment of jail‐birds and their keepers to “develop
commerce, spread the English language, promote the arts and sciences, and
extend the true faith?” Were such as these the missionaries to plant the
standard of the cross, or even that of their own country, amidst
populations alien to both alike? Did the English government seriously
propose to make a missionary college out of a reformatory, if such it
could be called? Were the Barabbases of England to be the pioneers of
civilization, the Artful Dodgers of the metropolis the heralds of the
Christian faith?

The truth is that the only object directly provided for by the government
to which England was indebted for this “magnanimous” deed of colonization
was the establishment of a secure and distant depot for the worst
criminals of the country.

The noble object to which the exhaustless resources of the continent they
had just taken possession of were to be devoted was left to the chapter of
accidents. A picture of the future greatness of the equivocal colony was,
it is true, dashed off, in glowing colors, by Commodore Phillip, but no
provision of any kind was made for its realization.

There was nothing whatever to hinder the attainment of both these objects,
or at least an attempt to attain them. On the contrary, never was a fairer
opportunity for an experiment of the kind offered to a people. Before them
lay the wide, almost limitless landscape in all its exuberant beauty and
unexhausted fertility. There it lay, as a kind of treasure‐trove, at their
feet, with no one to dispute its possession. Their first object ought
assuredly to have been to bring a large portion of the soil under
cultivation; agriculture being that on which more than on anything else
the prosperity of a country, and especially of a young country, depends.
Not one shilling did these original and eccentric colonists invest in the
soil of that vast island continent, every acre of which was theirs, with
all its latent wealth, whether that wealth consisted in its as yet untried
productive powers, or in the hoard of precious metals which might be
locked up in its secret depths.

The home government thus had it in their power to offer to a superior
class of yeomen inducements of the most persuasive kind to try their
fortunes in the new colony. Sufficient area being left for the development
of a splendid capital, they should have been planted in middling‐sized
farms as closely around the reserved area as seemed desirable, and
stretching out into the continent in gradually‐encroaching circles. A
small contingent of married men, of good reputation amongst their
neighbors, and of superior capacity and attainments, should have been
encouraged to throw their fortunes into the colony. To these a greater
extent of land should have been granted. These settlers would have formed
the nucleus of a class from which could have been selected men fitted for
holding the most responsible positions. The young colony could very well
dispense with hereditary titles of honor. But it could not so well
dispense with a class such as we refer to, if it was to become a country
to which men of character and position would not hesitate to resort. A
class was wanted other than the emancipists—the very worst that could have
been chosen—to supply persons of standing, acquirements, and, above all,
of reputable experience for the magistracy, and for other national, so to
speak, as well as local, offices of trust and administration. Such a class
of yeomen having been thus provided, the staff of government officials,
the military and naval forces, and the continually increasing influx of
convict laborers, added to the population of those classes themselves,
would have supplied a considerable population, ready to hand, of customers
and consumers. The mercantile and professional classes would soon have
sent their contributions from the overstocked mother‐country, not in
arrear, at all events, of the ordinary course of supply and demand. A
manufacturing class would have developed of itself quite as soon as the
interests of the colony required it. And, lastly and most imperatively of
all, had the mother‐country been Catholic, the interests of religion would
have been the very first consideration. Priests and a nucleus of one or
more religious orders would have been despatched with the expedition.
Churches would have been the first structures raised. Land would have been
set apart for their support, and for the appropriate splendor of Christian
worship. And hospitals, attended by religious of both sexes, would have
been erected, and endowed with sufficient land for their perpetual
support.

Nothing of the sort was so much as attempted. Thirty years after the
memorable inauguration day, a period of time embracing nearly one‐half of
the entire age of the colony, the then governor, Macquarie, we are told by
Mr. Therry, “_considered the colony was selected as a depot for convicts;
that the land properly belonged to them, as they emerged from their
condition of servitude; and that emigrants were intruders on the soil._”
Ten years afterwards, little more than seventy years ago, the state of
“the brightest gem of the Southern Ocean,” in spite of the encouragement
given to emigration by Macquarie’s successor, Sir Thomas Brisbane, during
the three years of his administration, is thus described by the very
competent authority just quoted: “_The majority of the community he_ (Sir
Thomas Brisbane) _ruled over were of the convict class, who were not
respectable nor right‐minded. It consisted of very inflammable materials,
composing two‐thirds of the whole community, which it required the
exercise of a stern authority to repress._”

Natural advantages have triumphed over the obstacles offered by human
folly. The present condition of the Australian colonies more than realizes
the glowing expectations of the head‐jailer of the first convict gang that
landed on their shores. Indeed, if those utterances of Commander Phillip
were to be judged by the results, we might be tempted to ascribe them to
the inspiration of even prophetical sagacity. One merit, at all events,
may be accorded to the enthusiastic sailor. He did not overestimate the
boundless resources and advantageous position of the noble country of
which he and his prisoners were assuming the proprietorship “on behalf of
the British people,” utterly incapable as they were of taking advantage of
them.

To Be Concluded Next Month.




A Summer In Rome.


By The Author Of “The House Of Yorke.”

Of course all our friends exclaimed, when we intimated the possibility of
our remaining in Rome for the summer:

We would suffocate with heat.

We would be poisoned with malaria.

We would have chills, and consequently fevers.

The fruit would make us sick, the wine would turn sour while we were
pouring it out, and we would be kept awake all night by people in the
street.

We would have no one to speak to, for everybody would be gone out of town.

Besides, and above all, it was not the proper thing to do.

I do not believe that either of us was serious in first making the
proposal, unless Bianca cherished such a wish under her pensive silence;
but so much opposition led us to look at the project, and we did not find
it so bad as might have been expected. Besides, no one with a particle of
spirit likes to be scouted and talked down; and all of us had spirit
enough to feel a little vexed at the storm of opposition we had brought
about our ears—all except Mr. Varney. He was too indolent to resent
anything.

“I do not believe that there is the least necessity for having a fever in
Rome,” said Isabel. (It was nearly always Isabel who spoke.) “One has but
to select a cool apartment and use a little prudence. If we were to do as
I have seen people do here—go from the oven to the refrigerator—we should
know what to expect. To walk in a sunny street till you are in a
perspiration, then sit on a shady stone to cool off, is not only inviting
a fever, but sending a _gendarme_ to fetch it. As for heat, New York is
ten times hotter; and I once passed a whole summer in New York, and was
quite comfortable; wasn’t I, papa? Then, how any one can say that we shall
have no one to speak to I cannot imagine. Here are four of us; and I take
perfect delight in talking to myself. The most interesting conversations I
ever had in my life were with Miss Isabel Varney.”

“Besides,” said a clear voice from the window, “what we came to Rome to
see doesn’t go away in the summer.”

We all looked at Bianca, who had turned her head toward us to speak, and
was gazing out the window again, the lace curtain wrapped about her like a
bridal veil, and the _persienne_ half closed to shield her from the many
eyes in the piazza.

“May I ask what you came to see?” inquired a visitor, who always tried to
make this silent one talk.

She only half turned to answer.

“The Holy Father; the shrines and homes of the saints; all the holy, and
all the beautiful, and all the famous places here; and the skies that are
above them. And, again, the Holy Father. He is the Christian Prometheus,
bound to the Vatican as to a rock, and we are a little chorus of American
Oceanides who are come to bewail him, and who have no mind to go away for
pleasure.”

“Brava!” said papa.

“And as for the ‘proper thing,’ ” said another member of the family, “we
have bored ourselves to death all winter trying to do that.”

“Besides,” struck in Isabel, with a bright thought, “we want to learn the
language; and that we never could do going about from place to place. Here
we can sit down quietly, and study the four or five hundred irregular
verbs at our leisure, and settle the genders of things, and learn to
pronounce properly all their undulating and circuitous strings of vowels
and the little curly tails to their ridiculous words.”

“Don’t include me in your class, if you please,” Mr. Varney said. “I would
as soon shave off my hair and wear a wig as drop my own language and speak
another. I shall speak English when I say anything; and if people do not
understand me, it will not be my fault. We can always find interpreters;
and I do not approve of—of—er—of deserting your own tongue for another,”
he concluded rather weakly, not having measured his strength before
commencing this speech.

The truth was that he never did approve of anything which cost him the
least effort; but we listened as gravely as if we believed him to be
actuated by the most heroic patriotism.

“You are quite right, papa,” Isabel said emphatically. “Still, since
interpreters may not always be honest, you know, it is better that some of
us should understand and be able to protect the family.”

“You will not find the verbs so difficult as you may imagine,” remarked an
Italian. “The irregularities are chiefly in the preterite. Preterites are
always ragged. They are never a part of the original language, I think,
but were interpolated when it was discovered that a nicer expression of
thought was needed; and then the grammarians had to accommodate themselves
to circumstances, and use what was left. You will take pleasure in
learning so musical a language, Miss Isabel.”

“Oh! I think English quite as musical as Italian,” replied the young woman
with composure.

“When you speak it, _signorina_,” said the Italian, after a momentary
pause of astonishment.

“I find the phrases and words I learned in music very useful,” she
continued. “The other day I said ‘_allegro, ma non troppo_,’ to the
coachman, and he drove perfectly. That is on millions of pieces of music,
you know, papa. It quite pleased me to talk to a coachman as if he were a
fugue. And when I said ‘_andante_,’ he actually put down the brake.”

“But you know we were going down‐hill then, Bella,” remarked her sister.

“I can make the servants understand perfectly well,” continued Isabel.
“But in churches and galleries, and catacombs, and such places, the people
are very stupid.”

This is the way in which Miss Isabel Varney made the servants understand
perfectly:

“Angelina,” she would say to the _donna_, in English, “I want you to black
my thick walking‐boots. The dust has made them look dingy. But first bring
me another pitcher of water. It is strange that in a city that would be a
lake if all its aqueducts were to burst at once one cannot get more than a
quart of water at a time. Make haste, now, for I wish to go out
immediately.”

Angelina stood immovable, a picture of distressful doubt. The time had
gone past when she would have ventured to remind her mistress that English
had not been included in her education.

“Oh! to be sure,” says Isabel. “What a bother it is when one is in a
hurry! What is the Italian for water, Bianca? _Acqua?_ Well, Angelina,
bring me some _acqua_.”

The _donna_ began to lift her apron toward her eyes.

“_Apportez moi_ some _acqua!_” said her mistress distinctly and
authoritatively.

The _donna_ shrank back. “Signorina mia,” she began pitifully.

“Don’t talk!” cried the young lady. “What is the use of your talking to me
when I cannot understand a word you say? It is too absurd. Besides, it is
the servant’s place to obey without speaking. Bianca, do look in the
dictionary for the Italian for wish or will, the strongest word you can
get; then in the grammar for the first person, singular, indicative of
it—or, no, the imperative. And be quick, or I never shall get out.
_Voglio?_ Angelina, I _voglio_ a pitcher of _acqua_—what is the word for
quickly? _Vitement?_ No. That isn’t Italian. It must be _vita_. That is an
Italian word, I know, and it sounds as if it meant quickly. Angelina, I
_voglio acqua vita_.”

“_Si, si, signorina!_” exclaimed the poor little _donna_, and ran off,
glad to get out of the room.

“And, after all, she hasn’t taken the pitcher,” said Isabel. “But may be
she will bring a pailful. She knew quite well that I was finding fault
because we have so little. They understand what we say, I’m sure they do.
Their ignorance is all a pretence.”

Five minutes passed, and ten minutes; and when the young lady had
exhausted herself in impatient exclamations, Angelina entered the chamber,
all out of breath, but smiling in confident triumph, and placed in her
hand a bottle on which was an apothecary’s label with _acquavite_ neatly
inscribed on it.

There was a _bersagliere_ passing the house at that moment; and I have
always thought I would like to know if he ever suspected that the hand of
a _papalina_ flung that bottle which alighted safely on the great tuft of
flying feathers in his hat. I am sure that if the bottle had contained
anything but _acquavite_, the military would have been called out.

This feat accomplished, Miss Isabel seized the empty water‐pitcher, and
thrust it into the hands of the frightened girl with one word, “_Acqua!_”
uttered in a tone which proved her to have tragical abilities.

Angelina returned in a trice with the water, and found her mistress
standing in the middle of the room, with a stern countenance, and a
dictionary in her hand.

“Now, _nero_ my _guadagno_.”

The girl lifted her eyes to the ceiling.

“_Profitto_, I mean,” was the hasty correction.

Tears rolled down Angelina’s cheeks.

“It couldn’t be that boot is _stivale!_” said the young woman in a low
tone to a third person in the room. “That sounds as if it meant something
three‐cornered.”

“You might try,” was the suggestion.

“_Stivale?_” demanded the young woman of the _donna_.

“_Si, signorina_,” said the girl eagerly, glancing at the articles in
question.

“Well, _nero_ my _stivale_,” ordered the mistress haughtily.

“_O Dio mio!_” sobbed Angelina.

Isabel lost all patience and dignity. She flew at the boots and caught
them in one hand, flew at the toilet‐table and snatched her tooth‐brush in
the other, then, rushing at the terrified _donna_, performed before her
face a furious pantomime of polishing her boots with the tooth‐brush.

“_Capisco!_” cried Angelina joyfully.

“It is worse than Robinson Crusoe with his man Friday,” sighed Isabel,
sinking, exhausted, into a chair. “These scenes are positively ruining my
disposition. You know, Bianca, I used to have a very good temper, and the
servants at home were always fond of me. But here I am becoming a scold
and a fury. We must get settled in another apartment, and have a teacher
right away.”

A cool summer apartment was found near the Esquiline, a teacher engaged,
and our parting friends went their several ways, taking doleful leave of
us.

And here it may not be amiss to make the reader better acquainted with the
family who desire the pleasure of his acquaintance and company for a time.

Mr. Varney, the son of a Boston merchant, had, when he was young and
venturesome, made a voyage to Spain in one of his father’s ships. The ship
came back without him; but, after six months’ absence, he returned,
bringing with him a young Spanish wife, whom he had wooed and won during
that brief visit. She lived only ten years, pining ever for the sunny land
of her birth, and dropped away finally before they had begun to fear that
she was dying, leaving two daughters, Bianca and Isabel.

Her death quite uprooted her husband from his accustomed life, and gave
him a shock from which he never recovered. He had always promised, and had
meant, to take her back to Spain; but, between the calls of business and a
habit of procrastination, had put off the visit from year to year till it
was too late. Then the New England which had killed her became distasteful
to him, and, after lingering a few years to settle up his business, he
went abroad for an indefinite time, taking his daughters with him. He
seemed to fancy that by this tardy journey he was proving to his wife his
regret and the sincerity of his promises.

They avoided Spain, however, unwilling to hasten at once to that land
which she had longed in vain to see. There was even an idea of self‐exile
and punishment in going so near without touching its beautiful shores.
They visited England and France, then came directly to Rome.

“I do not believe that we shall ever go away from Italy for any length of
time,” Bianca said. “It is the true land of the lotos, and we have eaten
of the charmed plant.”

“Would you like to live here always?” her father asked, looking earnestly
at her.

There was a certain pensive melancholy in her face and attitude which
constantly drew his anxious regards.

“Yes!” she answered slowly.

“I think Bianca is changed from what she used to be,” he said afterward to
one of the family. “It seems to me that I remember her gay and bright,
like Isabel; but she has grown quiet and gentle, little by little, and so
gradually that I do not know when the change began.”

The person whom he addressed tried to give him the comfort and reassurance
which his anxiety evidently pleaded for. She pointed out that one had but
to look at the two girls to see at once the difference in their
temperaments; that Isabel’s shorter and more compact form proved a
stronger and more aggressive vitality than her sister’s willowy
slenderness was capable of; that the very shape of their faces—a delicate
oval in the one and a full oval in the other—was another proof of
difference; and that, moreover, Bianca, being the elder, had been of an
age to be impressed by her mother’s death, while Isabel was still too
young.

“And I find yet another reason,” the comforter continued, turning mentor.
“Your frequently‐expressed regret for your wife, and the habit you have of
referring to her love for Spain and her home‐sickness, cannot fail to
sadden so sensitive a heart as Bianca’s, while Isabel thinks that it is
merely a ‘way you have got into,’ as she would express it.”

It was, perhaps, rather a severe speech; but when a person contracts a
habit of making a mournful luxury of his troubles, and of perpetually
setting up his mourning standard beside the red, white, and blue of those
who at least try to be cheerful, it does no harm to let him know that the
effect is not enlivening.

Well, we were settled in our summer quarters, and had just finished our
first dinner there, when the historian of the party made a prudent
suggestion.

“Since we are beginning a new life with new people, I think that we should
have a clear understanding about everything, so as to save trouble at the
end,” she said.

Her ears were still ringing with the din of battle which had accompanied
their exit from their former home—the loud voice of the _padrona_
demanding payment for broken chairs and tables that had dropped in pieces
the first time they were touched; the vociferous porter, who insisted on
having money because he had snatched Isabel’s reticule from her hand, in
spite of her, and carried it a dozen steps; the small but very shrill boy,
whom they had no recollection of ever having seen before, and who wanted
to be paid for they knew not what; the hysterical _donna_, who expected
that her heart, lacerated because her services had not been re‐engaged,
would be soothed by the gift of a few extra _lire_; and a half‐dozen
beggars crying for “_qualche cosa_.”

And so “it might be as well to have everything arranged at the beginning,”
remarked this prudent person.

“I settled about the furniture before you came in to dinner,” Isabel said.
“I had the whole family up, and before their eyes, with papa as witness, I
shook and leaned on every table and cabinet, and sat down in every chair
as hard as I could. Two chairs dropped, and are taken out for repair,
which will cost us nothing. And I have ordered out all the paper bouquets
with tall glass cases over them, and all the ornamental cups and saucers.
But I think we may as well tell them that if they send begging people up
to us, we will deduct what we give from the rent. Papa says he has made a
careful reckoning, and finds that if we give a _soldo_ to each ragged
beggar in the street, and half a _lira_ to each well‐dressed beggar who
comes up, we shall be ourselves reduced to beggary in six months.”

Bianca turned round on the piano‐stool, her face full of expostulation.
“Oh! but those dear Capuchins!” she exclaimed.

“It isn’t likely that I meant to refuse a Capuchin,” answered Isabel
indignantly. “They are an exception; and so are all religious. No one can
say that religion costs them much in Italy. I am ashamed to give so little
and receive so much.”

“Having an understanding at the beginning will make no sort of difference
at the end,” Mr. Varney said. “Every stranger here expects to have a fight
with the family he is leaving. It is a part of the play which cannot be
left out by particular request, like the Prince of Denmark out of
_Hamlet_. Let us put off explanations till they are forced on us. I would
like, though, to say a word or two to Giuseppe about the table.”

Giuseppe was a new servant, whom we considered ourselves very fortunate in
engaging, as he not only spoke English, but had lived in England several
months, and might therefore be supposed to know something of Anglo‐Saxon
ways. He came in immediately.

“There are two or three directions which I wish to give once for all,
Giuseppe,” Mr. Varney said in his slow, languid way. “I hope you will
remember them, for I do not like to repeat orders.”

“Yes, sir!” said Giuseppe, with a stiffness of bow and attitude oddly in
contrast with his sparkling Italian face.

“In the first place,” resumed his master, “when I say that I want
breakfast, or dinner, or the carriage at a certain hour, I mean that time
precisely, and not an hour or a half‐hour later, nor even five minutes
later.”

A second bow and “Yes, sir!” worthy of May Fair.

Mr. Varney went on argumentatively, bringing his fingers into play:
“Secondly, I want my wine brought in with the seals unbroken. If I find a
single bottle of the wine I have put up opened, I will”—he paused for a
suitable threat.

“Break the bottle over your head,” struck in Isabel. “Remember, papa, all
the watered wine we have paid for, and don’t be too mild. Remember the
horrible stuff for which we paid three times the market price all last
winter. Don’t be too mild. You may depend upon it, Giuseppe, we shall not
permit of any tampering with wine, or fruit, or candles, or anything. We
have had too much of that.”

“Yes, miss!” says Giuseppe.

“I hate to be called ‘miss,’ ” remarked the young lady. “Call me
_signorina_. Of all titles I think miss the most disagreeable. And Mrs.
and Mr. are not much better. The Italian language has that one advantage,
I will own.”

“Be careful about the fruit you give us,” Mr. Varney went on. “We want
ripe fruit. The figs to‐day were not quite perfect. Figs,” said Mr. Varney
with solemn deliberation—“figs should be just right, or they are good for
nothing. When they are just right, there is nothing better, and you can
give them to us three times a day. They must be ripe, but not too ripe;
fine‐grained, but not salvy; cool, crisp, intensely sweet, and on the
point of bursting open, but not quite broken.”

Giuseppe forgot his English training long enough to inquire, “Hadn’t you
better speak to the trees about it, sir?”

“That will do,” Mr. Varney concluded with dignity. “I have no more to say
now. You can go.”

The setting sun, shining on the new walls opposite, was reflected into our
drawing‐room, lighting it beautifully, touching Mr. Varney’s gray hair and
pleasant face, as he sat in a huge, yellow arm‐chair by the window and
diving into Isabel’s bright eyes, as she leaned on his shoulder, and
looked over with him the _Diario Romano_, trying to make out the holy‐
days.

“Here is the anniversary of the coronation of Pius IX.,” she said. “I
wonder if we shall be arrested if we wear yellow roses in our hats,
Bianca?”

Mr. Varney pored awhile over the book in his hand, and presently asked,
with a general inquiring glance about the room, “Does anybody know what
time of day or night twenty‐three o’clock is? Here is a function announced
to begin at twenty‐three o’clock. Do people go to church at that hour? I
should think it would be very late at night.”

“It might be some time the next day,” suggested a member of the family.

The gentleman arranged his glasses, and looked puzzled. “Then, when a
function is announced for twenty‐three o’clock on Wednesday, it takes
place at some hour on Thursday,” he said.

No one ventured either to acquiesce or to dissent, and it was concluded to
put this difficulty on the list of questions we were making out for our
Italian teacher to answer the next morning.

“He will be such a convenience to us!” Isabel said. “People assure me that
he knows everything, and is never at loss for an answer.”

Mr. Varney took a pinch of snuff. He had always shown an inclination
toward that indulgence, but had not dared to yield to it in America. Now,
however, with such eminent examples constantly before his eyes, he could
carry his snuff‐box, not only with impunity, but with a kind of pride.

“Have you reflected, my daughter,” he asked, “that your Italian teacher
knows not a word of English, and that, since you cannot very well fly at
him, as you could at Angelina, and extract his meaning at the sword’s
point, his explanations, however excellent they may be, are not likely to
profit you much for some time to come?”

“Oh! we will make out some way,” she replied carelessly. “One can always
understand a clever person. Besides, if worse comes to worse, I don’t know
why I shouldn’t fly at him, if necessary. He will be paid for his time;
and one can always scold a person whom one pays.”

The last sun‐ray faded away, and the golden globe of the new moon shone
out over Santa Maria Maggiore, shining so low and full in the transparent
sky that one almost feared it might strike the tower or domes of that
dearest of churches in passing, and break itself like a bubble.

We were silent a little while, then Mr. Varney said, “Sing us that song
you are humming, my darling.”

When he said “my darling,” he always meant Bianca.

She made a motion to put away the music‐sheet before her, and take
another, but replaced it; and presently we heard her low voice, which half
sang, half spoke, the words:


    “Friend, the way is steep and lonely,
      Thickly grows the rue;
    All around are shadows only:
      May I walk with you?

    “Not too near; for, oh! your going
      Is upon the heights,
    Where the airs of heaven are blowing
      Through the morning lights.

    “Dare I brush the dews that glisten
      All about your feet?
    Can I listen where you listen?
      Meet the sights you meet?

    “Not too far—I faint at missing
      You from out my way.
    Vain is then the glory kissing
      All the peaks of day;

    “Vain are all the laughing showers
      Leading in the spring;
    All the summer green and flowers,
      All the birds that sing.

    “At your side my way is clearest:
      Tell me I may stay!
    Not too near—and yet, my dearest,
      Not too far away!”


“What does it mean?” asked Mr. Varney. “It seems to me very obscure.”

“Oh! a song isn’t expected to mean anything but melody,” somebody answered
rather hastily. “All that is required of the lines is that they should be
of the proper length. Sing the other, Bianca—the one I looked over to‐
day.”

The speaker knew that nothing suited Mr. Varney so well as a genuine love‐
song.

Bianca sang


    “O roses dewy, roses red and sweet!
      Tinting with your hues the summer air,
    Give my cheeks your blushes, give my mouth your breathing,
    Add such rounded beauty as is meet,
    Wrap me in the graces all your tendrils wreathing;
      For he loves me, and I would be fair.

    “O sunshine, playing with the swinging vine,
      Sift your gold through all my dusky hair,
    Gild each braid and ringlet with a softened glimmer,
      Hint the crown his love has rendered mine.
    Than the brightest eyes, oh! let not mine be dimmer;
      For he loves me, and I would be fair.

    “O lilies! in a drift of scented snow,
      Willing all your sweetness to immure
    In a leafy cloister, waves alone caressing,
      Give my soul your whiteness ere ye go,
    That its stainless beauty be to him a blessing;
      For he loves me, and I would be pure.

    “O faithful stars! I pray ye, touch me so
      With the virtue given unto you
    That I fail him never, living, nor yet dying,
      Howsoe’er the days may come and go,
    With a steadfast tenderness his life supplying;
      For he loves me, and I would be true.”


The first stroke of the _Ave Maria_ broke off the last chord of the song,
and there was silence in the room till the bells had sung their evening
chorus.




Matter. VI.


_Constitution of bodies._—We have hitherto explained and vindicated those
facts and principles which experience and reason point out to us as the
true foundations of a sound philosophical theory of matter. We are now
prepared to examine the much‐vexed question of the constitution of bodies;
nor are we deterred from our undertaking by the very common belief that
the essence of matter is, and will ever be, an impenetrable mystery; for
although the different schools of philosophy have long disputed about the
subject without being able to agree in their conclusions, we are confident
that these very conclusions, every one of which contains a portion of
truth, will afford us the means of reaching the true and complete solution
of the question.

The opinions at present entertained by philosophers about the constitution
of matter may be reduced to the three following:

Some affirm that the first constituents of natural bodies are the _first
matter_ and the _substantial form_, as explained by Aristotle and by his
followers. This view, which reigned supreme for centuries, we shall call
the _scholastic_ solution of the question.

Others affirm, on the contrary, that the first constituents of bodies are
_simple elements_, or points of matter, acting on each other from a
certain distance, and thus forming dynamical systems of different natures
according to their number, powers, and geometrical arrangement. This
second view, which, after Boscovich, found a great number of advocates, we
shall call the _dynamic_ solution of the question.

Finally, others affirm that the first constituents of bodies are
_molecules_, or _chemical atoms_. This view, based entirely on chemical
considerations, originated with Dalton, of Manchester, early in the
present century, and it was very favorably received by all men of science
as the true interpretation of chemical facts. This third view we shall
call the _atomic_ solution of the question.

The investigation of the grounds on which these three solutions are
supported will soon convince us that none of them can be entirely
rejected, as each of them has some foundation in truth. To begin with the
scholastic solution, all true philosophers know that God alone is a _pure
act_; whence it follows that all creatures essentially consist of _act_
and _potency_. This act and this potency, when there is question of
material things, are called _the substantial form_ and _the matter_. It is
therefore an evident truth that material substance is essentially
constituted of matter and substantial form. Against this doctrine nothing
can be objected by the advocates of the dynamic or of the atomic solution.

On the other hand, the doctrine which teaches that bodies are made up of
chemical atoms, or molecules, which have a definite nature and combine in
definite numbers, is very satisfactorily established by experimental
science; and nothing can be objected against it by speculative
philosophers. But, to prevent misconceptions, we must observe that this
theory does not consider the chemical atoms as absolutely indivisible, or
as absolutely primitive, or as so many pieces of continuous matter. The
word “atom” in chemistry signifies the least possible quantity of any
natural substance known to us. Atoms are chemical equivalents. Their
chemical indivisibility, on account of which they are called “atoms,” is a
fact of experience; but they are absolutely divisible, owing to their
physical composition; for we know by the balance that atoms of different
substances contain different quantities of matter; and their vibrations,
change of size, and variations of chemical activity with the variation of
circumstances, unmistakably show that their mass is a sum of units
substantially independent of one another, though naturally connected
together by mutual actions in one dynamical system. Their matter is
therefore discrete, not continuous.

As to the doctrine of simple and unextended elements, we have no need of
saying anything in particular in this place, as such a doctrine is a
simple corollary of the thesis concerning the impossibility of continuous
matter, which we have fully developed in our last article.

From these remarks it will be seen that to the question, _What are the
primitive constituents of bodies?_ three answers may be given, and each of
them true, if properly interpreted, as we shall presently explain. Thus it
is true, in a strictly metaphysical sense, that the primitive constituents
of bodies are the matter and the substantial form; it is true again, in a
certain other sense, that the primitive constituents of bodies are
chemical atoms; and it is true also, in a still different sense, that the
primitive constituents of bodies are simple and unextended elements. Hence
the scholastic solution does not necessarily clash with the atomic, nor
does this latter exclude the dynamic, but all three may stand together in
perfect harmony, or rather they are required by the very nature of the
question, in the same manner as three solutions are required by the nature
of a problem whose conditions give rise to an equation of the third
degree. The duty, therefore, of a philosopher, when he has to handle this
subject, is not to resort to one of the three solutions in order to attack
the others, as it is the fashion to do, but to investigate how the three
can be reconciled, and how truth in its fulness can be attained to by
their conjunction.

This may appear difficult to those whose philosophical bias in favor of a
long‐cherished opinion prevents them from looking at things in more than
one manner; but those whose mind is free from prejudice and exclusiveness
will readily acknowledge that whilst the atomists determine the
constituents of bodies by _chemical_ analysis, the dynamists, on the
contrary, determine those constituents by _mechanical_ analysis, and the
scholastics by _metaphysical_ analysis. Now, these analyses do not exclude
one another; they rather prepare the way to one another. Hence their
results cannot exclude one another, but rather lead to one another, and
give by their union a fuller expression of truth.

If we ask of an atomist, “What are the primitive constituents of a mass of
gold?” he will answer that they are _the atoms_, or the molecules, _of
gold_, as chemistry teaches him. This answer is very good, as it points
out the first _specific_ principles of the compound body; for we cannot go
further and resolve the molecule without destroying the specific nature of
gold. For this reason the atomist, when he has reached the atoms of gold,
stops there, and declares that the _analysis cannot go further_. He
evidently refers to the _chemical_ analysis.

If now we ask a dynamist, “What are the primitive constituents of a mass
of gold?” he will answer that they are _the simple elements_ of which the
molecules of gold are made up. This answer, too, is very good, as it
points out the first _physical_ principles of the compound body; for we
cannot go further and resolve the simple element without destroying the
physical being. For this reason the dynamist, when he has reached the
simple elements, stops there, and declares that _the analysis can go no
further_. Of course he means the _physical_ analysis.

Let us now ask of a schoolman, “What are the primitive constituents of a
mass of gold.” He will answer that they are the _substantial form_ and
_the matter_, as the last terms obtained by the metaphysical analysis of
substance. This last answer also is very good, as it points out the first
_metaphysical_ principles of substance. It should, however, be borne in
mind that this answer does not apply to the mass of the body as such, nor
to its molecules, but only to each primitive element contained in the mass
and in the molecules of the body, as we shall fully explain in another
place. When he has reached the substantial form and the matter, the
schoolman stops there, and declares that _the analysis can go no further_.
He means the _metaphysical_ analysis, which resolves the physical being
into metaphysical realities incapable of further resolution.

It is manifest that these three answers, however different, do not clash
with one another. Accordingly, the atomist, the dynamist, and the
schoolman may all agree in teaching truth, while they give different
answers. The fact is, they do not look at the question from the same point
of view, and, rigorously speaking, they solve different questions.

The first answers the question, What are the first _specific_ principles
of gold or the first golden particles; and he affirms that they are the
_molecules_ or _atoms_ of gold.

The second answers the question, What are the first _physical_ principles
of such golden particles? and he affirms that they are _unextended
elements_ or _primitive substances_.

The third answers the question, What are the first _metaphysical_
principles of those primitive substances? and he affirms that they are
_the matter_ and _the substantial form_.

This being the case, it may be asked how it came to pass that the atomic,
the dynamic, and the scholastic solutions have hitherto been considered as
irreconcilable. We reply that the three solutions would never have been
held irreconcilable, if their advocates had kept within reasonable limits
in the expression of their views. But as philosophers, like other people,
are often exclusive, narrow‐minded, and ready to oppose whatever comes
from a school which is not their own, it frequently happens that they are
too easily satisfied with a partial possession of truth, and disdain the
views of others who regard truth under a different aspect. By such a
course, instead of promoting, they hinder, the advance of philosophical
knowledge; and while fighting under the banner of a special school, which
they mistake for the banner of truth, they allow themselves to be carried
away by a spirit of contention, the unyielding character of which is the
greatest impediment in the way of philosophical progress. The constitution
of bodies is one of the subjects which, unfortunately, have been and are
still handled by different schools with remarkable unfairness to one
another. The atomist fights against the dynamist, and both despise the
follower of the schoolman; whilst the schoolman from the stronghold of his
metaphysical castle looks superciliously on both, confident that he will
eventually drive them out of the field of philosophy. This attitude of one
school towards another is not worthy of men who profess to love truth. If
the atomistic philosopher cannot go beyond the chemical analysis, we will
allow him to stop there, on condition, however, that he shall not claim a
right to prevent others, who may know better, from proceeding to further
investigations beyond the boundaries of chemistry. In like manner, if the
dynamist cannot rise to the consideration of the metaphysical principles
of substance, let him be satisfied with the consideration of the primitive
elements of matter, and dispense with further inquiries; but let him not
interfere with the work of the metaphysician, whose method and principles
he does not understand. As to the metaphysician himself, we would warn him
that, however deeply conversant he may be with the _general truths_
concerning the essential constituents of things, he is nevertheless in
danger of erring in their application to particular cases, unless he tests
his conclusions by the principles of chemical, mechanical, and physical
science; for it is from these sciences that we learn the true nature of
the facts and laws of the material world; and all metaphysical
investigation about the constitution of bodies must prove a failure, if it
lacks the foundation of real facts and their correct interpretation.

It is obvious, after all, that truth cannot fight against truth; and since
we have shown that each of the three solutions above given contains a
portion of truth, we cannot reject any of them absolutely, but we must
discard that only which troubles their harmony, and retain that through
which they complete and confirm one another.

We therefore admit the substantial points of the three systems on the
constitution of bodies, and recognize the general principles on which they
are established. The analysis of bodies carried on through all its degrees
leads to the following results:

First, by analyzing _the body_ chemically, we find the _atoms_, or
molecules, endowed with a determinate mass and with specific powers,
corresponding to the specific nature of the body. Such atoms are not
absolutely indivisible, though chemistry, as yet, cannot decompose them:
hence atoms are further analyzable.

Secondly, by analyzing _the atom_, or the molecule, we discover its
components, or primitive parts, called _primitive elements_, and primitive
substances, which are physically simple and unextended, and concur in
definite numbers to the constitution of definite molecular masses.

Finally, by analyzing _the simple element_ or the primitive substance,
which can no longer be resolved into physical parts, we find that such an
element consists of _act_ and _potency_, or, as we more frequently express
ourselves, of _form_ and _matter_, neither of which can exist separately,
as the first physical being which exists in nature is the substance
arising from their conspiration. Accordingly the form and the matter of
which the simple element consists are not physical, but only metaphysical,
principles, and they constitute a metaphysical, not a physical, compound.

These three conclusions are scientifically and philosophically certain;
and while they afford a sound basis to our reasonings on material objects,
they reconcile modern physics with the principles of old metaphysics. We
say _with the principles_, not _with the conclusions_; for we must own
that the old metaphysicians, owing to their insufficient knowledge of the
laws of nature, not unfrequently failed in the application of their
principles to the interpretation of natural facts. Thus the chemical, the
dynamical, and the scholastic views of the constitution of bodies cease to
be antagonistic, and each of the three schools is awarded all it can claim
consistently with the rights of truth.

As we intend to speak hereafter more in detail of the constitution of
bodies, we shall content ourselves at present with these general remarks
on the subject. It is manifest from what precedes that bodies and
molecules arise from simple elements, and are substances, not on account
of their bodily or molecular composition, but merely because their
primitive physical components, the elements, are substances. Hence the
question concerning the constitution of material substance, as such, does
not necessarily require any further research after the constitution of
bodies, but may be directly settled by the consideration of the elements
themselves.

We have already seen that the primitive elements of matter are rigorously
unextended; that each of them is endowed with _activity_, _passivity_, and
_inertia_, and is thus fitted to produce, receive, and conserve local
movement; and that the elementary activity, whether attractive or
repulsive, is exercised in a sphere according to a permanent law. And
since the essential constitution of things must be gathered from their
essential properties, it is of the utmost importance for us to ascertain
whether the principles of the material element may be fully determined by
its known properties, or whether the element may possess occult properties
which, if known, would modify our notion of its principles; for it is only
after an adequate knowledge of its principle of activity, of its principle
of passivity, and of the relation of the one to the other, that we can
safely pronounce a judgment about the essence of a primitive being.

We may ask, therefore, in the first place: _Does a simple element possess
any occult power besides its known power of attracting or repelling?_

This question must be answered in the negative. Occult powers and occult
qualities have been admitted by the ancient philosophers, and are admitted
even now, in _compound_ substances, not because any unknown power resides
in the first elements of which they are made up, but because the manner of
their composition, and consequently the manner of determining the
resultant of their elementary actions, transcends our conception and
baffles our calculations. Thus the phenomena of chemical affinity,
cohesion, capillarity, electricity, and magnetism depend on actions which
science cannot trace to their _primitive_ causes—viz., to the simple
elements—but only to their proximate causes, which are complex, and, as
such, follow different laws of causation corresponding to the different
modes of their constitution. Before we are able to trace such phenomena to
their simple and primitive causes, it would be necessary to find out the
intrinsic constitution of every molecule; the number, quality, and
arrangement of its constituent elements; the arrangement and distance of
the molecules in the body; and the mathematical formulas by which every
movement of each particle could be determined for every instant of time.
As this has not been done, and will never be done, the determination of
the causality of molecular phenomena remains, and will ever remain, an
insoluble problem, and the complex power from which any such phenomenon
proceeds remains, and will ever remain, unknown so far as it is the result
of an unknown composition, though we know, at least in general, the nature
of the primitive powers from which it results. In other terms, there are
no occult powers in matter, but only unknown resultants of known primitive
powers.

To prove this, we observe that an occult power is to be admitted, then,
only when a phenomenon occurs which cannot proceed from powers already
known. This is evident; for, when phenomena can be accounted for by known
powers, there is no ground for any inquiry about occult causes. In other
words, to look for occult causes without data or indications on which to
ground the induction, is to propose to one’s self a problem without
conditions; which no man in his senses would do. Now, no phenomenon has
been observed anywhere in material things which cannot proceed from the
known powers of attraction and repulsion; nay, it is positively certain
that all phenomena proceed from the same powers. For each material point,
when acted on, receives a determination to local movement, and nothing
else; and therefore the effect of the action of matter upon matter is
nothing but local movement, one element approaching to or retiring from
the other. Now, this is precisely what attractive and repulsive powers are
competent to do. Hence it is that in all the works of science and natural
philosophy the causality of phenomena of every kind is uniformly traced to
mere attractions and repulsions.

Again, if any occult power, besides that of attracting or repelling, be
assumed to reside in a primitive element of matter, such a power will
remain idle for ever, inasmuch as it will never be applicable to the
production of natural phenomena. On the other hand, it is obvious that a
power destined to remain idle for ever is an absurdity. It is therefore
absurd to assume that there is in the elements of matter any occult power
besides that of attracting or repelling. In this argument the minor
proposition is evident, because all active power is naturally destined to
act; whilst the major proposition is evidently inferred from the fact that
matter has no passivity, except with regard to local motion, as is
acknowledged by all philosophers, and as we shall presently show from
intrinsic reasons. Whence it follows that, if there were in matter any
hidden power not destined, as the attractive and the repulsive are, to
produce local movement, such a power would be absolutely useless, as
absolutely inapplicable to any other matter, and would remain in this
absurd condition for ever. We need not, therefore, trouble ourselves with
the absurd hypothesis of occult powers; and we conclude, accordingly, that
the principle of activity of a primitive element is merely attractive or
repulsive, as explained in one of our past articles.

It may be asked, in the second place: _Is the centre of a simple element
to be identified with the principle of passivity of the element?_

This question must be answered in the affirmative. For the principle of
passivity is that to which the action is terminated; but the action of any
one element of matter is terminated to the centre of any other element;
therefore the centre of any element is its principle of passivity. The
minor proposition of this syllogism might be proved by metaphysical
considerations(156); but we may prove it more clearly in the following
manner: Locomotive action implies direction, and no direction can be
really taken in space except from a real point to another real point. Now,
that by which any two elements, _A_ and _B_, mark out two distinct points
in space, is the centre of their sphere of action. The direction of the
action is therefore from the centre of _A_ to the centre of _B_, and _vice
versa_—that is, the action of the one is terminated to the centre of the
other. And thus it is evident that each single element receives the action
of every other element in its central point, which is, accordingly, the
passive principle of the element. This conclusion may be expressed in this
other manner: In a material element the matter (passive principle) is a
point from which the action of the element is directed towards other
points in space, and to which the actions of other material points in
space are directed.

We may remark, also, that material elements, whilst they are always ready
to receive movement from extrinsic agents, cannot apply their own power to
themselves, because they are inert. This being the case, it obviously
follows that the action of an extrinsic agent on an element is terminated
there where the action of the element itself cannot be terminated. Now, a
little reflection will show that the centre of the element is just the
point where the action of the element itself cannot be terminated. For as
locomotive action implies direction, and as no direction can be had from
the centre of activity to itself, but only from a point to a distinct
point, the action of the element upon its own centre is a metaphysical
impossibility. Whence we conclude that the principle of passivity, or that
in which the primitive element is liable to receive a determination to
local movement, is nothing else than the intrinsic term of its essence,
the centre from which it directs its action in a sphere, or, in other
terms, the matter itself as contradistinguished from the substantial form.

In the third place, it may be asked: _Can it be proved that a material
element is susceptible of nothing but local movement?_

We answer: Yes. For we have shown that the passivity of the material
element resides in a mere mathematical point, which, having no bulk,
cannot be liable to _intrinsic_ changes, and therefore is susceptible of
such determinations only as will bring about a change of _extrinsic_
relations. It is hardly necessary to explain that such a change of
extrinsic relations is always brought about by local movement; for such
relations either are distances or depend on distances; and distances
cannot be modified except by local movement. It is thus manifest that
material elements are susceptible of nothing but local movement. Hence the
passivity of matter is confined to the reception of local movement alone.

From this well‐known truth we may again confirm our preceding solution of
the question concerning occult powers. For the activity and the passivity
of a simple element essentially respond to one another in the same manner
and with as strict a necessity as _giving_ and _receiving_, and since they
spring from the principles of one and the same primitive essence, they
must belong to one and the same kind. If, then, there were in the material
elements any occult power besides that which produces local movement,
there would be also a correspondent passivity not destined to receive
local movement; for without this new passivity the occult power could not
be exercised. And since the passivity of matter is limited to the sole
reception of local movement, none but locomotive power can be admitted to
reside in matter.

_Essence of material substance._—We are now ready to answer with all
desirable precision and clearness the question, “What is the essence of
material substance?”—a question not at all formidable, when the active and
the passive principle of matter have been properly defined and elucidated.
Our answer is as follows:

The essence, or quiddity, of a thing is really nothing else than its
nature; hence if we know the principles which constitute the nature of the
material element, we know in fact the essence of material substance. Now,
the principles which constitute any given created nature are _an act of a
certain kind_—that is, a certain principle of activity; and _a
corresponding potency_—that is, a corresponding principle of passivity.
Whence we conclude that the principles of a material nature are _the act
by which such a nature is determined to act in a sphere and to cause local
movement_, and _the potency on account of which the same nature is liable
to receive local movement_. And since the said act is called “the
substantial form,” and the said potency “the matter,” we conclude that the
essence of material substance _consists of matter and substantial form_.

This conclusion is by no means new; it expresses, on the contrary, the
universal doctrine of the ancient philosophers on the essence of material
substance. But it must be observed that we limit this doctrine to the
essence of primitive elements, which alone can be rigorously styled “first
substances,” whilst the ancients, owing to their imperfect notions of
natural things, applied the same doctrine to compound substances, which
they believed to arise by substantial generation instead of material
composition. Thus our conclusion is more guarded and less comprehensive
than that of the old metaphysicians. Moreover, the ancient philosophers,
who did not know the primitive elements, but assumed the continuity of
matter, could not picture to themselves the intellectual notions of matter
and substantial form in a sensible manner, and certainly were unable to
find any _true_ sensible image of them; and for this reason their
speculations about the essence of material substance remained imperfect
and their explanations obscure and unsatisfactory. We, on the contrary,
thanks to the investigations and discoveries made in the last centuries,
have the advantage of knowing that all matter is subject to gravitation,
and acts in a sphere according to a constant and very simple law, which
presides over the molecular and chemical no less than the astronomical
phenomena; and we are thus enabled to form a true and genuine conception
of the matter and form of the primitive element, founded on ascertained
facts, and free from false or incongruous imaginations. Hence the words
“matter” and “form,” as employed by us, have such a clear and precise
sense that no room is left for their misinterpretation.

We therefore know, and _clearly_ too, the essence of primitive material
substance, whatever may be said to the contrary by some admirers of the
old philosophy, who spurn the discoveries of modern physics, or by some
modern thinkers, who revile all metaphysical analysis as mere rubbish.

The essential definition of material substance, as such, is therefore the
following: _Material substance is a being fit to cause and receive merely
local motion._ This definition is fuller than the one adopted by the
ancients, who defined matter to be “a movable being”—_Ens mobile._ Of
course, when they spoke of a “movable” being, the ancients referred to
“local” movement; but, as there are movements of some other kinds, none of
which can be produced or received by matter, we prefer to keep the epithet
“local” as prominent as possible in our definition, and we add the adverb
“merely” as a further limitation required by the nature of the subject.
The old definition mentions nothing but the mobility of matter. This is
owing to the fact that the ancients had no notion of universal attraction,
and considered the activity of material substance as dependent on
movement, according to their axiom: _Nihil movet nisi motum._ But as we
know, on the one hand, that the specific differences of things must be
derived from their formal rather than from their material constitution,
and, on the other, as the constituent form of the material element is an
efficient principle of local motion, we include in the definition of
matter its aptitude both to produce and to receive local motion “as the
_complete_ specific difference” which distinguishes material substance
from any other being whatever.

It seems to us that our definition of matter wants neither clearness nor
precision. Indeed, we would be unable to make it clearer or more accurate;
and as for its soundness, let our readers, who have hitherto followed our
reasonings, judge for themselves.

In the opinion of most modern philosophers, the essence of matter consists
of _extension_ and _resistance_. From what has preceded it is evident that
this opinion is utterly false. Extension is not a property of matter as
such, but only of physical compounds containing a multitude of distinct
material points; and, even in this case, it is not the matter, but the
volume, or the place circumscribed by the extreme terms of the body, that
can be styled “extended,” as we have shown in our last article. As to
resistance, it suffices to remark that no accidental act belongs to the
essence of substance; hence resistance, which is an accidental act, cannot
enter into the definition of matter. Some will say that, if not
resistance, at least _the power of resisting_, belongs to the essence of
matter. But not even this is true. The material element has the power of
attracting or of repelling; but such a power cannot be considered as
formally _resisting_. Resistance is a particular case of repulsion, when
the agent by its repulsive exertion gradually lessens and exhausts the
velocity of an approaching mass of matter; but resistance may also be a
particular case of attraction, inasmuch as the agent by its attractive
exertion gradually lessens and exhausts the velocity of a mass of matter
receding from it. Hence all material substance has a motive power, either
attractive or repulsive; but neither of them can be described as a
resisting power; for attractivity does not resist the movement of an
approaching body, nor does repulsivity resist the movement of a receding
body. It is scarcely necessary to add that the notion of a resisting power
essential to matter is a remnant of the old prejudice consisting in the
belief that, when two bodies come in contact, the matter of the one
precludes, by its materiality, bulk, and inertia, the further advance of
the other. Nothing is more common, with the followers of the ancient
theories, than the assumption that the matter of bodies _by its quantity
and by its occupation of space_ resists the passage of any other matter.
We have shown elsewhere that resistance is action, and therefore is not
owing to the inert matter standing in the way of the approaching body, but
to the active power of which the inert matter is the centre.

To complete our elucidation of the essential definition of matter,
something remains to be said about the inertia of material substance. We
shall see that inertia is not a constituent, but only a result of the
constitution, of matter; whence it follows that no mention of inertia is
needed in the essential definition of material substance. In fact, the
notion of this substance includes nothing but the essential act and the
essential term, that is, the principle of activity and the principle of
passivity, both concerned with local motion only. To have a principle of
activity and a principle of passivity is in the nature of all created
substances, and constitutes their _generic_ entity; hence the mention of
these two principles in our definition serves to point out the _genus_ of
material substance; whilst the intrinsic ordination of the same principles
to _local_ motion serves to point out the essential _difference_ which
separates matter from any other substance.

_Inertia._—Many confound the inertia of matter with its passivity, and
consider inertia as one of the essential constituents of matter. It is not
difficult, however, to show that inertia and passivity are two distinct
properties. Those who reduce the principles of real being to an _act_ and
a _term_, without taking notice of its essential _complement_,(157) reduce
in fact the intrinsic properties of real being to activity and passivity,
the one proceeding from the act, and the other from the potential term;
and thus the inertia of matter, for which they cannot account by any
distinct principle, is considered by them as an attribute of matter
identical with, or at least involved in, its real passivity. The truth is
that, as the act and the potency, which constitute the essence of a
material being, are the formal source of its actuality, so also the
activity connatural to that act, and the passivity connatural to that
potency, are the formal source of the inertia by which the same being is
characterized. This will be easily understood by a glance at the nature of
inertia.

That inertia is not passivity is clear enough; for passivity is the
potentiality of receiving an impression from without, whereas inertia is
the incapability of receiving an impression from within; passivity is that
on account of which matter receives the determination to move, whereas
inertia is that on account of which matter cannot change that
determination, but is obliged to obey it, by moving with the received
velocity in the given direction. The determination to move is received
only while the agent acts, that is, as long as the passivity is being
actuated, and no longer; whereas the movement itself, which follows such a
determination, continues, owing to inertia, without need of continuing the
action, so that, if all further action were to cease, the moving matter,
owing to its inertia, would persevere in its movement for ever.

Moreover, whence does the passivity and whence does the inertia of matter
proceed? Matter is passive, because its substantial term, whose reality
entirely depends on actuation, is still actuable or potential with regard
to accidental acts. Passivity is therefore nothing but the further
actuability of the substantial term; whilst, on the contrary, matter is
inert, because its substantial act and its substantial term are so related
to one another that the motive power possessed by the former can never
terminate its action to the latter; for this is the only reason why a
material element cannot modify the determinations which it receives from
without. Hence inertia is nothing but the result of the special relation
intervening between the principle of activity and the principle of
passivity in the constitution of material substance; or, in other terms,
inertia is a corollary of the essential correlation of form and matter,
and, therefore, is to be traced, not, as passivity, to the essential term
of the substance, but to its essential complement. This shows that, in the
phrase _matter is inert_, the word “matter” stands for the material
substance itself, and not for _the_ matter, or potential term, which is
under the substantial form, and whose character is passivity.

The question we have here discussed may seem of very little importance;
yet we had to give its solution, not only because the confusion of
distinct notions is a source of difficulties and sophisms, but also
because the given solution confirms the necessity of admitting the
essential complement as the third principle of real being, and because in
spiritual substances there is passivity, though not inertia; which shows
how indispensable is our duty of distinguishing between the two.

From the preceding remarks we infer also that inertia belongs to the
essence of material substance, not, however, as a constituent principle,
but only as something implied in the nature of its constituent principles.
As it is impossible to alter the nature of such principles without
destroying the essence of matter, so also it is impossible for matter to
cease to be inert so long as its essence remains unchanged. In a word,
_non‐inert matter_ is a metaphysical impossibility.

Lastly, we may add that inertia does not admit of degrees; and therefore
all material elements are equally inert. In fact, when we say that matter
is inert, we mean, as has been explained, that material substance is
entirely and absolutely incapable of imparting motion to itself. Now,
absolute incapacity is perfect incapacity, and does not admit of degrees.
Hence we may find in different bodies more or less of inert matter, but
not more or less of inertia. This is true also of the passivity of matter;
that is, we may find in different bodies more or less of passive matter,
but not more or less of passivity; for passivity, as consisting in an
absolute liability to accidental actuation, cannot admit of degrees.

_A few conclusions._—It may be useful, and may prove satisfactory to our
readers, to cast a glance over the ground we have trodden and the results
so far reached. The sum and substance of the doctrine which we have
endeavored to establish is contained in the following propositions:

I. Matter is not continuous, nor divisible _in infinitum_, nor has it any
intrinsic quantity connected in any manner with its essential
constitution.

II. All bodies are ultimately made up of primitive elements, physically
simple and unextended, which being reached, the physical division of
bodies cannot go further.

III. The primordial molecules, or so‐called “atoms,” of all substances are
so many systems of simple elements dynamically bound with one another by
mutual action.

IV. The continuous extension, or geometric quantity, usually predicated of
bodies, is the extension of the place comprised within the extreme limits
of each body. It is, in other terms, the extension of the volume, not of
the matter. Nevertheless, such an extension may be called “material,” not
only because the terms of its dimensions are material, but also because in
most bodies the elements and the molecules are so close that their action
on our senses produces the appearance of material continuity.

V. The extension of bodies is real, though their material continuity is
merely apparent; hence only the volumes of bodies, and not their masses,
can be properly styled _extended_.

VI. The true _absolute_ mass of a body is the number of primitive elements
it contains.

VII. The primitive elements are of two kinds, some of them always and
everywhere attractive, others always and everywhere repulsive. The matter,
however, is the same in both kinds, and bears the same relation to its
form, whether this be of an attractive or of a repulsive nature.

VIII. There are no other powers in the primitive elements than that of
attracting and that of repelling.

IX. All primitive elements have a sphere of activity, throughout which
they constantly act according to the Newtonian law—that is, in the inverse
ratio of the squared distances, even when the distance is molecular; and
no distance, however great, can be designated where the action of an
element will not have a finite intensity.

X. The active power of primitive elements cannot be exerted in the
immediate contact of matter with matter, distance being an essential
condition of all locomotive actions.

XI. The elementary power acts immediately on all distant matter throughout
its sphere, independently of any material medium of transmission or
communication. Movement, however, cannot be propagated without a material
medium.

XII. The term _from which_ the action of any given element is directed,
and the term _in which_ the same element receives the motion caused by
other elements, is one and the same, viz., the real centre of its sphere
of activity; and it is called _the matter_. The act from which such a
centre receives its first existence is called _the substantial form_; and
it has a spherical character, inasmuch as it constitutes a virtual
indefinite sphere.

XIII. The essence of a primitive element of matter is by no means a
mystery. The essential definition of such an element is “a substance fit
to cause and to receive mere local motion.”

XIV. Inertia is an essential property of material substance, no less than
activity and passivity. Inertia admits of no degrees.

XV. The so‐called “force of inertia” is neither the inertia itself nor any
special motive power; but it merely expresses a certain exercise of the
elementary powers dependent on the inertia of the matter acted on; for
bodies, on account of their inertia, cannot leave their place before they
have received in all their parts a suitable velocity. Hence while such a
velocity is being communicated to a body, the body which is acted on
cannot yield its place to the impinging body; and consequently, during the
struggle of two bodies, the one which impinges loses a quantity of
movement equal to that which it imparts to the mass impinged upon. The
loss of movement in the impinging body is therefore caused, not by the
inertia of the body impinged upon, but by its elementary powers as
exercised by it during the reception of the momentum.

The foregoing conclusions, as every attentive reader must have noticed,
have been drawn from nothing but known facts and received principles; we
may therefore consider them as fully established. The more so as we have
taken care to examine both sides of each question, and have given not only
such direct proofs of each conclusion as would suffice to convince all
unprejudiced minds, but also every objection that we have been able to
find against our own views, and have thus found the opportunity of
confirming, by our answers to the same, the truth of the doctrine
propounded. There may be other objections which did not occur to our mind;
yet it is likely that their solution will need no new considerations
besides those already developed in the preceding pages. Should any other
difficulty occur to the reader which cannot be answered by those
considerations, we would earnestly entreat him to propound it to us, that
we may try its strength. We are always glad to hear a new objection
against what we hold to be true. For objections either can or cannot be
solved. If they can, their solution will throw a new light on the doctrine
we defend; and if they cannot, their insolubility will show us some weak
point, or at least some impropriety of our language, and will thus cause
us to correct our expressions or modify our opinions. Whatever helps us to
regard things under some new point of view is calculated to enlarge our
conceptions, to make our language clearer and more precise, and to
strengthen our philosophical convictions. Those alone need to be afraid of
objections who draw their conclusions from arbitrary hypotheses, instead
of established truths.

We conclude the present article with a short answer to a question, which
has often been raised by timorous people, concerning what may be styled
the cardinal point of our doctrine on matter‐viz., the _simplicity_ of
material elements. The question is the following: If we admit that the
elements of matter are physically simple, is there not a serious danger of
setting at naught the essential difference between the spiritual and the
material substance, and are we not drifting thus into materialism?

We reply that no such danger needs to be apprehended. For it is not true
that physical simplicity constitutes the essential difference between
spirit and matter. Every primitive being is physically simple; and yet it
does not follow that all primitive beings belong to the same species. On
the other hand, spirit and matter, notwithstanding their physical
simplicity, evidently belong to different species. The element of matter
is inert—that is, though acting all around itself, it cannot exercise its
activity within itself; whereas the spiritual substance exercises its
activity within as well as without itself, and continually modifies its
own interior state by its vital operations. Again, the element of matter
is ubicated in space, and marks a local point, from which it directs its
action in a sphere; whereas the spiritual substance neither marks a local
point in space nor acts in a sphere, but determines both the direction and
the intensity of its action as it pleases. Moreover, the element of matter
has nothing but locomotive power; whereas the spiritual substance
possesses not only the locomotive, but also, and principally, the thinking
and the willing powers, by which it vastly transcends all material being.
This suffices to show that spirit and matter, though physically simple,
have an entirely different metaphysical constitution—that is, a different
substantial act, a different substantial term, and a different substantial
complement. Hence the simplicity of the material element does not set at
naught the essential difference between matter and spirit.

Those whose metaphysical notions about material substance still hang upon
the physics of the ancients will be loath to admit that our unextended
element can be physically simple; for they have been taught to believe
that wherever there is matter and form, there is _physical_ composition.
But such a notion is evidently wrong; for where in the element are the
_physical_ components, without which physical composition is impossible?
Can we say that the matter and the substantial form are _physical_
components? Certainly not; for the form without the matter cannot exist,
nor can the matter exist without the form. Both are absolutely required
for the constitution of the _primitive_ physical being. How, then, can
they be conceived as physical beings, if no physical being can be
conceived before their meeting in one essence and in a common existence? A
physical compound is a compound whose components have a distinct and
independent existence in nature; for physical beings alone can be physical
components, and nothing which has not a distinct and independent existence
in nature can be called a physical being, except by an abuse of terms. The
physical being is a complete being—that is, an act materially completed by
its intrinsic term, and formally completed by its individual actuality.
All beings that are incomplete, and whose existence depends on other
cognate beings, are no more than _metaphysical_ realities. Hence the
substantial form of the element, which has no separate existence, is not a
physical, but only a metaphysical, being; and in the same manner, the
matter to which that form gives the first existence is not a physical, but
only a metaphysical, reality. Whence it follows that the composition of
matter and substantial form is not a physical, but only a metaphysical,
composition; and, further, that the primitive element is indeed a
metaphysical, but not a physical, compound.

On this subject we shall have more to say when explaining the peripatetic
theory of substantial generations, which assumes that the substantial form
can be changed without changing the matter. It is on this assumption that
the physical distinction between matter and form has been maintained. We
shall prove in the most irrefragable manner that the assumption is based
on an equivocation about the meaning of the epithet “substantial” as
applied to natural forms, and that no form which is truly and strictly
substantial—that is, which gives the first being to its matter—can leave
its matter and be subrogated by another substantial form.

To Be Continued.




Robespierre. Concluded.


We know how the son of S. Louis passed his last hours on earth; let us see
how the men who sentenced him—against their consciences—prepared for that
solemn passage. One, named Valazé, on hearing the sentence, stabbed
himself, and fell dead in the court; he was dragged back with the others
to prison. The remaining twenty‐one passed their death‐vigil in riotous
singing and drinking and making merry; in improvising a comedy where
Robespierre and the devil conversed in hell; the dead Valazé meanwhile
lying in his blood in the same room. Vergniaud, who so hesitated to vote
“death” for the king, is now bent on escaping the block by poisoning
himself; but he has only poison enough for one, so he throws away the
dose, too generous to desert his companions in their last journey. They
will all go together; so, after a night of bacchanalian shouting and
carousing, they all set forth in the fatal tumbrel; even dead Valazé is
flung in to have his head cut off, that the guillotine may not be done out
of its prey. They jolt on, singing the _Marseillaise_ and crying Vive la
République. One by one the heads fall, the chorus grows weaker, and at
last ceases to be heard. The Girondists are gone. Robespierre is King of
the Revolution now, and reigns supreme over its destinies. Now let him
prove what truth there is in the plea put forth by his apologists that he
was only cruel from necessity, from the pressure put upon him by his
fellow‐demagogues. His accession to undivided responsibility was, on the
contrary, the signal for greater slaughter, and we see the number of
victims swelling in proportion to the growth of his individual power. Look
at the lists of the _Moniteur_. In July, 1793, there were thirteen persons
condemned by the revolutionary tribunal of Paris, and in July of the
following year the number sent by it to the guillotine was eight hundred
and thirty‐five!

But this system of legal assassination was beginning to recoil on the head
of its inventor. The murder of the Girondists was an impolitic act that
Robespierre soon repented of. He had made a precedent in attacking the
representatives of the nation, hitherto inviolate; and now that the
longing for vengeance was satisfied, he was clear‐sighted enough to
perceive what the cost was likely to be. He had sacrificed his rivals, but
he had imperilled his own head. From this day forward he seemed haunted by
the shadow of coming retribution. He had poured out the blood of those who
stood beside him, and now he was slipping in it; his footing was no longer
secure; the words “assassination,” “victim of the poignard of revenge,”
etc., etc., were continually on his lips, and there is evidence that his
life was poisoned by the constant dread of being murdered by some of the
friends of his victims. Those who had hitherto aided and abetted his
atrocities now began to look with suspicion and terror on him; even Danton
tried to back out of the partnership, and to talk of “the joys of private
life” in a way that suggested he had had enough of the glories of public
life. He had just married a young and beautiful woman, whose influence was
said to have already exercised a humanizing effect on his ferocious
nature. She had brought him independence, too, so there was every
inducement to him to quit the shambles, and leave Robespierre there alone
in his glory. He withdrew from the Public Safety Committee, and ceased
almost altogether to attend the meetings of the Convention. Robespierre
understood this significant change. He saw his accomplices were deserting
him, and he trembled. The Revolution, Saturn‐like, was devouring her own
children; why should not the hunters be devoured by their own dogs? Every
one was falling away from the tyrant. Camille Desmoulins and Hébert,
lately his devoted friends, were gathering up a rival faction dubbed
Ultra‐Revolutionists, and, aided by Hébert’s abominable newspaper, _Père
Duchêsne_, they and their followers set to work to hunt down the popular
idol. Robespierre was known to harbor a sneaking prejudice in favor of
some sort of religion, and once even openly declared his opinion that some
such institution was necessary for governing with effect. The Ultras used
this admission as a means of insulting him, and at the same time weakening
his prestige. They got hold of an unfortunate, half‐witted man named
Gobel, an apostate priest, dressed him up as an archbishop, and,
surrounded by a crowd of mock priests and prelates, they led him, riding
on an ass, to the Convention; here he made a burlesque and blasphemous
abjuration of his former state and belief, and solemnly pronounced the
_Credo_ of atheism, and the worship of the goddess Reason. The law‐givers,
thereupon, amidst the frantic enthusiasm of the crowd, decreed that “God
and all superstition were abolished,” and the worship of Reason
substituted in their place. A monstrous ceremony was at once organized to
celebrate the new religion: an actress was carried to the cathedral of
Notre Dame, dressed—or undressed—as the goddess of this adoption,
enthroned on the consecrated altar of the living God, while the populace
passed before her in adoration. The walls of the sacred temple re‐echoed
to the hymn of liberty, the _Marseillaise_, and were profaned with horrors
that no Christian pen may retrace. Similar scenes were enacted in the
other churches. Venerable old S. Eustache was turned into a fair; tables
were spread with sausages, pork‐puddings, herrings, and bottles; children
were forced to sing songs and give toasts, and to drink to the half‐naked
goddess; and when the little ones—the precious little ones of Jesus—got
drunk, there was huge merriment amongst the spectators.

The shrine of S. Geneviève was torn down and desecrated. The tombs of the
kings of France at S. Denis were broken open, and the ashes scattered
abroad with every species of insult. The _Moniteur_ thus describes the
spectacle the streets of Paris presented during the Festival of Reason:
“Most of the people were drunk with the brandy they had swallowed out of
Chalices—eating mackerel on the Patens!... They stopped at the doors of
dramshops, held out Ciboriums, and the landlord, stoop in hand, had to
fill them thrice.” Other things are recorded of this demoniacal saturnalia
which had best be left unsaid—if happily they be yet unknown to Catholic
hearts.

The provinces followed suit. Lyons sacked her churches, and drove a mitred
ass through her streets, trailing the sacred volumes at his tail. The
Loire was polluted with drowned bodies of priests. At Nantes ninety
priests are embarked at dead of night under hatches; in the middle of the
stream the boat is scuttled, and goes down with her human cargo. These are
the _noyades_. Then follow others of more than a hundred at a time. Oh!
these priests, these men of the Gospel of Christ, at any cost they must be
got rid of! The guillotine is too slow; let us have fire and water to the
rescue! So there are the fusillades; men, women, priests, and nuns fall
under the showers of grapeshot as fast as they can be gathered and ranged
in line—mothers with infants at their breasts, children clinging to one
another—five hundred at a batch they go. The mother Revolution herself is
turning sick of it. Robespierre alone shows no signs of squeamishness;
but, whether from sagacity or some latent moral—perhaps even
religious—instinct, he repudiated the sacrilegious excesses which
inaugurated and followed the installation of the new goddess. He saw, too,
that it was an arrow pointed at himself. He denounced Hébert at the
Jacobin Club, ridiculed his new‐fangled divinity, and declared that if
“God did not exist, a wise law‐giver would have invented him.” Hébert
winced; Camille Desmoulins started the _Vieux Cordelier_, and began to
broach the doctrine of clemency and the savage stupidity of useless blood‐
shedding. Never since the Revolution began had such theories been hinted
at. The country was growing nauseated with wholesale butcheries; the
daring words of the _Vieux Cordelier_ were heard with wonder and welcomed
with deep though silent applause. Robespierre might have tolerated the
humane doctrines of the newspaper, if it had abstained from personal
aggression; but Desmoulins used his weapon of sarcasm unsparingly against
the tyrant, on one occasion twitting him, half facetiously, with his
aristocratic origin, as proved by the discarded _de_ formerly prefixed to
his name. Robespierre grew pale—paler than his usual sea‐green hue—on
reading this, and Desmoulins’ doom was sealed. Hébert went first; he, with
nineteen of the faction, perished in one hour on the scaffold, in March,
1794. Ten days later Camille and Danton fell. It is yet a mystery why
Danton was thus quickly sacrificed; he was apparently on good terms with
Robespierre, and had pointed no witticisms at him like the editor of the
_Vieux Cordelier_. The tyrant himself gives no explanation in his long‐
winded speeches on the hard necessity which compelled him “to sacrifice
private friendship to the good of the country,” and so on. But whatever
the motive may have been, the act drew upon its perpetrator the aversion
and contempt of those who till then had been his staunchest followers and
supporters. Every one was terrified for his own head. Danton’s fall seemed
to bring the axe to every man’s door. Robespierre was now alone, more
terribly alone than the lost traveller in the desert. His fellows shunned
him, or shuddered when he passed. He lived in perpetual fear of being
assassinated, though it is doubtful whether any attempt was ever made on
his life. Several were trumped up with a view to uplifting his tottering
popularity; but though the accused persons were guillotined with great
pomp and _éclat_, the proofs of their intended crime were extremely
doubtful. A last expedient yet remained.

Robespierre would re‐establish the existence of God, and thus be a prophet
as well as a king. He decreed, accordingly, a great meeting which should
atone for Hébert’s Feast of Reason and annihilate its brief triumph. It
was to take place in the Tuileries gardens. Robespierre, while working the
axe so assiduously, never bespattered himself with the blood of his
instrument. In a time when _sans‐culottism_ made dirt and Bohemian gear
the fashion, he remained a dandy, powdered and frizzled in the midst of
legislators who prided themselves on dirty hands and begrimed linen. For
this gala‐day of his new religion he ordered a fine sky‐blue silk coat,
white‐silk waistcoat embroidered with silver, white stockings, and gold
shoe‐buckles. Thus equipped, the Prophet of the Mountain sallied forth to
patronize the Omnipotent and decree the existence of a Supreme Being. He
ascended the rostrum with a bouquet of flowers in his hand, made a fulsome
discourse in a vein of sentimental deism, and then proceeded to unveil the
effigy of atheism, a hideous caricature, made of paste‐board, besmeared
with turpentine and other inflammable stuffs, to which he applied a
lighted torch. The flame leaped up, and Atheism, amidst shouts and
cracklings, burned itself to dust; then from the ashes rose up another
effigy, the statue of Wisdom, supposed to symbolize the new religion, but
sorrily smutted and begrimed by the subsiding smoke of Atheism. No wonder
Billaud should exclaim, “Get thee gone! Thou art a bore, thyself and thy
_Etre Suprême_.”

O merciful God! may heaven and earth praise thee, and all the creatures
therein, for thou art verily a God of love, long suffering and patient!

And now that Robespierre has duly installed his _Etre Suprême_, and
decreed, moreover, “that consoling principle, the immortality of the
soul,” and obliterated from the graves of murdered citizens the hitherto
obligatory inscription, “Death is an eternal sleep,” what is there left
for him to do? Nothing, apparently, but to go on killing. The
revolutionary tribunal must be made to work with greater speed, and so it
is split into four fractions, each with its president, and empowered to
try and condemn as fast as it can. Even the Mountain quaked when this
proposition was uttered at its base; but the law was carried, and
henceforth the guillotine quadruples its business. Fouquier‐Tinville sets
up one of “improved velocity,” and boasts of being able to make room for a
batch of one hundred and fifty at one time. He wants to establish one in
the Tuileries itself, but Collot protests that this would “demoralize the
instrument.” It did not matter, apparently, how much the instrument
demoralized the people. These sit at their windows watching for the
tumbrels to pass, criticising the occupants, joking and enjoying
themselves. Women fight for seats near the scaffold, where day after day
they sit knitting, counting off the heads, as they fall, by the prick of a
pin in a bit of card‐board. These are the “furies of the guillotine.”

But to make the new law, called _22me Prairial_, more fully available, it
was necessary to provide extra work for the executioners. Fouquier‐
Tinville was equal to the occasion. He got up an accusation against the
occupants of the prisons for “conspiring against the Convention.” Let us
cast a glance into these prisons, where, at this crisis, twelve thousand
human beings lie literally _rotting_ to death. The memoirs of the time
agree in describing the twelve houses of arrest (the original prisons had
long since been increased to that number) as dens of noisome horror never
equalled in any other clime or period. Noble dames, maidens of tender
years, were huddled pell‐mell with the worst and most wretched of their
sex; nobles and shoe‐blacks, priests and ruffians, nuns and actresses,
crowded by day and night into the condemned cells, where every night the
turnkey came and read his list for the morrow’s “batch.” Then followed
scenes such as no pen or painter’s brush could adequately describe. “Men
rush towards the grate; listen if their name be in it; ... one deep‐drawn
breath when it is not. We live still one day! And yet some score or scores
of names were in. Quick these; they clasp their loved ones to their heart
one last time. With brief adieu, wet‐eyed or dry‐eyed, they mount and are
away. This night to the _Conciergerie_; through the palace, misnamed of
Justice, to the guillotine to‐morrow.” These were the persons whom
Tinville’s ready wit accused of getting up a plot to overthrow the
Convention! But what did it signify whether the story was an impossibility
as well as a lie? The four tribunals must have work, the guillotine must
have food. In three days—the 7th, 9th, and 10th of July—one hundred and
seventy‐one prisoners were executed on the charge of conspiring from the
depth of their squalid dungeons to overturn the state. So much did the
newly‐discovered _Etre Suprême_ do towards softening the rule of
Robespierre.

But, oh! are we not sick of the ghastly tale? It is now hurrying to a
close.

Barère, one of the fiercest of the revolutionary gang who had so far
escaped the guillotine, gave a bachelor’s dinner at a suburban villa on a
warm day in July, Robespierre being among the guests. The weather was
intensely hot, and the company, unshackled by stiff conventionalities,
threw off their coats, and sauntered out to sip their coffee under the
trees in easy _déshabillé_. Carnot wanted his pocket‐handkerchief, and
went indoors to fetch it. While looking for his own coat he espied
Robespierre’s fantastic sky‐blue garment, and, prompted by a sudden
thought, put his hand into the pockets, wondering if any secret might be
lurking there. What were his feelings on discovering a list of forty names
told off for the guillotine, his own amongst the number! He carried off
the paper, showed it discreetly to his friends, and they agreed that
Robespierre must be made away with. Two days later he appears at the
Convention, and is met by dark faces that scowl when he ascends the
tribune, and show no docile acquiescence when he speaks. Terror for their
own lives has at last stirred these dull, brutalized accomplices to raise
their voice and protest against the tyrant. He is impeached by common
acclamation. He defends himself in a passionate harangue, accusing Mr.
Pitt and King George of having bribed the Convention to arrest him, after
sowing calumnies against him in the minds of the people. The charges
against him were numerous and heavy; he answered them all with vehemence
and a certain wild, disjointed eloquence, and wound up by the following
denunciation: “No, _death is not an eternal sleep_! The nation will not
submit to a desperate and desolating doctrine that covers nature itself
with a funereal shroud; that deprives virtue of hope, and misfortune of
consolation, and insults even death itself. No; we will efface from our
tombs your sacrilegious epitaph, and replace it with the consoling truth,
‘Death is the beginning of immortality!’ ” The speech produced an effect
on the Assembly, but it did not secure a real success. The next day Saint‐
Just mounted the tribune to defend Robespierre; but he had hardly begun
his discourse when cries of “Down with the tyrant!” forced him to give it
up. Robespierre stood at his place, utterly abandoned by the members of
the Assembly, where twenty‐four hours ago he ruled with despotic and
unrivalled sway. Not a voice was raised in his behalf. He strove to obtain
a hearing, but his words were drowned in shouts of “Away with him! down
with him!” He stood dumb and petrified at the sound of those words, bowed
his head, and slowly descended the steps of the tribune; suddenly he
looked up and cried, “Let me die, then, at once!” The younger Robespierre
advances and takes his brother’s arm, asking to share the same fate with
him. This generous movement excites the Convention to still greater rage;
it yells and bellows, gesticulating like so many madmen. The president
puts on his hat, and calls for order; a temporary lull ensues. Robespierre
again tries to make himself heard, but his voice is again drowned in
shouts and hisses; he rushes up and down the steps and about the hall,
clenching his fist and breathing menaces that now fall powerless and are
met with taunts of triumphant hate. At last, over‐mastered by his own
emotions, he drops into a chair. The arrest of the two brothers is voted
unanimously. The elder one endeavors to resist, but is seized and carried
forcibly down to the bar. In the midst of this stormy ebullition, one of
the deputies, seeing Robespierre unable to speak from the violence of his
rage and terror, cried out: “It is Danton’s blood that is choking him!”
Stung by the taunt, Robespierre found breath and courage to retort,
“Danton! Is it Danton that you regret? Cowards! why did you not defend
him!” These spirited words were the last he ever uttered in public. He and
his brother were now removed in custody to a hall close by the Convention,
and with them Saint‐Just, Couthon, and Lebas. It had been an arduous day’s
work for the Convention, and it is not surprising that the deputies
“clamored for an adjournment, that they might repose themselves and dine”;
for whether men live or die, legislators must dine. They were thoughtful
enough to remember that the five in custody would also like to dine, even
for the last time; so the guilty deputies had a good dinner provided for
them, and immediately after were transferred to separate prisons:
Robespierre to the Luxembourg, his brother to St. Lazare, Couthon to Port
Royal (dubbed Port _Libre_ since it had been turned into a prison!), Lebas
to Le Force, and Saint‐Just _aux Ecossais_. Henriot, who commanded the
troops devoted to Robespierre, was seized in the act of attempting an
attack on the Convention, bound, and locked up in one of the courts. Two
bold friends of his rallied the soldiers, stormed the Convention, released
him, and placed him again at the head of his men. Meantime, the jailer of
the Luxembourg had refused to admit Robespierre, and the bailiffs had to
take him to the _Mairie_, where he was received with acclamations of
respect as the “father of the people.” Henriot and his band by midnight
had set him and the other four deputies free, and they were installed at
the Hôtel de Ville, with a large body of soldiers drawn round the edifice
to protect them. But the Convention, on its side, had not been idle.
Barras was placed in command of all the troops that could be mustered, and
in company with twelve energetic leaders, at the head of the _gendarmerie_
and the artillery, marched on the Hôtel de Ville, dispersed Henriot’s
troops, and penetrated into the building, where they found the five
deputies and captured them. The younger Robespierre flung himself out of a
window in a frantic effort to escape the more tragic death that was now a
certainty; he was picked up horribly mutilated, but with life enough yet
to realize the horrors of his position. Lebas, on hearing the _gendarmes_
battering on the door of the room, blew his brains out with a pistol.
Saint‐Just was seized with a knife in his hand, which he was going to
plunge into his heart; he gave it up without a word, and allowed himself
to be bound. Couthon, who was nearly blind and half‐paralyzed, being
powerless to offer the slightest resistance, was flung into a wheelbarrow
that chanced to be in the court‐yard. Robespierre himself, the centre of
this group of suicides and murderers, attempted to cheat the guillotine as
Lebas had done; but either his cowardly hand trembled and betrayed his
will or was seized as he pulled the trigger, for the bullet went through
the cheek instead of through the forehead. The jaw was frightfully
fractured, and hung loose from the face, held on only by the flesh. Some
spectator had the humanity to help the unfortunate man to tie it up with a
handkerchief, and in this miserable plight he and his companions were
conveyed at about two o’clock in the morning to the Committee of Public
Safety. The official report of the day gives the following graphic
description of what then occurred: “Robespierre was brought in on a plank
... by several artillery‐men and armed citizens. He was placed on the
table of the ante‐chamber which adjoins that where the Committee holds its
sittings. A deal box, which contained some samples of the ammunition‐bread
sent to the army _du Nord_, was put under his head by way of pillow. He
was for nearly an hour in a state of insensibility which made us think
that he was no more; but after an hour he opened his eyes. Blood was
running in abundance from the wound he had in the left lower jaw; the jaw
was broken, and a ball had gone through the cheek. His shirt was bloody.
He was without hat or neckcloth. He had on a sky‐blue coat,(158) nankeen
breeches, white stockings hanging down at his heels.... At six in the
morning a surgeon who happened to be in the court‐yard of the Tuileries
was called in to dress the wound. By way of precaution he first put a key
in Robespierre’s mouth. He found the left jaw broken. He pulled out two or
three teeth, bandaged up the wound, and got a basin of water, which he
placed at his side.” All this time no word was spoken by the wounded man;
not even a sigh escaped him when the teeth were being extracted, yet the
agony he endured must have been terrific. There he lay, a spectacle to
gods and men, in his sky‐blue coat, a tiger caught in his own lair, barked
at and cursed and triumphed over by a band of wolves. Who could pity
him—he who had never known pity for man or woman? For more than twenty
hours he lay there in this mental and bodily torture. Once he made a sign
which was understood to express thirst. The burning fever of his wound had
parched him till he gasped for breath: but no one was so merciful as to
get him a glass of water. Vinegar and gall they gave him in abundance.
Many cursed him as the murderer of their kith and kin, and bade him drink
his own blood, if he was thirsty.

All this while the tocsin is ringing out the glad news to Paris. Crowds
rush out on the house‐tops, and wave signals to the prisoners in the
_Conciergerie_ that the hour of deliverance is at hand. The prisoners
cannot understand; they think the tocsin is the signal for a new September
massacre. The word flies from cell to cell, and all fall on their knees
and prepare for instant death.

Others, too, are making ready for death, but not thus. The tumbrels jolt
up to the Convention, and collect for the last time their “batch”; this
time there are but twenty‐three victims. Amongst them, by an exquisite
touch of retributive justice, is Simon the Cordwainer, going to die with
Robespierre! And now they are ready, and the tumbrels move on. The corpse
of Lebas is flung in with Robespierre, as that of Valazé was with Brissot;
the other three were so disfigured with blood and the traces of the death‐
scuffle in the town‐hall that they are hardly to be recognized. The entire
city is out, shouting itself hoarse with joy. The roofs of the houses are
alive with human eyes, all watching for the figure of Robespierre. When it
appears, the soldiers point to it with their swords—show the tyrant, bound
and gagged, to the people. The sight causes a frantic thrill of exultation
that finds utterance in a yell of something too unholy for joy, too fierce
for laughter. A woman breaks through the crowd, dashes aside the bayonets
of the escort, and leaps to the side of the tumbrel. “Ah! thou demon,” she
cries, waving her hand above her head, “the death of thee is better than
wine to my heart Wretch, get thee down to hell with the curses of all
wives and mothers!”

Surely this is hell already begun. The wretched man opens his eyes, glued
together with blood; a shade of deadlier hue passes over his livid, sea‐
green face; he shudders, but utters no sound. The tumbrel reaches the
Place de la Revolution. The furies of the guillotine rush round it, and
execute a dance of fiendish joy, the crowd making room for them and
applauding. Now the cart stops, and the condemned alight. In the first are
the two Robespierres, Couthon, Henriot, and Lebas. Maximilien Robespierre
is the only one who has strength left in him to ascend the scaffold
without help. He stood on the fatal step whither a few days ago his nod
sufficed to send the noblest heads in France; within a few yards of the
spot where only six weeks ago he had decreed the existence of the
Omnipotent, at whose judgment‐bar he was now going to appear. Seldom
indeed does that silent, inscrutable Judge allow us to behold the
judgments of his justice accomplished here below, and amidst circumstances
so palpably impressive, and to our human eyes so fearfully appropriate, as
was this death‐scene of Robespierre’s. He showed no sign of terror or
remorse, but, dumb and self‐contained to the last, yielded himself to
Samson’s hands. Only when the bandage was wrenched brutally from the
broken jaw, letting it drop from the face, he uttered a piercing cry that
rang above the yells of the multitude. It was the last sound his voice
emitted in this world. Samson did his work, and Robespierre was no more.

One long, loud shout of gladness went up to heaven, and carried the
tidings to the ends of France on wings quicker than words. It penetrated
the iron doors of the prisons, like the sweet beams of the golden dawn,
and bade men hope and rejoice, for the Reign of Terror was at an end and
the gates of their dungeons unlocked.

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

The guillotine has been so prominent a figure in the foregoing sketch, as
indeed throughout the whole span of the Reign of Terror, that a word on
its origin may not be uninteresting. It is popularly supposed to have been
invented by Dr. Guillotin, but this is a mistake. The first idea of it
emanated from him, and he had the unenviable glory of giving it his name;
but these are his only claims to its invention. The guillotine would seem
to be almost a creature born spontaneously of the Revolution, a cruel
offspring of the self‐devouring monster. It is strange that, until the
“_Sainte Guillotine_” was enthroned as the agent of that murder‐mad reign,
no mention is ever made in the reports of the time of the exact kind of
machine used in capital punishment. We read of persons being “condemned”
and “executed,” but there is no more definite account of the manner of
execution. The _lanterne_ was the mode of capital punishment up to the
Reign of Terror, and the mob could always do summary justice on its
victims by making a gallows of the nearest lamp‐post; but when speed
became the primary object, this was found too tedious, besides being
troublesome. Towards the close of the year 1789 Dr. Guillotin was elected
to the States‐General. He was such a mediocre, insignificant person in
every way that his appearance in the Assembly caused general surprise and
laughter. In the _Portraits of Celebrated Persons_, a contemporaneous
work, we find him thus treated: “By what accident has a man without either
ability or reputation obtained for himself a frightful immortality? He
_fathered_ a work written by a lawyer—Hardouin—who had too much character
to produce it in his own name; and his work having been censured by the
parliament, Guillotin, who assumed the responsibility of it, became the
man of the day, and owed to it that gleam of reputation which ensured his
election to the States‐General. He was, in truth, a _nobody_ who made
himself a _busy‐body_, and by meddling with everything was at once
mischievous and ridiculous.” This meddling personage made himself
extremely ridiculous on the one occasion to which may be traced his ill‐
starred celebrity. He proposed in the Assembly that some machine, more
humane and expeditious than the process of hanging, should be invented for
capital punishment, and, after describing the idea that was in his mind,
he proceeded to illustrate it by a pantomime with his fingers,
straightening out the left index, and bringing down that of the right hand
over the thumb with a snap. “There, now, I put your head here; this falls,
and it is cut off; you feel nothing; it is the affair of a moment!” Roars
of laughter followed this lucid and cheerful explanation, and the next day
the ballad‐mongers diverted Paris with a song, the burden of which was “a
machine that will kill us right off, and be christened _la guillotine_!”
The doctor said no more about his idea, but, jocosely presented as it was,
it nevertheless made an impression on the Assembly, who adopted it three
years later. Meantime, they were beset by complaints from the _Tiers
Etat_, who could not reconcile it to their dignity that the _bourgeoisie_
should be hanged while the _noblesse_ were beheaded. Let it be hanging all
round, they said, and they would be satisfied; but why should nobles have
their head cut off, while plebeians “swung at the lantern?” The grievance
met with cold sympathy, however, until the times were ripe for reform, and
it became urgent to find some more expeditious means of despatching both
nobles and plebeians into the other world. Dr. Guillotin’s proposal was
reconsidered; an officer of the Criminal Court, named Laquiante, designed
an instrument, which was approved of by the authorities and confided for
execution to a piano‐maker—a native of Strasbourg, we believe—named
Schmidt. There was a good deal of haggling over the cost. Schmidt, in the
first instance, wanted nine hundred and sixty francs, which was found
exorbitant and refused. In consideration, however, of his having suggested
some improvements in the original design, they consented to let him take
out a patent, and to give him an order for eighty‐three machines, one for
every department in France, at five hundred francs each, and to be made as
quickly as possible. They were three months quarrelling over the bargain,
and all this time an unfortunate criminal, of the name of Pelletier, was
lying in prison, waiting to be executed; when at last the price was
settled and the first machine ready, he had the miserable distinction of
inaugurating it on the 25th of April, 1792. The prejudice had been very
strong against the new mode of decapitation, the clergy especially arguing
that “the sight of blood would prove highly demoralizing to the people.”
Samson, the executioner, was one of the staunchest opposers of the
innovation on the same grounds, and also because of the shock the
spectacle would give to many spectators. His letter to the Assembly
embodying his opinions and experience on the subject is a curious bit of
literature, highly creditable to the hangman, as indeed all that has come
down to us concerning him seems to be. The humane desire to abridge the
sufferings of the criminal overcame, however, every objection, and hanging
was formally abolished and replaced by decapitation. The new
instrument—most unjustly, as we see—was called the guillotine, in spite of
a semi‐official mention of it as _Louison_, and some efforts to make that
name adhere. The worthy doctor was doomed to notoriety on account of his
having first mooted the affair and made Paris laugh over it. Nothing
secures immortality with the Parisians like a joke.

Apropos of the guillotine, we may mention that the Samsons were a
respectable family of Abbeville, and held the office of “Executioner of
the High Acts of Justice,” by descent, from the year 1722. Charles Henri
Samson, who beheaded Louis XVI., came into office in 1778, and retired on
a pension in 1795. He was succeeded by his son in his formidable
functions, the latter having resigned the grade of captain in the
artillery to undertake them.




Robert Cavelier De La Salle.


The pious hymns of the good and noble Marquette and his companions had not
ceased to reverberate over the waters of the Great River, awakening the
echoes of its banks and overhanging forests, when a bold and devoted
spirit, fired by the fame of previous explorations, was meditating on the
shores of Lake Ontario the prosecution of the grand work begun by the
illustrious missionary. The world was startled with the news that the
waters over whose bosom the missionaries and traders of Canada drove their
canoes at the north, after meandering through the vast plains and forests
of the continent, poured themselves into the Gulf of Mexico. This great
physical problem was settled by Father Marquette and the Sieur Joliet,
who, after having explored the course of the Mississippi for eleven
hundred miles, returned to electrify the world by the reports of their
brilliant success. But as yet comparatively little was known of this
gigantic stream. The imagination of the most sanguine and the hearts of
the boldest were appalled at the task; but it was a destined step in the
onward march of religion and civilization. A Catholic missionary had
gloriously led the way; a Catholic nobleman no less gloriously advanced to
complete the work. This was Robert Cavelier de La Salle.

He was born at Rouen, in Normandy, of a good family, but the date of his
birth has not been transmitted to us. He spent ten or twelve years of his
early life in one of the Jesuit seminaries of France, where he received a
good education, and he was well acquainted with mathematics and the
natural sciences. His renunciation of his patrimony and his long sojourn
among the Fathers of the Society of Jesus justify the belief that he was
intended for the priesthood. Providence, however, destined him for a
somewhat different sphere of labor and usefulness, but one in close co‐
operation with the great work of the church among mankind. He carried with
him from the seminary of the Jesuits the highest testimonials of his
superiors for purity of character, unblemished life, and exhaustless
energy. By his own high qualities and noble achievements he has won a
diploma for himself, inscribed on the brightest pages of our history, and
more honorable than man can confer.

Emerging from the seminary full of youth, intelligence, and daring spirit,
he joined one of the numerous bands of emigrants from France who came to
seek adventures and fortunes in the New World. He came to Canada about the
year 1667, and embarked with great energy in the fur trade, then the
prevailing means of obtaining an exchange of European wealth and
merchandise. His enterprising spirit soon carried him to the frontiers,
and in his frail canoe he traversed the vast rivers and broad lakes of the
continent, mingling with the aborigines, and acquiring information and
experience of their modes of life, character, and languages. He explored
Lake Ontario, and ascended Lake Erie. The activity of his mind and the
restlessness of his genius could not be satisfied even with the vast and
adventurous field of trade presented to him; for he shared largely in the
prevailing ambition of discovering a northwest passage across the
continent to China and Japan, an evidence of which he left behind him in
the name of Lachine, which he bestowed upon one of his trading posts on
the island of Montreal. He saw in that extended chain of lakes the link
that united America with Asia, and indulged in the fond and proud dream
that, as the discoverer of the long‐sought passage, his name would be
inscribed beside that of Columbus on the scroll of immortality.

Seeing the advantages of the position selected by the Comte de Frontenac,
the Governor of Canada, in fortifying the outlet of Lake Ontario, La Salle
erected one of his trading posts under the protection of Fort Fontenac. He
acquired the favor and friendship of the governor, and soon rejoiced in
the esteem and confidence of the public. Up to this time his efforts were
apparently chiefly expended in bold and energetic efforts to build up his
fortunes. But his resources were inferior to the grand enterprises which
he contemplated. He accordingly repaired to France in 1675, where, aided
by the influence of Frontenac and the recommendations of the minister
Colbert, he obtained from his sovereign, Louis XIV., letters‐patent,
granting him Fort Frontenac and the seigniory of a large tract of land
about the same, upon condition that he would rebuild the fort of stone,
garrison it at his own expense, and clear up certain lands. This grant
secured to him a large domain and the exclusive traffic with the Five
Nations. The king also raised him and his family to the rank of nobility
as a reward for his services and noble actions. His patent of nobility
bears date the 13th of May, 1675.

Returning to America, the Cavalier de La Salle took possession of his
seigniory, and soon proved how well he merited the confidence and favors
he enjoyed. He fulfilled all his stipulations with the king. In two years
Fort Frontenac reared its massive walls and bastions of stone which cast
their shadows on the waters of Ontario. A number of French families
clustered around the fort; the Recollect missionaries induced their Indian
neophytes and catechumens to pitch their tents and offer up their newly‐
learned devotions under its shadow; the rugged wilds were supplanted by
cultivated fields, gardens, and pastures, and the new lord of Cataraqui
was at once the pioneer of civilization and the friend of religion. Such
was the origin of the present city of Kingston.

At the same time La Salle prosecuted his commercial enterprises with
renewed vigor, and these, in return, seemed at first to promise to repay
his perseverance and energy. Now for the first time the rapids of the St.
Lawrence were stemmed, and the waters of Ontario ploughed by the keels of
three small barks with decks erected on them. Had all depended on energy
and zeal, success and prosperity would have followed, and the young
nobleman would have achieved a fortune, fame, and power that would not
have been long in winning for him a position among the proudest and most
powerful nobility of France. But his fame was destined rather to be
associated with the foundation of a great republic than with the more
limited work of founding a noble family, to whom to transmit a princely
fortune, and with building up the power of a brilliant despotism. His
enterprises failed, wealth eluded his grasp, and he found himself
oppressed with vast debts, incurred in the great undertakings in which he
had embarked. Turning from this field of disaster, his vigorous mind again
became filled with visions of the northwest passage and with his darling
projects of discovery. He studied the accounts of the Spanish and other
adventurers and discoverers on the continent. Joliet, in 1674, passing
down from the upper lakes, had visited Fort Frontenac, of which La Salle
was then commander under Gov. Frontenac, and thus La Salle was one of the
first to learn of the brilliant achievements and discoveries of the
illustrious Marquette and Joliet, and was probably one of the first to see
the maps and journal which the latter lost between the fort and the next
French post. These did not seem, at the time, to have deeply impressed the
mind of La Salle, who was then engaged in other plans; for it was after
this that he embarked in the project of founding the seigniory of
Cataraqui on the shores of Ontario, and in the vast trading operations
above referred to. On the failure of these he began to plan new adventures
and discoveries. His study of the reports of Spanish and French explorers
led him before all others to identify the great river of Marquette and
Joliet with that of De Soto. Blending the taste for commerce with the
thirst for fame, he saw in the vast herds of bison, described as roaming
over the prairies that extended from the banks of the Missouri and
Illinois rivers, the means of shipping cargoes of buffalo‐skins and wool
to France from the banks of those rivers _via_ the Mississippi and the
Gulf of Mexico. Nor did he yet relinquish his trading projects at the
north; for these he expected to connect with his contemplated trading
posts on the Mississippi, Fort Frontenac still remaining his principal
post. Nor did he yet abandon the hope of discovering from the head‐waters
of the Mississippi a passage to the China Sea.

Filled with these grand and noble views, he returned to France in 1677,
and still enjoying the recommendation of Frontenac and the favor of the
great Colbert and of his son and successor in the ministry, the Marquis de
Seignelay, he succeeded in obtaining from the king, on the 12th of May,
1678, new letters‐patent, confirming his rights to the fort and the
seigniory of Cataraqui, and authorizing him to advance as far westward as
he desired, to build forts wherever he might choose, and prosecute his
commercial enterprises as before, with the single exception that he should
not trade with the Hurons and other Indians who brought their furs to
Montreal, in order that there might be no interference with other traders.
At the recommendation of his friend, the Prince de Conti, La Salle took
into his service as his lieutenant the veteran Chevalier de Tonty, an
Italian by birth, who proved a great acquisition to the work, and was the
ever‐faithful friend and companion of the great captain.

In two months La Salle completed his work in France, and in the autumn of
1678, sailed from Rochelle, accompanied by Tonty, the Sieur de la Motte, a
pilot, mariners, ship‐carpenters, and other workmen. He was well provided
with anchors, sails, cordage, and everything necessary for rigging
vessels, with stores of merchandise for trading with the Indians, and
whatever might be useful for his projected expedition. Arriving at Quebec
in September, he immediately pushed forward to Fort Frontenac—but not
without having to surmount great difficulties and labors in getting his
heavy canoes and freight over the perilous rapids of the St.
Lawrence—where he arrived exhausted and emaciated by his fatigues, but
full of courage and hope.

As the winter approached La Salle pressed forward the preparations for his
grand enterprise, which he resolved to enter upon in the spring. On the
18th of November, 1678, he despatched the hardy and faithful Tonty,
accompanied by Father Louis Hennepin, to the Niagara River in one of his
brigantines of ten tons, with workmen, provisions, implements, and
materials, to undertake the construction and equipment of a vessel to bear
his party over the upper lakes—a work which was to be accomplished with a
handful of men, in the midst of winter, at a distance of hundreds of miles
from any civilized settlement, and surrounded by savage tribes, whose
enmity had been enkindled by the malice of La Salle’s enemies, who,
actuated by the rivalry of trade, had induced the Indians to believe that
he intended to monopolize their trade upon terms dictated by himself at
the cannon’s mouth. Tonty set to work with a cheerful heart. He
encountered perils and hardships, which overcame the endurance of La
Motte, who abandoned the enterprise, and retired to Quebec to seek ease
and rest from such labors. Tonty persevered until the 20th of January,
when La Salle by his presence inspired him and his companions with new
ardor and courage. About this time the brigantine was cast away on the
southern shore of Lake Ontario, in consequence of dissensions among the
pilots; and several bark canoes, with their valuable freight of goods and
provisions, were wrecked and lost. His difficulties with the Senecas also
compelled La Salle to relinquish the fort which he had begun to build at
the falls of Niagara as a protection to his ship‐builders, and to content
himself with a mere shed or store‐house. A spirit less brave and firm than
La Salle’s would have quailed under the misfortunes which, through the
inclemency of the season and the malice of men, surrounded his steps. But
these only nerved him to greater exertion. In six days after his arrival
the keel of his vessel was laid, the cavalier driving the first bolt with
his own hand. “When he saw the snow began to melt,” he sent out fifteen
men in advance of his exploring expedition, with instructions to pass over
the lakes to Mackinac, provide provisions for the expedition, and await
the arrival of the main party.

Leaving Tonty now to conduct the building of the vessel, La Salle made a
journey of over three hundred miles of frozen country to Fort Frontenac,
to arrange his financial business before setting out in the spring. His
only food was a bag of corn; his baggage was drawn over the snow and ice
by two men and a dog. At the fort he had to exert all his ability and
energy to counteract the malicious efforts and practices of his enemies
for his ruin. His creditors at Quebec became alarmed by the reports and
calumnies of his foes. His effects at that town were seized and
sacrificed, while the property which he was compelled to leave at Fort
Frontenac was in value double all his debts. But the delay of his
expedition would be to him a greater evil than the loss of property, so
that he could not stop to remedy or resist these proceedings. In the midst
of such harassing cares he bore in mind the necessity of providing for the
religious wants of his companions and of the benighted heathen nations
which he intended to visit. He secured the services of three Recollect
missionaries, Fathers Gabriel de la Ribourde, Louis Hennepin, and Zenobe
Membré. He had already, while commanding at Fort Frontenac, built for
these good missionaries a house and chapel; he now bestowed upon their
order eighteen acres of land near the fort, and one hundred acres of
forest‐land.

Tonty having faithfully completed his task, the ship was launched,
receiving the name of _Griffin_, as a compliment to the Comte de
Frontenac, whose armorial bearings were adorned with two griffins. Tonty
was next sent in search of the fifteen men who had previously set out. The
_Griffin_, with La Salle, the missionaries, and the remainder of the party
on board, sailed on the 7th of August, 1679, on the bosom of Lake Erie.
The artillery saluted the vessel, as she dashed through the waves, and the
missionary and crew chanted a grateful _Te Deum_ in honor of Him who had
speeded their work. The Senecas gazed with wonder at a bark of sixty tons
riding the lake with greater ease and grace than their own canoes.
Reaching in safety the straits connecting Lakes Erie and Huron, he
considered the expediency of planting a colony on the majestic Detroit, as
he glided between its islands; and on the 12th, S. Clare’s Day, as he
traversed its shallow waters, he bestowed upon the little river the name
of that saint. While the ship was passing over Lake Huron, she was
overtaken by a terrible storm, which caused even the bold captain to fear
for the safety of all on board. Uniting with the missionaries in petitions
for the intercession of S. Anthony of Padua, he made a promise to dedicate
the first chapel built in the countries he was going to discover in honor
of that patron saint, in case he should escape. The province from which
the missionaries of the expedition had come was that of S. Anthony of
Padua, in Artois; hence the selection of this saint as their protector on
this occasion, as well as for the reason that he is frequently invoked as
the patron of mariners. The storm abated, and on the 27th of August, the
_Griffin_, aided by friendly winds, entered a safe harbor in the island of
Mackinac.

Here again the “great wooden canoe” was an object of admiration and dread
to the natives, heightened by the roar of the cannon on board. La Salle,
clad in a cloak of scarlet and gold, visited the nearest village, and the
pious priests offered up the Holy Sacrifice for the benefit of those
benighted savages. The opposite bank had been the scene of the missionary
labors of the illustrious Marquette. The captain visited this spot,
endeavoring there and in the neighboring country to propitiate the
friendship of the natives as he advanced. His enemies had here too been at
work, poisoning the minds of the Indians against him far and near, and
tampering with the advanced corps of fifteen men whom he had sent out, and
who, under such influences, became faithless to their leader: some of them
deserted, and others squandered the provisions which he had entrusted to
them. Again setting sail, the _Griffin_ bore them to Green Bay, where La
Salle had the satisfaction of meeting some of his advanced party who had
continued faithful to him and their duty, and who now returned with a
goodly quantity of furs, the result of successful traffic with the
Indians. After two weeks he loaded the _Griffin_ with the rich furs
brought in by his men, and sent her with the pilot and five mariners back
to the Niagara, amidst the murmurs of his men, who dreaded the work of
proceeding in light canoes. It has been remarked(159) that had he adopted
the Ohio as his conduit to the Mississippi, one vessel would have answered
his purpose, and much suffering and delay been saved, for this river had
been known to the missionaries; by his present plan, he had to build two
vessels, one above the falls of Niagara, and one on the Illinois River. He
now set out to descend Lake Michigan in four bark canoes, September the
19th, the party consisting of La Salle, the fathers, and seventeen men;
and they continued their perilous voyage along the west side of the lake.
They were overtaken before nightfall by a violent storm, and for several
days they struggled through wind, rain, sleet, and waves, until they
landed with great danger near the river Milwaukee. Seeing their perilous
situation, La Salle leaped into the water, and with his own hands helped
to drag his canoe ashore. Those in the other boats followed his example,
and soon the landing was effected and the canoes secured.

La Salle was accompanied in his expedition by a faithful Indian, who
proved a useful member of the party; for his unerring gun frequently
relieved the hunger of the travellers with game from the surrounding
forests. They also procured corn from the natives, always paying its full
value; and even when they had to take it from villages temporarily
abandoned, where there was no one to receive payment, its value in goods
was left in its place. At this bleak landing near the Milwaukee the
Indians, moved with sympathy for their exhausted and weather‐beaten
condition, brought deer and corn for their relief, smoked with them the
calumet of friendship, and entertained them with war dances and songs.
Cheered on their way by the kindly offices and generous sympathy of the
natives, in which they felt that


    “Kindness by secret sympathy is tied,
    For noble souls in nature are allied,”


they pushed on with renewed courage to encounter again the perils of the
elements. The voyage from this point to the end of the lake was one
continued series of hardships and dangers. They found it frequently a
relief from the fury of the waves to drag their canoes over the rugged
rocks; and as they pulled them ashore the heaving surf dashed the spray
over their heads. They encountered a wandering party of Outagamies, or Fox
Indians, near a green and refreshing spot, where they stopped to rest and
refresh themselves, and it was only the address, deliberation, and iron
courage of La Salle that prevented a bloody conflict with these
treacherous savages. On the first of November the entire party came safely
into the mouth of the Miami River, now S. Joseph’s, previously appointed
as the rendezvous, at which the several companies were to meet.

Here La Salle was sorely disappointed at not finding the Chevalier Tonty.
Suffering from want of food and the increasing severity of the winter, the
men began to murmur; but La Salle’s bold spirit of command kept them in
subjection, especially when they saw him sharing every hardship,
privation, and danger with them. He kept them busy in building a fort for
their protection from the savages, and in exploring the country and
neighboring rivers. The missionaries caused a bark chapel to be erected,
in which the divine service was attended by both Europeans and Indians.
But La Salle’s apprehensions for the fate of the _Griffin_ began to
increase. At length Tonty arrived, and, while he relieved his captain and
men with provisions and reinforcements, he confirmed their alarm for the
vessel. The _Griffin_ had not reached Mackinac, no tidings could be
obtained from the Indians of her safety or fate, and it became, alas! too
certain that she, the first to ride triumphantly, with her proud sails
spread and her streamers unfurled, across these great lakes, had been the
first to fall a victim, with her hardy crew, to the avenging waves of Lake
Michigan.

The cavalier now prepared to go down the Kankakee River to the Illinois.
The distance to the portage was seventy miles, and much time and labor
were spent in endeavoring to find the proper portage. La Salle started out
himself to explore the country, and to discover, if possible, the eastern
branch of the Illinois. Detained till evening in making the circuit of a
large marsh, his gun, fired as a signal, was not answered, and he resolved
to spend the night alone in that fearful wilderness. He fortunately
descried a fire, and on approaching saw near by a bed of leaves, from
which some nomadic son of the forest, startled at the report of the gun,
had just fled. La Salle scattered leaves and branches around, in order
that he might not be surprised in the night, and then took possession of
the Indian’s rustic bed, in which he slept peacefully till morning. To the
great joy of his friends, he returned in the following afternoon, with two
opossums hanging from his belt. At length the Indian hunter of the
expedition found the portage. Leaving four men in the fort, the expedition
set out on the 3d of December; the canoes and all the baggage were carried
over five or six miles to the head‐waters of the Kankakee, and about the
5th of December the company, consisting of thirty‐three persons, commenced
their passage down the dreary and marshy stream, rendered yet more gloomy
by the rigors of mid‐winter. At length, after enduring hunger and cold,
they came to a more genial and smiling country, and soon their canoes
glided into the river Illinois. On the banks of the river they discovered
and visited the largest of the Illinois villages, composed of four or five
hundred cabins, in each of which resided five or six families, not far
below the present town of Ottawa, in La Salle County, Illinois. But the
place was deserted; the inhabitants had all gone to the hunting‐grounds
for wild cattle and beaver, leaving their corn stored away in their
granaries. Yielding to the necessities of his condition, and trusting to
fortune for an opportunity to make ample compensation, La Salle
appropriated fifty bushels of corn from the immense quantities stored away
in the capacious granaries of the village. Re‐embarking on the 27th of
December, the party proceeded down the current. On the 1st of January,
1680, the feast of the Circumcision of Our Lord was solemnly and
appropriately celebrated, the salutations of the New Year were exchanged,
and we may well imagine with what hearty and earnest good‐wishes those
brave voyagers blessed each other. On the same day, after passing through
Lake Pimiteony, now Lake Peoria, our voyagers came suddenly upon an Indian
encampment on both sides of the river. Having heard that the Illinois were
hostile, La Salle arranged his flotilla for the emergency; the men were
armed, and the canoes were placed in battle array across the entire river,
La Salle and Tonty occupying the two canoes nearest the shore. Observing
that the Indians were somewhat alarmed and disposed to parley, La Salle
boldly landed in the midst of the innumerable bands of dusky warriors,
prepared for either war or peace, and by his skill and invincible courage
soon succeeded in making them his friends. After smoking with them the
calumet of peace, he explained the circumstance of his having taken their
corn, and then paid them liberally for it, to their great satisfaction. He
also told them that he came amongst them in order to give them a knowledge
of the one true God, and to better their condition. An alliance of
friendship was entered into, and all retired apparently to rest.

But during the night emissaries from La Salle’s enemies arrived. A grand
council was held, as that is the favorite time with the Indians for
transacting their most important business. The poison was infused into the
minds of La Salle’s recent allies; and on the following morning his keen
eye soon saw that the intrigues of his enemies had not failed to follow
him to that distant region, and it was only his brave, frank, and
determined bearing that enabled him to surmount the countless obstacles
that were thus thrown in his way. The effect of this intrigue, however,
was not wholly lost on his own men. Six of them deserted him at this
trying juncture. Severe as was this loss, his proud spirit bore up
manfully under it; but the loss of his vessel was a severer trial to him,
but one that failed to dampen the ardor of his enthusiasm or the
determination of his will. He selected a spot for a fort half a league
from the Indian camp and near the present city of Peoria; and while he
bestowed upon his fort the name of Crèvecœur—Broken Heart—under the sad
influence of the loss of the _Griffin_ and the machinations of his
enemies, the vigor with which he raised its walls and arranged its
armament is ample proof that he still possessed a heart full of courage
and hope.

In the middle of January the entire company took up their residence within
the fort. Father Membré remained with the Indians, was adopted into the
family of a noted chief, and devoted himself to the task of winning the
Illinois to the Christian faith. Father de La Ribourde exercised his
ministry at the fort, where he erected a chapel; and Father Hennepin is
said to have “rambled as his fancies moved him.”

La Salle engaged a portion of his men in building a brigantine forty‐two
feet long and twelve feet broad, in which to descend the Mississippi. On
the 29th of February, 1680, he sent an expedition under the direction of
Father Hennepin, accompanied by Picard Du Gay and Michel Ako, to explore
for the first time the Mississippi above the mouth of the Wisconsin, the
point from which Father Marquette’s voyage down the great river commenced.
In six weeks the hull of the brigantine was nearly ready to receive the
masts and rigging, but the necessary materials were wanting to complete
the equipment. An abundance of such materials had been placed on board the
_Griffin_, but these had been buried beneath the waters of the lake with
the ill‐fated vessel. Gloomy indeed was the prospect before our brave
cavalier; but bold resolves are rapidly conceived and speedily executed by
daring spirits. He placed Tonty in command of the fort, and, in order to
procure what was necessary for the new vessel, he determined to return on
foot to Fort Frontenac, distant at least twelve hundred miles. His journey
lay along the southern shores of Lakes Erie and Ontario, through vast
forests; innumerable rivers intervened, which he had to ford or cross on
rafts, and this, too, at a season of the year when the drifting snow and
floating ice threw extraordinary dangers and fatigues in the path of the
traveller. For food he must rely entirely upon the hazards of the chase.
The history of our race contains the record of few such undertakings as
this; yet the spirit of La Salle faltered not. On the 2d of March the bold
cavalier shouldered his musket and knapsack, and, with three Frenchmen and
his Indian hunter, started upon his perilous journey:


                    “My heart is firm;
    There’s naught within the compass of humanity
    But I would dare and do.”


After La Salle’s departure the brave and faithful Tonty began to
experience in turn the frowns of fortune. While superintending the
erection of a new fort at a spot selected by La Salle, Tonty received the
news of an insurrection at Fort Crèvecœur. This, too, was instigated by La
Salle’s enemies. Deserted by more than half his party, Tonty took up his
quarters at the great Indian village, where he was treated with
hospitality. After a residence there of six months a war‐party of Iroquois
and Miamis approached the village, and for a long time Tonty and Father
Membré, at great peril and with much ill treatment at the hands of the
invading savages, endeavored to negotiate a peace. Failing in every
effort, and finding that dangers and perils were gathering thick and fast
around him, Tonty resolved to make his escape with his remaining five
companions, which he succeeded in accomplishing, in an old and leaky
canoe, on the 18th of September. On the following day, about twenty‐five
miles from the village, they drew the canoe to the shore for repairs.
While thus engaged they had the misfortune of losing for ever the great
and good Father Gabriel de La Ribourde, who, with a mind fond of the
beautiful in nature, as well as with a soul that loved all men, had
wandered too far up the banks of the river, drawn on by the picturesque
scenery that lay before him, was met by three young Kickapoo warriors, and
fell a victim to the unsparing tomahawk. After passing, with heavy hearts,
over ice and snow, rambling for some time almost at random in the woods,
and enduring hunger and delays, they fortunately reached a village of the
Potawatamies, where they were received with hospitality. Tonty was
detained at the village by a severe and dangerous illness. Father Membré
advanced to the missionary station at Green Bay; here they all met in the
spring, and then proceeded to Mackinac to await the return of La Salle.

In the meantime La Salle, after stopping twenty‐four hours at the Indian
village which he had previously visited, and finding that the two men whom
he had despatched from the Miami River to Mackinac had obtained no tidings
of the _Griffin_, now abandoned every lingering hope for her safety. He
pressed forward on his great journey, only to hear of new disasters and
losses at Fort Frontenac. The fact that he accomplished such a journey
under such circumstances is sufficient to illustrate the endurance and
unbending resolution of this great explorer. Of this chapter in the
history of La Salle Bancroft thus writes:


    “Yet here the immense power of his will appeared. Dependent on
    himself, fifteen hundred miles from the nearest French settlement,
    impoverished, pursued by enemies at Quebec, and in the wilderness
    surrounded by uncertain nations, he inspired his men with
    resolution to saw trees into plank and prepare a bark; he
    despatched Louis Hennepin to explore the Upper Mississippi; he
    questioned the Illinois and their southern captives on the course
    of the Mississippi; he formed conjectures concerning the Tennessee
    River; and then, as new recruits were needed, and sails and
    cordage for the bark, in the month of March, with a musket and a
    pouch of powder and shot, with a blanket for his protection, and
    skins of which to make moccasins, he, with three companions, set
    off on foot for Fort Frontenac, to trudge through thickets and
    forests, to wade through marshes and melting snows, having for his
    pathway the ridge of highlands which divide the basin of the Ohio
    from that of the lakes—without drink, except water from the
    brooks; without food, except supplies from his gun. Of his
    thoughts on that long journey no record exists.”


He arrived safely at Fort Frontenac, but his affairs had all gone wrong in
his absence. In the destruction of his vessel and cargo he had sustained a
loss of a large portion of his means; besides this, his agents had
plundered him in the fur trade on Lake Ontario; a vessel freighted with
merchandise for him had been lost in the Bay of St. Lawrence; his heavily‐
laden canoes had been dashed to pieces by the rapids above Montreal; some
of his men, corrupted by his enemies, had deserted, carrying his property
among the Dutch in New York, and his creditors, availing themselves of a
report, gotten up by his enemies, that he and his companions had been
lost, had seized on his remaining effects, and sacrificed them in the
market. But one friend remained to him in all Canada—the Comte de
Frontenac. The undaunted La Salle still pushed forward his work; having
arranged his affairs as well as he could, he secured the services of La
Forest as an officer, and engaged more men. On the 23d of July, 1680, he
set out on his return. Detained more than a month on Lake Ontario by head‐
winds, he reached Mackinac in the middle of September, and the Miami
towards the end of November. Proceeding to the spot where he had left
Tonty, he found his forts abandoned, the Illinois village abandoned, and
could hear nothing of the companions whom he had left behind him. He now
heard of the Iroquois war, and spent some time and effort in endeavoring
to effect an alliance of all the neighboring tribes against the Illinois.
Finding it impossible to accomplish his purpose for want of a larger
force, he returned to the Miami River late in May, 1681, and about the
middle of June he had the happiness of saluting Tonty and his companions
in the harbor of Mackinac. The two cavaliers sat down together, and
related to each other their respective misfortunes and hardships. Thus
another year’s delay was occasioned; but in the meantime the trade with
the Indians was prosecuted with vigor. Some idea may be formed of the
material of which these two men were made when it is related that even
now, when all their plans had failed and all seemed lost to them, the
ardor with which they first commenced this wonderful task remained
unbroken and undiminished. In order to renew their preparations for the
exploration of the Mississippi, they all set out in a few days for Fort
Frontenac, from which La Salle had already twice departed with the bold
and lofty purpose of exploring and laying open to the world the interior
geography of the continent. An eyewitness to these interesting conferences
between La Salle and Tonty relates that the former maintained “his
ordinary coolness and self‐possession. Any one but him would have
renounced and abandoned the enterprise; but, far from that, by a firmness
of mind and an almost unequalled constancy, I saw him more resolute than
ever to continue his work and to carry out his discovery.”(160)

As already mentioned, Father Hennepin had been commissioned by the captain
to explore, with his selected companions, the Upper Mississippi, probably
the last aspiration of La Salle after the discovery of the northwest
passage to the China Sea. Proceeding down the Illinois to its mouth,
Father Hennepin directed his canoe up the unexplored stream, and on the
eleventh day he and his companions were near the Wisconsin River. Turning
up this river, they proceeded nineteen days, when the grand cataract burst
for the first time upon the view of Europeans.


    “It hath a thousand tongues of mirth,
      Of grandeur, or delight,
    And every heart is gladder made
      When water greets the sight.”


It was called “The Falls of St. Anthony” in honor of the holy founder of
the order of the Recollects. Falling in with the Sieur Du Luth, the two
parties, nine in number, rambled and messed together till the end of
September, 1680, when they all set out for Canada. Father Hennepin sailed
from Quebec to France, where he published, in 1684, an account of his
travels and discoveries. Thirteen years after this, and ten after the
death of La Salle, he published his _New Discovery of a Vast Country in
America, between New Mexico and the Frozen Ocean_, in which the love of
the marvellous is regarded by historians as having far transcended the
limits of authentic and trustworthy narrative, and as conflicting with the
recognized and just pretensions of La Salle.

Upon his return to Fort Frontenac La Salle lost no time in preparing for
another effort. He arranged his affairs with his creditors, pledged Fort
Frontenac and the adjacent lands and trading privileges for his future
expenses, and enlisted forces for his expedition. On the 28th of August,
1681, the company set out in canoes from the head of the Niagara River,
and on the third of November they had arrived at the Miami. The constant
and ever‐faithful Tonty and the good Father Membré accompanied the
expedition, which consisted of fifty‐four persons, of whom twenty‐three
were Frenchmen, eighteen Abnakis or Loup Indians, ten Indian women whom
the Indians insisted should go along in order to do their cooking, and
three children. Six weeks were consumed at the Miami in making the
necessary arrangements. The Sieur Tonty and Father Membré proceeded with
nearly the entire company along the southern border of Lake Michigan to
the mouth of the Chicago River, dragging their canoes, baggage, and
provisions for about eighty leagues over the frozen waters of the Illinois
on sledges prepared by the indefatigable Tonty. La Salle travelled on foot
from the Miami River, and joined the company on the 4th of January, 1682.
They continued their journey in the same way up the Chicago to Lake
Peoria, where the canoes were carried upon the waters, and on the 6th of
February the great river, then called the “Colbert,” received its
explorers safely upon its waves. They were detained by the floating ice
till about the 19th, when the flotilla commenced its eventful voyage. On
the same day, six leagues lower down, they passed the mouth of the
Missouri, then called the Osage. They stopped at a deserted village of the
Tamaroas Indians, whose people were absent on the chase, and then slowly
passed on for forty leagues till they reached the Ohio, stopping
frequently on the route to replenish their stock of provisions by hunting
and fishing. Leaving the Ohio, they passed through one hundred and twenty
miles of low, marshy river, full of thick foam, rushes, and walnut‐trees,
till, on the 26th of February, they came to Chickasaw Bluffs, where they
rested. Here a fort was built and called Fort Prudhomme, in memory of
Peter Prudhomme, one of their companions, who was lost while hunting in
the woods, supposed to have been killed or carried off by a party of
Indians, whose trail was discovered near by. Afterwards, by the untiring
and determined efforts of La Salle, and after nine days scouring the
country, Prudhomme was found and restored to his companions; but the fort
long retained his name. Proceeding about a hundred miles, they heard the
sound of drums and the echo of war‐cries, and soon they came abreast of
the villages of the Arkansas Indians, whose inhabitants were informed at
one and the same time that the strangers were prepared for war—as was
evidenced by the erection of a redoubt upon the shore; or for peace—as was
manifested by their extending the calumet of peace. They found the Indians
peaceable and friendly, and here our voyagers stopped to rest. Two weeks
were spent amongst these gay, open‐hearted, and gentle natives in smoking
the calumet, partaking of feasts, and obtaining Indian corn, beans, flour,
and various kinds of fruits, for which they repaid their entertainers with
presents which, however trifling, pleased their fancy much. Father Membré
erected a cross, around which the natives assembled; and though he could
not speak their language, he succeeded in acquainting them with the
existence of the true God and some of the mysteries of the true faith. The
Indians seemed to appreciate all he said, for they raised their eyes to
heaven and fell upon their knees in adoration; they rubbed their hands
upon the cross, and then all over their own bodies, as if to communicate
its holiness to themselves; and, on the return voyage, the missionary
found that they had protected the cross by a palisade. La Salle also took
possession of the country with great ceremony in behalf of France, and
erected the arms of the king, at which the Indians expressed great
pleasure.

On the 17th they proceeded on their route, and were received and
entertained most hospitably at another village of the same Akansas nation.
On the 20th they arrived at a small lake formed by the waters of the
Mississippi, on the opposite side of which they found a gentle tribe of
Indians, far more civilized than any they had yet met, whose sovereign
ruled over his people with regal ceremony, whose houses were built with
walls and cane roofs, were adorned with native paintings, and furnished
with wooden beds and other domestic comforts. Their temples were
ornamented, and served as sepulchres for their departed chiefs. La Salle
being too fatigued to visit this interesting people, he sent the Sieur
Tonty and Father Membré on an embassy to the king, to whom they carried
presents, and who received them with great ceremony. The king next
returned the compliment by a visit to the commander, sending his master of
ceremonies and heralds before him, and coming two hours afterwards
himself, preceded by two men carrying fans of white feathers, himself
dressed in a white robe beautifully woven of the bark of trees, with a
canopy over his head, and attended by a royal retinue. The king’s demeanor
during the interview was grave but frank and friendly. Resuming their
route on the 26th of March, thirty or forty miles below this they came
among the Natchez Indians, whose village La Salle, with some of his
companions, visited by invitation, sleeping there that night and receiving
hospitality. A cross was erected here, too, to which were attached the
arms of France, signifying that thereby they took possession of the
country in the name of their sovereign. The Holy Mass was also offered,
and the company received the Blessed Sacrament. They next visited the
village of Koroa, and then, advancing over a hundred miles, on the 2d of
April they came to the country of the Quinipissas, a belligerent tribe,
who answered a proposal to smoke the calumet of peace by a shower of
arrows. But having no object to attain by difficulties with the natives,
La Salle passed on to the village of the Tangiboas, three of whose
deserted cabins he saw full of the bodies of Indians who, fifteen or
sixteen days before, had fallen victims in an engagement in which the
village was sacked and pillaged. Speaking of La Salle while thus
descending the great river, Bancroft writes: “His sagacious eye discerned
the magnificent resources of the country. As he floated down its flood; as
he framed a cabin on the first Chickasaw bluff; as he raised the cross by
the Arkansas; as he planted the arms of France near the Gulf of Mexico, he
anticipated the future affluence of the emigrants, and heard in the
distance the footsteps of the advancing multitude that were coming to take
possession of the valley.”

To Be Concluded Next Month.




Birth‐Days.


“WHO ARE JUST BORN, BEING DEAD.”

Who weeps when love, a cradled babe, is born?
  Rather we bring frankincense, myrrh, and gold,
  While softest welcomes from our lips are rolled
To meet the dawning fragrance of a morn
Of checkered being. Even while the thorn
  Keeps pace with rosy graces that unfold,
  Do we with rapture cry, “Behold, behold,
A heaven‐dropped flower our garden to adorn!”
And yet when from our darling fall the years
  As from the rose the shrivelled petals rain,
  And into newer life the soul again
Springs thornless to the air of purer spheres,
  So blinded are we by our bitter pain
We greet the sweeter birth with selfish tears.




The Future Of The Russian Church.


By The Rev. Cæsarius Tondini, Barnabite.



II.—Continued.


Let it only be borne in mind _what_ are those things which are required of
her members by the faith and discipline of the Orthodox Church, and it
will be granted us, at least face to face with unbelief, that her priests
need something more than the ordinary respectability of a worthy man, an
obedient subject of his sovereign, a good father of a family, faithful to
his wife and devoted to his children.(161)

This _something more_ is possessed by the Catholic Church. The Russian
Church has lost it. Whatever may be thought of the ecclesiastical law on
the celibacy of the priesthood, we think it cannot be denied that a
priest, living as an angel upon earth, exercises an influence which is
always lacking to a married priest. This “magnetism of purity,” as it has
been called, has inspired one of the noblest odes of the great English
poet, Tennyson;(162) and they who in good faith argue against sacerdotal
celibacy do so because, in their opinion, the purity required by the
Catholic Church is a virtue too celestial to be met with here below; thus
reasoning as did that Jew who, after reading a treatise on the Holy
Eucharist by the Abbé Martinet,(163) said to us, “This cannot be true,
because it would be too beautiful!” Those who reason as did this Jew
conclude too easily from difficulty—what virtue is not difficult?—to
impossibility? We do not undertake to convince those who have not faith,
and who refuse to allow the efficacy of supernatural means; for the task
would be a hopeless one. But if they have faith, we will submit to them
the following consideration, which will not be without some weight.

And this is that the Catholic Church earnestly invites all her priests to
celebrate _daily_ the holy Mass, and makes it their strict duty to recite
every day, with attention and piety, the divine Office. In undertaking the
defence of the Russian clergy M. Schédo‐Ferroti says: “Hypocrisy is a vice
unknown among them, their piety being of a genuine stamp, and only giving
outward expression to the sentiment which is really felt—namely, a belief
in the sanctifying virtues of the ceremonies which they are called to
perform.”(164) Let it, then, be permitted to us also to express here our
firm belief in the sanctifying virtue of the Mass and the divine Office.
The Holy Eucharist is called in Scripture _frumentum electorum et vinum __
germinans virgins_—“the wheat of the elect and the wine which makes
virgins spring forth” (Zach. ix. 17). With regard to the divine Office, it
is the prayer _par excellence_ of the church. As the Lord’s Prayer, taught
and recommended by Jesus Christ himself, has a power which is special to
it, and a particular efficacy, so also is a sanctifying virtue attached to
a prayer chosen and placed daily on our lips by the church. The Mass and
the divine Office, in a manner, force the priest to have always about him
some thoughts of heaven. If vanity or worldly seductions acquire over him
a momentary ascendency, the Mass and the divine Office recall him to those
salutary truths which never change.

We will not dwell longer on this point; the reader will be well able to
make its practical application. We will only now add that, if to have been
capable of an act of great generosity is a title to indulgence for many
defects; if the remembrance of an heroic action in favor of one’s country
or of humanity surrounds with an aureola of glory the whole existence of
him who has performed it; and if, in short, people hesitate to pronounce
sentence against him, even when he has deserved blame, let it also be
remembered that every Catholic priest, whoever he may be, has
accomplished, at least once in his life, an act of the greatest
generosity. He has sworn, on being admitted into Holy Orders, to renounce
every affection which, by dividing his heart, could hinder him from
devoting himself solely and without reserve for the good of souls; and
solely with that intent has he voluntarily chosen the path of self‐denial
and of conflicts which are the consequences of his generosity. This being
considered, there is nothing surprising in the fact that a certain
influence is invariably exercised by the Catholic priest who is faithful
to his duties, even if his learning and education be defective.

Now, this influence, doubly necessary in Russia, on account of the social
inferiority of the orthodox clergy, is entirely wanting to all that
portion of the clergy which is in contact with the people;(165) and the
fatal consequences of this want will make themselves especially felt in
that day when nothing shall be unimportant that can help to keep alive
faith in the Russian people.

And this is not all. In the poem alluded to above Tennyson puts these
words into the mouth of his hero, the virgin‐knight:


    “My good blade carves the casques of men,
      My tough lance thrusteth sure,
    My strength is as the strength of ten,
      Because my heart is pure.”(166)


He who thus reveals to us the intimate relation existing between purity
and strength is not a Catholic. If we had expressed the same thought as
originating from ourselves, we might have been charged with mysticism;
this is why we have quoted the great poet. He would not fear being called
upon to justify his thought; let him therefore be the one attacked.

But whatever may be the weight which experience gives to this thought of
Tennyson’s, there is no need to wait for the time when the Russian clergy
shall be waging war against unbelief, to judge of the strength they are
likely to have for the combat. In a chapter devoted to revelations of the
state of the “orthodox” clergy, M. Schédo‐Ferroti takes praiseworthy pains
to exhibit their good qualities. “I have found,” he writes, “with some
regrettable exceptions, that the Russian priest possessed two valuable and
truly Christian qualities, the frequency of which constitutes in some sort
a characteristic feature of the class. The Russian priest is pious without
any ostentation, and he is gifted with a wonderful faculty for supporting
misfortune, under whatever form it may overtake him.”(167) We have already
made some observations on the first of these two qualities, and will now
do the same for the second.

To be endowed with a marvellous power of supporting misfortune—what better
preparation, apparently, could there be for supporting the struggle of the
future? It is to patience that our Lord Jesus Christ promises the
possession of our souls for a happy eternity when he says: _In patientia
vestra possidebitis animas vestras_—“In your patience you shall possess
your souls” (S. Luke xxi. 19). These divine words, alas! cannot in any way
find their application in the patience of the Russian clergy. The patience
whereof our Lord speaks is that which fills and sustains the soul, and
which places in our mouths words whose wisdom puts our adversaries to
silence.

This explanation is not our own; it is that of Jesus Christ himself. “They
will lay their hands on you, and persecute you, delivering you up to the
synagogues and into prisons, dragging you before kings and governors, for
my name’s sake: and it shall happen to you for a testimony. Lay it up,
therefore, in your hearts, not to meditate before, how you shall answer.
For I will give you a mouth and wisdom, which all your adversaries shall
not be able to resist and gainsay. And you shall be betrayed by your
parents and brethren, and kinsmen and friends: and some of you they will
put to death. And you shall be hated of all men for my name’s sake: but a
hair of your head shall not perish. In your patience you shall possess
your souls” (S. Luke xxi. 12‐19). The patience here described corresponds
exactly with the patience of which the Catholic bishops and priests of
Switzerland, Germany, and elsewhere are offering us at this very time so
edifying and admirable an example.

The patience taught by our Lord, then, is not wanting to the Catholic
clergy; can we hope to find it in the Russian clergy in the day when
orthodoxy shall be threatened? Let us well consider the words of our Lord
which we have just quoted, bearing in mind the energetic spirit which they
suppose, and let us then compare them with the following words of the most
devoted advocate of the orthodox clergy in Russia: “This readiness to
bear, without murmuring, the sudden reverses of fortune,” says Schédo‐
Ferroti, “this spontaneous submission to the decrees of Providence, is too
Christian a virtue to allow us to refuse it the admiration which it
deserves; but it seems to us that the combination of circumstances which
has contributed to develop in the Russian clergy this _mute resignation_
has also exercised a depressing influence upon their moral strength, in
paralyzing the powers of their will by rendering its free exercise utterly
and invariably impossible. It is the natural consequence of excessive
suffering, whether physical or moral, to end in the enervation of the
patient, by depriving him of the faculty of action, by destroying all his
energy, and leaving him destitute even of any belief in his own strength;
allowing him to remain in possession of but one single conviction, that of
his powerlessness to struggle against fate—a conviction that finds its
expression in this mute and absolute resignation which we find in the
lower Russian clergy.”(168)

Poor Russian clergy! They are all that they can be expected to be,
considering what the czars have made them. The sufferings of the Russian
priest are not forgotten by God, neither does he forget his resignation.
Far from desiring to cast a stone at him, we gladly point out all that we
can find in his favor. Reduced to such a degree of indigence that he is
compelled to maintain himself by laboriously toiling in the fields, the
pressing needs of life bow down not only his brow, but his soul also,
towards the earth. What right have we to expect that he can devote to the
interests of souls the time and thought imperiously demanded by the daily
necessities of his own existence? And even could he forget himself, and in
self‐devotion taste the sublime joy of sacrifice, he is not alone; and
will his wife and children also become so many victims of his zeal for
souls?

This feebleness, this helplessness, these bonds—these are the very things
which many would desire to see also in the militant ranks of the Catholic
Church. “But wherefore, then, is it,” asks the church, in pointing out the
armies of this world, “that the secular governments will that the soldiers
called to defend their country should be alone and free?”(169)

But if to be single and free is an element of strength lacking to the
Russian priest, already by long habituation to suffering and slavery
reduced to the state of which so striking a picture is drawn by Schédo‐
Ferroti, another support is also wanting to him, the power of which is
evident in the Catholic clergy. In our day, and under our very eyes, every
circumstance concurs to encourage apostasy among the latter. Priests who
fail in their duty gain the favor of governments, a considerable portion
of the press, the secure perspective of honors and offices; they are
proclaimed the only honest, the only true ministers of Jesus Christ, who
alone comprehend his interests or succeed in causing him to be loved by
souls. In all this there is something seductive, not only for the
ambitious and such as would free themselves from the severe discipline of
the church, but for those also who, in presence of the ravages which
unbelief is making, persuade themselves—not with much humility—that if the
church would act according to their ideas, the interests of God would be
better secured. In spite of all these things, the number of apostates is a
mere nothing when we take into consideration the number of Catholic
priests. Did those who have undertaken to make war against Catholicity
expect this check?—which, we remark in passing, witnesses plainly against
the alleged prevalence of abuses. Have they well calculated the forces of
the enemy which they flattered themselves they were about to annihilate?
Unless we are mistaken, they think that its strength is the same in the
present day as it was in the time of Luther, and that, if whole nations
were then withdrawn from the church, there is no reason why they should
not be so now. But the Protestantism of those days allowed a true faith in
God, in Providence, in Jesus Christ, and retained a baptism in every
respect valid. It is allowable to believe that if God has permitted that
whole nations should be snatched from the _immediate_ care of the church,
his providence will keep them from ever falling back into the state in
which they were before the redemption; though this is the logical result
of modern Protestantism. Besides, the social and political situation of
Europe, the habits of the various nations, and especially the difficulty
of communication, then permitted sovereigns to raise, as it were, so many
walls of China round the confines of their states. They could at that time
isolate their subjects, and only allow them just so much
intercommunication with the rest of the world as _they_ might choose to
consider suitable to the interests of the state. If thought itself could
not be chained, its manifestations at least could be circumscribed or
stifled. This is no longer possible in the present day; a pamphlet, a
journal, a speech in parliament, even to a simple word of a bishop, can
now, from the other end of the world, trouble the repose and disturb the
plans of a powerful conqueror. For thought there are no longer any
barriers possible, nor yet police; and thought makes revolutions.

Now, amongst the thoughts which escape the vigilance of all police, and
which pass through every barrier, there is also that of the constancy
which, in no matter what period of the existence of the Catholic Church,
is shown by men living under different climates, ruled by various
institutions, but _brothers in the faith_. If to bear the same name, to be
born on the same soil, and to speak the same tongue, creates bonds so
powerful and so devoted a defence of common interests, fraternity in the
Catholic faith yields the palm in nothing to any other fraternity
whatsoever for the powerfulness of its effects. The humble _curé_ of a
poor parish hidden among the gorges of the mountains learns that a priest
in a distant land has been imprisoned for refusing to betray his
conscience. He is moved by the tidings, and takes a lively interest in the
fate of the priest, following anxiously in his journal the narrative of
the struggles of this confessor of the faith. During this time, without
his being aware of it, a salutary work has been going on in his mind. Soon
afterwards he finds himself in the same case—namely, of being called upon
to suffer for the performance of those duties which his quality of priest
imposes upon him. His adversaries, judging him by the gentleness of his
language and his life, expect to intimidate him by a word; but, to their
amazement, they find in him the firmness of an apostle. From whence did he
gain this courage? They know not, neither does he; that which impressed
his soul and prepared it for the conflict was nothing else than the story
of the sufferings of his brother in the faith and in the priesthood, in a
distant and foreign land.

Well, then, this sustaining thought which supports the Catholic priest by
making him feel himself a member of that family which is as vast as the
world and a brother in the faith with martyrs—this support will be wanting
to the Russian clergy when upon it alone will depend the fate of
orthodoxy. The Russian priest, who, not being alone, will have need of a
courage so much the greater as there are beings dear to him whose
existence is bound up with his own, will seek examples to encourage him;
but will he find them? The same causes which have produced the _mute
resignation_ spoken of by Schédo‐Ferroti authorize us to think that the
Russian clergy will not have its martyrs, or, if there should be some,
that their number will be too small to counterbalance the example of the
general feebleness. And yet here again we will undertake the defence of
the Russian clergy; for who, in fact, could require an act of heroism of a
man “enervated by excess of moral and physical sufferings, deprived of the
faculty of action, and not only possessing no longer any energy, but
having also lost all belief in his own powers”? Now, this is, word for
word, the condition of the Russian priest, as depicted by his most zealous
defender.

“But,” it may be said, “the Orthodox Church is not confined to Russia; the
orthodox priest will find brethren in Austria, in Roumania, in Turkey, and
in Greece.” This is true; but it is not enough to find brothers only. The
Russian priest will need brother‐martyrs; and where will he find them?

Besides, strange to say, the various branches of the Orthodox Church live
almost strangers to each other, unless some political interest awaken the
sentiment of fraternity in their common faith. Without entering into
details on this point, we will only make one remark. It is easy to find
several histories of the different branches, taken separately; but is it
so easy to find an universal history of the Orthodox Church?(170) In
Catholic countries the reverse of this is always the case; it is,
comparatively, difficult to meet with particular histories of the Catholic
Church in France, in Italy, in Germany, etc.; but everywhere is found and
taught the universal history of the Catholic Church—a history in which
that of a nation, however great or powerful, figures, if not as an
episode, certainly as but a simple portion, a contingent part, of a
necessary whole.

We one day read in an English journal that has a wide circulation the
following remark: “A church which counts among its members men like
Archbishop Manning and Dr. Newman is a church which is not to be
despised.” English common sense thus did justice to the “coal‐heavers’
faith,” as people are pleased to call the adhesion of Catholics to the
doctrines proposed to them by their church. In fact—to speak only of the
last named of these two personages—the author of the _Grammar of Assent_
does not yield in intellectual power to any of his Anglican adversaries;
from whence we may infer, by a series of logical deductions, that neither
does he yield in this to any of the adversaries of the Catholic Church. To
speak plainly, we have never perceived that these adversaries have shown
any alarming degree of intelligence, at least with regard to the
application of the rules of logic. In any case, as, since Porphyry and
Celsus, men have never been wanting who have represented the faith
propounded by the Catholic Church as an abdication of reason, so also,
since Justin and the first Christian philosophers, the church has never
lacked doctors who, in defending her, have at the same time been the
defenders of reason. The apostolate of learning is not less fruitful,
perhaps, than that of virtue and of martyrdom. Without pronouncing upon
the relative necessity and advantages of these three apostolates, nor
examining whether it is possible to exercise a _true_ apostolate by
learning unaided by self‐denial and virtue, nor even doing more than call
to mind how God in the Old Law, and the church in the New, have always
made learning a part of the duty of a priest, we will confine ourselves to
remarking that many souls are led to embrace the faith, and others,
tempted to doubt, are quieted and confirmed, by a simple reflection
analogous to that of the English journal just quoted. “A faith,” they say,
“professed by minds so much above the ordinary class as such and such a
writer ought not to be lightly rejected.” It is a preliminary argument of
which the effects are salutary, and grace does the rest.

If we now take into account all that eighteen centuries and innumerable
writers of all lands have accumulated in the way of proofs and testimonies
in favor of the Catholic faith; and if we at the same time consider the
immense variety and the infinitely‐multiplied forms of error, each in its
turn combated by the church, we shall comprehend that it is scarcely
possible to imagine any error of which the refutation has not already
somewhere appeared. In the same way the struggle still goes on in all
parts of the globe, and among peoples who have advanced, some more, some
less, in learning and civilization; in all parts of the globe the defence
also continues, and by men brought up among the same surroundings as their
adversaries. In short, Catholic productions are not the exclusive appanage
of any single diocese, any single country, any single nation; they are the
family treasures, belonging to the whole Catholic Church. Facility of
communication brings us, together with their names, the works of those who
are waging war against various errors in various lands. To take time, to
enquire, to make some researches—this is the worst that could happen to a
Catholic priest who might find himself, for the moment, unable to solve an
objection. But the objection is already solved, even if it be drawn from
some scientific discovery of yesterday, if indeed (as it often happens) it
cannot be solved at once by the simple use of common sense, and especially
of logic, the most necessary of sciences, and the least studied of all.

Thus we see what happens in the Catholic Church, and we see, therefore,
why it is that in those countries where formerly the clergy may have been
at times taken by surprise, and not well prepared to meet a sudden
adversary, they now struggle bravely; and also we see why earnest
Catholics have been able without difficulty to distinguish between true
and false progress, and between true science and false.

Will it be the same in Russia?

We do not wish to exaggerate anything, and will even admit that the
complaints which are so general of the ignorance of the Russian clergy may
be much overstated. Nevertheless, in looking through the bibliography of
that country, we find ourselves forced to acknowledge that whenever the
day shall arrive for unbelief to have free course there, decorated with
the seductive appellations of science, of progress, of the emancipation of
reason, etc., the Russian clergy will either find themselves without arms
wherewith to defend orthodoxy, or with such only as shall prove
insufficient.

In fact, the reader is perhaps not aware that, from the year 1701, Peter
the Great had been _obliged_ (according to Voltaire) to forbid the use of
pen and ink to monks. “It required,” says the apostle of science, “an
express permission from the archimandrite, who was responsible for those
to whom he granted it. Peter willed that this ordinance should
continue.”(171) The successors of Peter likewise willed the same, although
we do not venture to affirm that the ordinance is still observed. Let us,
then, be just, and refrain from blaming the Russian monks. If, since the
time of Peter the Great, they have not extraordinarily enriched the
literature of their country, the fault is none of theirs.

Neither have we any right to blame the secular Russian clergy if few
writers have appeared among them, nor yet any one of those whose name
alone exercises an apostolate. All the Russians who have written on the
ecclesiastical schools of their country are unwearied in their complaints
against the badness of the method and the insufficiency of instruction
which the young Russian levite takes with him on leaving the
seminary.(172) We do not in any way accuse the commissions charged with
the inspection and reformation of the ecclesiastical schools. We are
convinced that these commissions have done their best; if the evil still
continues as before, it is because they have not the power to touch its
root. Besides, how can it be expected that a priest, poor, burdened with a
family, and in very many cases necessitated to maintain himself and his
family by the work of his hands, can either have the necessary freedom of
mind or sufficient leisure to devote himself to study?

It remains for us to consider the bishops. These are taken from the
monastic orders, and if, since Peter I., all of them have not been
archimandrites, yet to all has, at any rate, been granted by the
archimandrite, of their convent, at his own risk and peril, the use of pen
and ink. Of the two hundred and eighty ecclesiastical writers who have
appeared and died in Russia from the conversion of that country to
Christianity down to the year 1827, and whose biographies may be found in
the _Dictionary_ of Mgr. Eugenius, Metropolitan of Kief,(173) one hundred
and ten belonged to the episcopate; and ever since 1827 that episcopate
has continued to reckon among its members men remarkable for their
learning. Everything, however, is relative. These bishops have shone in
Russia; and there has been a desire to make them shine as far as France by
translating into French the _Orthodox Theology_ of Mgr. Macarius, Bishop
of Vinnitsa; a collection of _Sermons_, by the late Mgr. Philarete,
Metropolitan of Moscow; and perhaps some other works. It is also to be
supposed that some care must have been shown in selecting from amongst the
productions of ecclesiastical literature in Russia, the best there were to
be found of what she possessed. Without criticising, we think there is
reason for saying that hitherto the Russian episcopate has not by its
writings furnished orthodoxy with a support proportioned to the dangers
with which it is threatened, and we doubt very much whether it will be
equal to furnishing her with it very quickly. The Russian prelates
renowned for their learning are but few in number; besides, so long as the
faith and the church are protected by the Penal Code, and judicial
prosecution would be the consequence of any attack, neither priests nor
bishops have much chance of finding themselves face to face with any
adversaries of importance. The latter, in fact, would be exceedingly
careful to avoid the men who could denounce them; and the result of this
is that, for want of exercise, neither the bishops nor priests can state
what is either their strength or their weakness. To this we must add the
thousand hindrances placed by Russian censorship to the manifestation of
religious thought. There is nothing, even to the sermon preached by the
pope in his parish, which must not be submitted to censure.(174) As for
pastoral letters of bishops, we should be very glad if any could be quoted
to us. The formalities and delays which accompany the revision and
approbation of every work destined to appear in print are of a nature to
discourage the most intrepid. The examination of _all_ the ecclesiastical
productions destined to appear in the immense empire of the czars is
confided to the committees of the _four_ ecclesiastical academies of Kief,
Kasan, Moscow, and St. Petersburg. If no exceptions were allowed, at any
rate in favor of periodical works, the complaint of Jeremias might be
truly applied to Russia: _Parvuli petierunt panem, et non erat, qui
frangeret eis_—“The little ones asked for bread, and there was none to
break it for them” (Lament. Jer. iv. 4). Finally, we will not stop to
consider the manner in which ecclesiastical censorship is exercised in
Russia, nor yet its tendencies nor its object; but we say, to single out
one point only, that it is impossible to find in all Russia a single work
that is able to throw any light upon the reciprocal relations of the
church and state. More than one reader will join us in acknowledging that
in Russia a true, apologetic literature has yet to be created.

To complete the picture of that which will inevitably take place in Russia
on the day when the Orthodox Church shall there lose the support of the
Penal Code, and will have to struggle alone, and abandoned to her own
strength against heresy and unbelief, we ought to observe that, since the
general confiscation of the goods of the clergy which was effected under
Catherine II. (1762), the Russian Church has no longer anything to supply
its needs but that which is allowed it by the state. It is the state which
provides for the keeping up of churches and monasteries; the state which
furnishes the expenses of the orthodox worship, and which assigns to the
ministers of that worship the piece of land from which they must find a
maintenance for themselves and their families, or else which supplies them
with a salary proportioned to the functions they are to exercise. It is
not, after all, impossible that, in the day of which we speak, the state,
while continuing to retain a budget for the orthodox worship, may
nevertheless extraordinarily reduce it; and also it is not impossible that
conditions which cannot be conscientiously accepted will be attached to
the payment of the salary, already so moderate, of the ministers of this
church. In either case, more even than to combat heresy and unbelief, it
will be necessary for the Russian Church to consider how her priests and
their families are to find bread and shelter. Now, the only classes which
can then effectively help them—are they not the same which at this day
show so great a contempt for their popes?

And this is not yet all. In the day of which we speak who will secure to
the bishops the obedience of the secular clergy? This clergy trembles now
before them, because it sees them armed by the law with a despotic
power;(175) but no one can foresee what will happen in the day when popes
and bishops shall be equal before the law. The bishops being all drawn
from the monastic state, the result has been that hitherto the secular
clergy have lived in subjection to the regular; and this fact, united to
other causes, has created a powerful antagonism between these two orders
of the clergy, which not unfrequently betrays itself by venomous writings.
One portion of the press makes common cause with the secular clergy; and,
if we may judge by certain tendencies, the admission of the secular clergy
to the episcopate will probably be one of the consequences of the changes
that will take place in the relations between the church and state. But it
is not possible that this change can be peaceably effected; the disorders
which, at times, arise in the application of the principle of universal
suffrage, show, in some degree, how, in this case, various elections of
bishops would be brought about. And then, in the confusion and wild
disorder of conflict, where would be found the authority which could have
power to settle these differences and claim for itself adhesion and
respect? The bishops, moreover, who or a century and a half have all been
equal before the czar, and only distinguished by the titles and
decorations granted or refused according to the good pleasure of the
monarch—will these submit themselves to an archbishop, to a metropolitan,
to a patriarch—in a word, to one from amongst themselves? Will they, for
the love of concord, invest him with a superior authority, and obey him?
And were they to reach this point, would not St. Petersburg contest the
primacy with Moscow? And would Kief forget her canonical jurisdiction of
former times?

Yet more, would not Constantinople vindicate any right over Russia? And
the other Oriental patriarchs—would they forget that their concurrence was
formerly sought for the erection of the patriarchate of Moscow, and their
approbation to sanction the establishment of the Synod?

We may thus, in its principal features, behold the state to which the
czars have reduced the faith and the church of which they entitle
themselves the guardians. The picture is a gloomy one; nevertheless, we do
not believe that we have exaggerated anything. Before proceeding further
we would even say a word of excuse for the czars.

If the Catholic Church were not built upon a rock, proof against all
tempests, many a Catholic sovereign designated by appellations indicative
of the highest degree of attachment to the church would long ago have
reduced her to the same condition as the church of the czars.

To Be Continued.




The Bells Of Prayer.


    During the prevalence of the great plague at Milan, “at the break
    of day, at noon, and at night a bell of the cathedral gave the
    signal for reciting certain prayers which had been ordered by the
    archbishop, and this was followed by the bells of the other
    churches. Then persons were seen at the windows, and a confused
    blending of voices and groans was heard which inspired sorrow,
    not, however, unmixed with consolation.”


Stern Death, the tyrant, had swept along
With trailing robes through the dusty mart.
And laid his hand, that is white and chill,
        On the city’s heart.

The Lombard City of olden ways
Over its sorrow and wild despair
A cry sent up to the unseen Throne
        In an earnest prayer.

A lord that is dead as a peasant is,
And a peasant dead is as a lord;
The angel stood at the city’s gate
        With his lifted sword!

The tongues of bells in the steeple‐tops
Sent on the breath of the baleful air
A call for the people far and near
        To evening prayer.

At the sound of bells the weeping ceased,
The heart of the thousand stilled its moan,
The name of God was uttered aloud
        With the bells’ sad tone.

And the gleaming crosses pointing up,
Like the gold of crowns that princes wear,
Seemed in the gray of the changeless sky
        As signs of prayer.

And the women’s eyes were wet with tears,
Their desolate souls were wrung with pain,
For the dead asleep in their silent graves
        Through the sun and rain.

In the dawn and noon and dusk it rose,
Threading its way up the narrow stair—
The Catholic cry—when the bells were rung
        For the people’s prayer.




New Publications.


    THE PRISONERS OF THE TEMPLE; OR DISCROWNED AND CROWNED. by M. C.
    O’Connor Morris. (Eleventh volume of Father Coleridge’s _Quarterly
    Series_.) London: Burns & Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by The
    Catholic Publication Society.)


This is a republication with additions of papers from that excellent
magazine, _The Month_, which is especially valuable for its historical
articles. It gives an account of the imprisonment of Louis XVI. and his
family in the old tower of the Templars, together with sketches of other
parts of the history of that noble and unfortunate group of victims to
atheistic and revolutionary fury. The chief interest centres in the
history of Louis XVII., commonly called the Dauphin. The tragic tale of
his horrible sufferings and death is minutely told. At the end of the
volume we have a report of the judgment in the famous case of the
Naundorffs, who pretended to be the heirs of the Dauphin. This is one of
the many tales of an escape of the Dauphin from the Temple and the
substitution of another child in his place. The utter falsity of all these
stories is amply proved, pretenders and prophets to the contrary
notwithstanding. Whoever looks to the branch of the Capets for the
deliverance of France must find him in the Count de Chambord. We cannot
too warmly recommend this charming and pathetic narrative to all our
readers.


    MEDITATIONS ON THE LIFE AND DOCTRINE OF JESUS CHRIST. By Nicholas
    Avancinus, S.J. Translated from the German Edition of the Rev. J.
    E. Zollner, by F. E. Bazalgette. With a Preface on Meditation, by
    George Potter, S.J. 2 vols. London: Burns & Oates. 1874. (New
    York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)


The _Meditations_ of Avancinus were specially adapted to the use of
religious. The German editor modified them for the use of all persons
indiscriminately. They are prepared for every day in the year, are short,
simple, and well fitted for use, both in community and in private.


    THE NOBLEMAN OF ’89. By M. A. Quinton. Translated by Prof. Ernest
    Lagarde, of Mt. St. Mary’s College. Baltimore: Kelly & Piet. 1874.


Some of our readers have doubtless read the _Quatre‐Vingt‐Treize_ of that
great magician of language and fiery genius of revolution, Victor Hugo. It
is an apology for the French Revolution; yet, to any person whose mind and
heart are not already corrupted by bad principles and passions, it must
seem like an apology which makes the crime worse and less excusable. The
romances of Erckmann‐Chatrian are more subtle and plausible. One or two of
them are, if taken singly, quite inoffensive, and a translation of them
was some time ago given in our own pages on account of their vivid
illustration of most interesting historical epochs. A contributor, quite
unsuspectingly, even proposed to translate them all, and the necessity of
reading the whole set before accepting the proposition, first opened our
eyes to the scope and object which their authors have always had in view,
and which is exposed in some very plainly; as, for instance, in
_Waterloo_, the sequel to _The Conscript_. The end of these writers is to
extend and popularize hatred of the church, the clergy, and the classes
enjoying wealth or power in the state; to foster the spirit of liberalism
either in its extreme or moderate form, and thus to help on the
revolution. The influence of such books teaches us a valuable lesson
concerning the polemic strategy to be employed on the opposite side.
Historical romances have an extraordinary charm for a multitude of
readers, and they can be made the vehicle of conveying historical
knowledge together with the valuable lessons which history teaches. In
order that they may perfectly fulfil their highest purpose, they should
present true, authentic history, using fiction merely as an accessory. M.
Quinton has done this, and has given a correct and vivid historical sketch
of one period in the French Revolution, which is included in the plot of a
novel of genuine dramatic power and descriptive ability. Its size is very
considerable, making a volume of eight hundred pages, closely printed in
quite small type. Fearful as the scenes are through which we are hurried
in following the adventures of the persons figuring in the story, we are
not left without some compensation and alleviation in the episodes of
quiet life which relieve its tragic gloom. Some charming characters are
portrayed, the best of which are three individuals of low station but high
heroism—Louisette, Drake, and Cameo.

The characters of Marat, Danton, Robespierre, Philippe Egalité, and other
leaders of the Revolution, are well portrayed. The author’s special
success, however, is in describing the low ruffians who led the mob in the
work of assassination. Maillefer, Lepitre, Boulloche, and Ratfoot are like
Dante’s demons. We have never read anything more infernally horrible than
the description of Aunt Magloire and the band of women who were trained to
yell at the royal family. We recommend the perusal of this description
most especially to the strong‐minded young ladies who are inclined to
dabble in infidelity. In Mme. Roland they may see themselves as they are
now; in Aunt Magloire and her frenzied band they may see where womanhood
is brought by the abandonment of faith, when the lowest stage of
degradation is reached.

The translator has done a great service to the public by putting this
admirable historical novel into English. We take the liberty of
recommending to him another one—M. Barthelemy’s _Pierre le Peillarot_. The
multiplication of such books will go far to counteract the evil influence
of those which falsify history and instil bad principles. We have vainly
endeavored to persuade some of our publishers to undertake the translation
of Conrad von Bolanden’s historical novels, which are far superior to the
heavy productions of Mühlbach. If these latter, in spite of their dulness,
obtained so extensive a circulation, why not the admirable works of
Bolanden which depict the thrilling scenes of the Thirty Years’ War? A
series of small, popular histories of certain important epochs is also
very much wanted.


    PURGATORY SURVEYED, ETC. Edited by W. H. Anderdon, S.J. Reprinted
    from the edition of 1663. London: Burns & Oates. 1874. (New York:
    Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)


The original of this treatise was written in French by Father Binet, S.J.
As it now stands it is the work of Father Thimelby, S.J., who used the
work of Father Binet as a basis for his own. It is quaint, rich, and in
one respect more directly practical as a spiritual book than some other
excellent treatises on the same subject, inasmuch as it shows the pious
reader how to avoid purgatory.


    LESSONS IN BIBLE HISTORY FOR CATHOLIC SCHOOLS. By a Teacher. New
    York: P. O’Shea. 1875.


Experienced teachers usually prepare the best school‐books. The compiler
of these Bible lessons is a lady of remarkable talent, who has spent many
years of most successful labor as a teacher in an academy for young ladies
which deservedly enjoys the highest reputation. Her book is one which has
been prepared during this long course of teaching, and thus practically
tested, as well as continually improved. It is now published with the
direct sanction of his Grace the Archbishop of New York, after a careful
revision made under his authority. The author has not attempted to go into
questions of difficult critical erudition in respect to chronology and
similar matters, but has simply followed the commonly‐received
interpretation of the text of Scripture history, where there is one,
avoiding the difficulties and doubtful topics which beset the study of all
ancient history, sacred as well as profane. In this respect she has shown
uncommon tact and judgment, and has always kept in view her true object,
which is to prepare a text‐book suitable for young pupils of from ten to
fifteen years old. The style and method are admirable for brevity,
clearness, and a graphic, picturesque grouping of events and characters.
The delicacy with which every narrative, where immoral and criminal acts
are involved, shuns the danger of shocking the innocent mind of children
by contact with evil of which it is ignorant, is exquisite. The questions
about morals which necessarily suggest themselves to the quick,
inquisitive minds of children, and which the author has often had to
answer in class, are solved prudently and correctly. The interval between
the sacred history of the Old Testament and that of the New has been
filled up from profane authors, particularly Josephus, which is a great
addition to the value of the book, and throws light on the narrative of
the Gospels that makes it much more intelligible. In the history of the
life of Christ the words of the evangelists are for the most part
employed, without other changes or additions than such as are necessary to
make the narrative continuous. The parables are arranged by themselves in
a series. A summary of the Acts of the Apostles concludes the work, which
is of very moderate size and copiously illustrated by woodcuts. As a
school‐book this is the best of its kind, in our opinion, and we expect to
see it generally adopted in Catholic schools. We cannot too cordially
recommend it to teachers and parents for their young pupils and for family
reading. Many adults, also, will find it the best and most suitable
compendium of Bible history for their own reading; and even if they are in
the habit of reading the sacred books themselves in their complete text,
this manual will aid them to gain a better understanding of their
historical parts than they can otherwise obtain. We trust the good example
set by the pious and accomplished author will be followed by many of her
associates in the holy work of religious education, to the great advantage
of both teachers and pupils. Thousands of lovely children whom she will
never see this side of heaven will bless the hand that has prepared for
them so much delightful instruction, even if their curiosity is never
gratified by knowing her name.


    EXCERPTA EX RITUALI ROMANO. NOVA ET AUCTIOR EDITIO. Baltimore:
    Kelly, Piet, et Soc. 1874.


This is a lovely little ritual, a very pretty present for any one to make
to a priest, especially to one just sent out from the seminary to a poor
and arduous country mission.


    LETTERS OF MR. GLADSTONE AND OTHERS. New York: _Tribune_ Office.
    1874.


The London _Tablet_ epigrammatically remarks that Mr. Gladstone kindled a
fire on a Saturday which was put out on the following Monday. Mgr. Capel
has very satisfactorily answered him. Every person not an ignoramus in
theology and jurisprudence, knows that the Catholic Church teaches the
derivation of the state from a divine institution _immediately_, and _not_
mediately through the church; moreover, that she teaches what follows by
logical sequence, the duty of allegiance to the state. No Christian, no
moral philosopher, and no person holding the principles on which the
American fabric of law is based, can hold that this allegiance is
unlimited.

The New York _Herald_, remarkable both for extraordinary blunders and for
extraordinarily just and sensible statements, has well said that there is
a “higher law” recognized by every one who believes in the supremacy of
conscience and duty to God. It is a very base and inconsistent thing for
an American to profess a doctrine of blind, slavish obedience to civil
magistrates and laws, however wicked these may be. The Catholic Church has
always claimed to be the infallible judge in morals as well as in faith.
The Pope has always exercised the supreme power of pronouncing the
infallible judgments of the church, and the Vatican decrees have added
nothing to that power. They have embodied the perpetual doctrine of the
church in a solemn judgment with annexed penalties, as an article of
Catholic faith; and, in consequence, whoever refuses obedience and assent
to that judgment is _ipso facto_ a heretic and excommunicated. It is
therefore idle for Lord Acton and Lord Camoys, who have stained their
nobility and their Catholic lineage by an act of treason and apostasy, to
pretend to be Catholics. They are no more Catholics than is Mr. Gladstone,
and the English Catholics have repudiated them and their doctrine with
indignation. It is futile to pretend that the Pope claims any _jure
divino_ temporal power directly over states or citizens in their political
capacity, or pretends to retain any _jure humano_ sovereignty beyond his
own kingdom. The reader will find the general subject of this notice
discussed at greater length elsewhere in this number.


    OUTLINES OF ASTRONOMY. By Arthur Searle, A.M., Assistant at
    Harvard College Observatory. 16mo, 415 pp. Boston: Ginn Brothers.
    1874.


A new interest has within the past few years been given to the science of
astronomy by the recent discoveries which have been made in it,
principally by the use of the spectroscope and by the new field which has
been opened and which is still opening before astronomers, of physical
research into the construction of the celestial bodies. A short time ago
the science seemed nearly as complete as it was ever likely to become;
now, while retaining its old ground intact, it is rapidly developing new
resources, and, besides being itself perfected, it is contributing no
small share to the solution of the great problem of the day in purely
physical science—the constitution of matter.

Many new and excellent works have, accordingly, as might be expected,
lately appeared on the subject, called forth by the reawakened interest in
it, both in the world at large and among scientific men. The book forming
the subject of this notice is certainly one of the best of these.

It is not a mere condensed summary of what is known and has been
discovered. Such summaries, of course, are of great utility, both for
reference and as text‐books, and serve excellently in the latter way, if
the object of the learner be to memorize for a time a large number of
facts, or, in other words, to cram for an examination. They may serve, for
students of good memories, even a permanent purpose; but they require
close application, and labor under the difficulty—too often a fatal one—of
not being interesting, unless helped out by startling representations of
nebulæ, comets, clusters of stars, and other beautiful objects at which
many people seem to suppose astronomers to spend their lives in idly
gazing.

Fine writing, on the other hand, about the grandeur and magnificence of
the celestial orbs, etc., is indeed often interesting; but, though
edifying and useful in its way, it fails to instruct. One really knows
little more after it than before.

This book has to a great extent, and perhaps as far as possible, avoided
both of these difficulties, which usually stand in the way of people who
wish to know something of astronomy, but not to become practical
astronomers. It is more on the plan of Herschel’s treatise than of any
other which we remember, but is, though this is saying a good deal,
superior to it in two respects. One is, as is obvious, that it is brought
up to the present state of the science; and the other, that in the first
part the geometrical diagrams usually considered necessary are dispensed
with, and supplied by ingenious popular illustrations borrowed from facts
of daily life, and familiar to all, which attract, instead of terrifying,
the reader. It is true that the fear which most people have of mathematics
is to a great extent unreasonable; but allowance must be made, even for
ill founded prejudices. Illustrations and explanations of this kind, for
which the author has a remarkable talent, are a feature of the book
throughout.

The last half of it is intended for those who have a real desire to
understand the work which astronomers do, and how they have done it; the
nature of the problems which they have to solve, and the means employed.
It does not presuppose any really mathematical education; what geometry is
needed is explained as it is required, and with a great deal of
originality, as we may observe by the way. But to this branch of the
subject there is no admission, except by Newton’s key of “patient
thought.” Those who do not care to use it must dispense with the knowledge
to which it opens the door. The chapter on the “History of Astronomy” is,
however, easy reading, and much the best short sketch of the progress of
the science of which we are aware.

The illustrations are excellent, not being copies on a traditional type,
but taken from photographs or careful original drawings. A copious index,
appended to the book, facilitates reference.

The work is mainly intended for the general reader; but there is no reason
why it should not be a text‐book, especially for academies and colleges,
as Sir John Herschel’s, already alluded to, has proved to be. We have no
hesitation in recommending it for this purpose, and as being worthy to
take the place of any now in use.

We regret that the words on page 384, expressing a mere hope in the
existence, or at any rate in the providence, of God as the author of
nature, should have been inserted. We have not noticed anything else in
the book to which Catholics can object, unless it be the use of the word
infinity in the sense common to Protestant authors, which is, in fact, the
one ordinarily given to it by mathematicians.


    THE TESTIMONY OF THE EVANGELISTS EXAMINED BY THE RULES OF EVIDENCE
    ADMINISTERED IN COURTS OF JUSTICE. By Simon Greenleaf, LL.D., late
    Dane Professor of Law in Harvard University, author of “Treatise
    on the Law of Evidence,” etc. New York: James Cockcroft & Co.
    1874.


Prof. Greenleaf’s reputation as a writer on jurisprudence is too well
known to need any comment from us. In bringing his judicial calmness and
legal acumen to bear on the Christian evidences, he has conferred an
obligation which all Christians must acknowledge. He writes as a Christian
scholar should write, with learned gravity, yet with reverent simplicity;
and as he believes the divinity of Our Lord, and raises no disputed point
of doctrine, his work may be accepted as orthodox. It is in reading the
productions of such minds as his that the really ephemeral character of
works like Renan’s _Life of Jesus_ is best appreciated. Renan holds a
brief, and his arguments in support of it are only flowery and superficial
rhetoric. Renan’s _scenes_ are very dramatic—the apparition of our Lord to
Magdalen, for instance, is worked up with great elaborateness of effect;
but when he comes to face solid evidence, he fails most deplorably. Thus,
in treating of Our Lord’s appearance to the apostles after his
resurrection, and the conviction of the doubting Thomas, he merely says
that at the first interview S. Thomas was not present, adding in a
careless way: “It is said (_on dit_) that eight days afterward he was
satisfied.” A cavalier way this of disposing of a most circumstantial
piece of history!

This ample and elegant volume is a new edition of a work published, we
believe, some thirty years ago, and now out of print. One of the best
parts of the book is the Appendix, containing, among other things, M.
Dupin’s “Refutation of Salvador’s Chapter on the Trial of Jesus.”


    SINS OF THE TONGUE; OR, JEALOUSY IN WOMAN’S LIFE; followed by
    discourses on rash judgments, patience, and grace. Boston: Patrick
    Donahoe. 1874.

    THE VALIANT WOMAN: A series of discourses intended for the use of
    women living in the world. Boston: Patrick Donahoe. 1874.


Two very practical books written by Mgr. Landriot, late Archbishop of
Rheims, and translated from the French by Helena Lyons. After having
passed through four editions in England, Mr. Donahoe presents them to us
in an American dress for circulation and perusal in this country. The
print is clear, the translation good, and the binding in keeping.

Both of these books will be found very useful to clergymen who have the
spiritual direction of women living in the world, and will assist them in
preparing sermons to decry those most mischievous of sins: envy, jealousy,
rash judgments, and sloth.

Although these books were written for females, yet they will be very
beneficial to many of the opposite sex, who are not unfrequently in great
need of cultivating reserve and charity. The first one, particularly, may
be read with advantage by some writers for the press, who seem to forget
that calumny, detraction, and vituperation are mortal sins, which are even
more aggravated when published to the world than when only privately
indulged in, and that, moreover, they exact reparation.


    ORDO DIVINI OFFICII RECITANDI MISSÆQUE CELEBRANDÆ, JUXTA RUBRICAS
    BREVIARII AC MISSALIS ROMANI, ANNO 1875. Baltimore: apud Fratres
    Lucas, Bibliopolas, via vulgo dicta Market, No. 170.


We beg pardon for having misquoted the title of this work. The title‐page
contains the word “Rectandi,” which we have supposed to stand for
“Recitandi,” and “Celebrande,” for which we have substituted “Celebrandæ.”

It would be well if the mistakes in this important publication were all on
the title‐page, and if they were all merely misprints. We will, however,
begin with these. The proofs do not seem to have been read at all.

The following, then, are some of the misprints. Feb. 4, “S. Andræ
Corsini.” Feb. 10, “_Dom. Possion_.” Mar. 10, “_A cunctus_.” Mar. 20,
“_fucit heri_” and “_præsente Candav_.” Mar. 28, “DOM. RESURECT.” This
last is, if we remember rightly, an old acquaintance. Apr. 13, “S.
Hemenegildi.” May 2, “S. Anthanasii.” May 5, “_præsente caduv_.” May 19,
“S. Prudentianæ.” May 23, “Festum SS. Trinitatatis.” The superfluous “at”
here has perhaps come out of “_Matut._,” on June 8, which reads “_Mut._”
June 13, “Vesp.”

These will suffice as specimens of mere typographical errors. The
following cannot be considered as such:

On January 16 we find the feast of S. Marcellinus. The Breviary has
Marcellus. Similarly, on July 13, we have S. Anicetus for S. Anacletus.

The feast of S. John Nepomucen has disappeared altogether. Unless it has
been suppressed, it should have the day to which that of S. Francis
Caracciolo has been transferred. This requires the following changes:

June 15. For S. Francis Caracciolo read S. John Nepomucen.

June 17. For S. Ubaldus read S. Francis Caracciolo.

June 18. For S. Bernardine read S. Ubaldus.

June 22. For S. M. M. of Pazzi read S. Bernardine.

June 23. For the Vigil of S. John read S. M. M. of Pazzi.

The assigned feast of S. Leo comes, it would seem, this year, on July 3.
Until now it has been on July 7. Moreover, we do not find it in the
Breviary on the 27th of June, as stated this year, but rather on the 28th,
as previously.

We must do the _Ordo_ the justice to say that it has itself corrected one
of its mistakes. It put in the feast of S. Justin on the 14th of April,
and has inserted a slip saying that this is only for the Roman clergy.

Cannot we have a better _Ordo_ next year? It has been getting worse and
worse for some time. And if we have a change for the better, would it not
be a good idea at the same time to separate the part peculiar to the
Diocese of Baltimore entirely from the rest, for the convenience of the
clergy? Since writing the above, our attention has been called to the
omission of the anniversaries of consecration of some of our bishops.

There may be some other errors; it is not probable that we have noticed
all.


    REGLEMENT ECCLESIASTIQUE DE PIERRE LE GRAND. Par le R. P. C.
    Tondini, Barnabite. Paris: Libr. de la Soc. Bibliogr., 75 Rue du
    Bac. 1874.


F. Tondini has sent us two copies of this curious and valuable document,
for which he will please accept our thanks. It contains the text of the
_Regulation_ in Russian, Latin, and French, with other pieces and notes,
and is prefaced by an introduction. There is a great deal of political
talent and skill exhibited in this code of the Russian Peter, which is the
foundation upon which the modern schismatical Church of Russia is founded.
There are also many things in it most whimsical and amusing. The Emperor
Paul wanted to celebrate a Pontifical Mass in vestments of sky‐blue
velvet. Peter did not care about performing any such childish escapade as
this, but he was resolved to exercise the governing power of a supreme
pontiff, and he carried his resolve into execution. The one salient
feature of his regulation is the systematic effort to degrade the
hierarchy and clergy of the Russian Church, to make them impotent and
contemptible. The able despot, aided by his unscrupulous instruments,
succeeded but too well. The ultimate result has been that Russia is worm‐
eaten and undermined by infidelity and its necessary concomitant, the
revolutionary principle. There is no salvation for it, even politically,
except in a return to obedience to the See of Peter, the Prince of the
Apostles. Our Episcopalian admirers of the Russian Church will find some
wholesome reading in this interesting and learned work of F. Tondini.


    SADLIERS’ CATHOLIC DIRECTORY, ALMANAC, AND ORDO FOR THE YEAR OF
    OUR LORD 1875. New York: D. & J. Sadlier & Co. 1875.


In the cursory glance we have been able to give this publication, we are
glad to notice an evident effort to improve on the issues of previous
years. We do not look for perfection in such difficult compilations, and
anything approaching it is to be commended.


    IERNE OF ARMORICA. By J. C. Bateman. New York: D. & J. Sadlier &
    Co. 1874.


This work, reprinted from Father Coleridge’s admirable _Quarterly Series_,
was noticed, at the time of its original publication, in THE CATHOLIC
WORLD for June, 1873. We have also received from the same house: Moore’s
_Irish Melodies_, with memoir and notes by John Savage; Carleton’s
_Redmond Count O’Hanlon_, _The Evil Eye_, and _The Black Baronet_; the
latter reprints, we believe, of works heretofore published by Mr. Donahoe
of Boston.


    THE MILWAUKEE CATHOLIC MAGAZINE, January, 1875.


We welcome to our table this new contemporary, an octavo monthly of
thirty‐two pages, just come to hand. The editor having beautified the
churches and dwellings of his locality with the productions of his pencil
and crayon, now takes up the pen professional; though he has heretofore
made occasional contributions to the press, which have recently been put
into book‐form. He brings to his task a refined, poetic taste, a genuine
appreciation of the beautiful in art and nature, and a sturdy good sense,
which will doubtless serve him well in his new relations. We wish him all
success.

ANNOUNCEMENT.—The Catholic Publication Society has in press, and will soon
publish from advance sheets, two very important works in answer to Mr.
Gladstone’s late pamphlet; one by the Very Rev. John Henry Newman, D.D.,
and the other by His Grace Archbishop Manning. The former is entitled _A
Letter to the Duke of Norfolk, on the occasion of Mr. Gladstone’s recent
Expostulation_, and the latter, _The Vatican Decrees and their Bearings on
Civil Allegiance_.





THE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XX., NO. 120.—MARCH, 1875.




Italian Documents Of Freemasonry.


When Elias Ashmole and his literary friends amused their learned leisure
at Brazenose in the construction of abstruse symbols and mystic jargon,
that passed through their cavalier associates to the first Masonic lodges,
they could never have foreseen the result of their invention. In less than
two centuries the association that sprang from the union of a few Royalist
officers in England, and accompanied the exile of King James’ followers to
France, has spread itself over the two hemispheres, a mystery where it is
not a terror. Its history has been written by many pens and in many
colors. Some have ascribed to it an origin lost in fabulous antiquity, or
traced its genealogy back a thousand years before the Christian era. To
some it is an absurd system of innocent mystification, without any
capacity for the good it promises, and powerless for the evil with which
its intentions are credited. But others discern under its mantle of
hypocrisy nothing less than a subtle organization for the destruction of
all established order, and a diabolical conspiracy for the overthrow of
religion. Between the two descriptions our choice is easily made. The
voice of the Roman pontiffs, our guardians and our teachers, has been
neither slow nor uncertain. Clement XII. and Benedict XIV., Pius VII. and
Leo XII., Gregory XVI. and Pius IX., have unequivocally condemned Masonic
societies as hot‐beds of impiety and sedition. This judgment was not
lightly pronounced. It proceeded from an examination of the manuals,
statutes, and catechisms of the order, from undoubted evidence of its
practical action as well as its speculative principles. Since the close of
the last century many writers, both Catholic and Protestant, have
contributed by their researches to justify the sentence of the popes, and
nothing has more powerfully aided these efforts than the publication from
time to time of the authentic documents of this secret society.

A signal service has just been rendered to the same cause by the
publication in Rome of the General Statutes of Freemasonry, and of two
rituals for initiation into the first and thirtieth grades of the
craft.(176) It would be a mistake to suppose that the organization of
Freemasonry is everywhere identical, or that it has been always
harmoniously developed to the same extent in the different countries where
it has taken root. It has been torn by schisms from the beginning,
although its divisions, which concerned rather matters of form and detail
than general principles, have never prevented its combining for common
purposes of destruction. The two great factions which divide the brethren
take their name from the _rite_ which they profess. The orthodox Masons,
who are the great majority, give their allegiance to the Scottish rite,
which at one time, they say, had its principal seat in Edinburgh. Now, as
Domenico Angherà, Grand‐Master of the Neapolitan Orient, tells us in a
reserved circular of the 22d of May last, which has found its way to the
public papers, the acknowledged centre is established in Maryland under
the specious designation of Mother‐Council of the World. In the Scottish
rite the grades are thirty‐three: eighteen symbolic, twelve philosophic,
and three administrative. The Reform of Orléans, which distinguishes the
followers of the French rite, abolishes all the philosophic and higher
grades, and reduces the symbolic to seven. The reformers are reproached
with clipping the wings of the eagle of liberty, forbidding the
introduction of political and religious questions into the lodges, and
cancelling at a stroke two‐thirds of the Masonic programme, Equality and
Liberty, making Fraternity sole motto of the order.

The documents published are those of the orthodox Masons of the Scottish
rite, which is almost exclusively followed in Italy. Of their authenticity
there is no doubt. The statutes are printed from the latest edition,
clandestinely prepared for Masonic use at Naples (Tipografia dell’
Industria, 1874). They are distributed into five hundred and eighty
articles, and in the Roman reprint are followed by thirty‐seven
supplementary statutes for Italy agreed to in the Masonic convention held
at Rome in May. The rituals, equally authentic, are also copied from the
most recent editions. Without the rituals, the statutes cannot be
understood. The latter are put into the hands of all Freemasons, and the
language, when not positively misleading, is studiously ambiguous, only to
be explained as the initiated proceeds in his graduation. It is necessary
to give their substance at greater length than the platitudes and general
professions of philanthropy they contain would warrant, in order that the
commentary afforded by the other manuals may bring the hypocrisy and
imposture of the system into full relief. As far as possible these
documents shall be allowed to speak for themselves. They are their own
indictment.

The General Constitutions of the Society of Freemasons of the Ancient and
Accepted Scottish Rite in their first paragraph declare that the scope of
the order is the perfection of mankind. Embracing in its scheme the whole
human race, the grand aim of the institution requires its members to
devote all their material means and mental faculties to its furtherance.
The brethren, whatever be their nationality, to whatever rite of Masonry
they owe allegiance, are members of a great family, one as is the species
to which they belong, as the globe they inhabit, as nature which they
contemplate. For this reason Freemasons of every country are to take among
themselves the designation of brothers, and both in and out of their
lodges show, in their deportment to each other, true fraternal affection.
The _venerable_ president of the lodge is required to see observed that
strict equality which ought to exist among brothers. He is never to forget
that the simple quality of man in the eyes of a Freemason commands the
highest respect, and is to show deference only to such as deserve it by
their virtue and superior Masonic acquirements. He must never permit a
brother to assume any superiority over another on account of rank or
distinctions he may enjoy in the profane world. He himself, on his
admission to office, is reminded that he is but _primus inter pares_, that
his authority lasts only for a time. He must never make his superiority be
felt by the others. He ought to reflect that he is chosen to lead because
he is considered possessed of the necessary prudence, and that only gentle
and kind demeanor can secure the harmony that should reign among
Freemasons.

Every member at his initiation, besides his entry‐money paid to the
treasurer, must deposit a sum for the benevolent fund. At every meeting of
the lodge a collection is made for the poor. This is so essential that any
meeting where this duty has been omitted is declared not Masonic,
irregular and null. All fines imposed on delinquents or absentees go to
the same fund. The grand almoner is charged with the distribution of the
offerings among the more indigent of the fraternity, and even the profane
are sometimes admitted to share in the Masonic alms. Every application for
assistance must be made through a member, and is discussed in the lodge.
Preference is to be given to those cases where distress has not been
produced by idleness or vice. Certain circumstances justify the president
in authorizing an alms without consulting the lodge, but an explanation is
to be given at the first meeting. He has also power to exempt the poorer
brethren from the payment of the regular subscription, but this he is
enjoined to do with such precautions as may conceal the exemption from the
other members of the lodge. Were he to manifest the favor, he would be
expelled the order.

In every lodge there is an official styled hospitaller, whose duty it is
to visit the brethren in sickness daily, and supply them with medicines
and whatever else they may happen to need. All the members of the lodge
are obliged to visit the sick brother, one each day by turns, and also
during his convalescence. A remarkable provision is added, obliging the
sick Mason to receive the visits of his brethren. If the illness is
dangerous, the sick man must hand over all his Masonic papers to those who
are deputed to take charge of them. The funeral expenses of a deceased
member are defrayed by the lodge, when circumstances require it, and he is
accompanied to the grave by all his brethren of the same or lower grade in
Freemasonry. The lodge orator, where practicable, pronounces a discourse
over the tomb, enumerating the virtues and praises of the deceased; within
the lodge the oration must never be omitted.

In keeping with the professedly humanitarian scope of the order are those
articles of the statutes which regulate the admission of new members: “If
the end of the institution is the perfection of mankind, it is
indispensable that the Freemason should practise true morality, which
supposes the knowledge and practice of the duties and rights of man. He
ought, accordingly, to be upright, humane, sincere, beneficent to every
sort of persons, and, above all, a good father, a good son, a good
brother, a good husband, and a good citizen. A Freemason must be a citizen
in full enjoyment of his civil rights, of acknowledged probity, and of at
least ordinary intelligence. No one is admitted who has not the age
required by the statutes. No one may be admitted or may remain in the
order who has once been employed or engages in servile, mean, and
dishonorable trades or professions, or who has been condemned to suffer
punishment for crime. The expiation of any such sentence gives no claim
for readmittance.”

The retiring warden, handing over the keys of the Masonic temple to the
warden‐elect, admonishes the latter to exclude from its precincts all who
have not laid aside every profane distinction, and who do not seek to
enter solely by the path of virtue. Every precaution is taken to prevent
the admission of unworthy subjects. The age for reception is fixed at
twenty‐one, but the son of a Freemason may be initiated at eighteen, or
even at fifteen if his father is of the upper grades of the order. The
candidate must be proposed in the lodge by a member. Three commissioners
are secretly appointed to separately inquire into the antecedents of the
postulant, each inquisitor concealing his mandate from his fellow‐
commissioners.

“The investigation,” it is prescribed, “should chiefly turn on the
constant integrity of the _profane_ in his habitual conduct, on the exact
discharge of the duties of his position, on the rectitude and safeness of
his principles, on the firmness of his character, on his activity and
ability to penetrate, develop, and fully understand the profound sciences
which the mystic Masonic institute offers to the consideration of its
followers.”

The three reports of the inquisitors must agree in recommending the
candidate; otherwise the subject drops. But even when the commissioners
unanimously approve of the proposal, the question is put to the secret
votes of the lodge in three several meetings. Two negative votes in the
first ballot are sufficient to delay the next trial for three months,
while after three negatives it is put off for nine; and if at the end of
that time three black balls are again found in the urn, the candidate is
definitively rejected, and communication is made of the result to the
Grand Orient, which informs all the dependent lodges of the exclusion, to
prevent the admission of the rejected candidate among the brethren of its
jurisdiction.

Having secured by these stringent regulations the purity of selection, and
put the mystic temple beyond the risk of contamination by unworthy
neophytes, it is not surprising that the statutes should tell us
(paragraph 444) “that the character of Freemason does not admit the
supposition that he can commit a fault.” Nevertheless, considering the
weakness of human nature and the force of old habits imperfectly subdued,
certain violations of decorum are contemplated in the statutes which
constitute Masonic faults, and are enumerated with the penalties attached
to each. Among these peccadilloes are mentioned perjury and treason
against the order, the revelation of its mysteries, embezzlement of its
funds, insubordination and rebellion against its authority, duelling
_among brethren_, and breaches of hospitality.

Out of the lodges the conduct of the brethren is to be closely watched. It
is the duty of the president to admonish any one whose conduct is
reprehensible. This he must do in secret, and with due fraternal
tenderness endeavor to bring back the wanderer to the path of virtue.
Every corporation has to see that its individual members do nothing to
forfeit the good opinion and confidence of the world at large. When,
therefore, a brother is subjected to a criminal prosecution and proved
guilty, the lodge is to take immediate steps for his expulsion.

Promotion from the lower to the higher grades of Masonry is regulated on
the same principles of meritorious selection that govern the first
admission of members. Irreprehensible conduct, both in his civil and
Masonic capacity, are requisite in the aspirant; and he must have acquired
a thorough knowledge of the grade which he possesses before he can be
advanced to _greater light_. Certain intervals must pass between each
successive step, that the spirit and devotedness of the brother may be
fully ascertained and his promotion justified.

Minute rules are laid down in the statutes to regulate the proceedings in
lodge. The arrangement of the seats, the order of business, the method of
discussion, all is provided for in a way to promote harmony and social
feeling. Unbecoming behavior and offensive language are severely punished.
“Among Freemasons everything must breathe wisdom, kindness, and joy.” Any
brother may signify his dissent from a proposal while it is under
discussion; but when it has received the approbation of the majority, he
must applaud the decision with the rest, “and not be so foolishly vain as
to think his own opinion better than that of the greater number.” When the
ritual practices have been observed, and necessary business despatched,
the presiding dignitary may invite the brethren to suspend their labors
and engage without formality in conversation or amusement. After this
relaxation the ceremonial is resumed for the remainder of the meeting, and
the lodge is closed in the usual manner.

Prominent among the observances instituted for the cultivation of Masonic
feeling are the _Agapæ_ of Masonic banquets. Some are _de rigeur_, as
those on the Feasts of S. John the Baptist and S. John the Evangelist, and
on the anniversary of the foundation of the various lodges. Others may be
given according to circumstances. In the regulation banquets the lodge
orator makes an appropriate address. Toasts and songs enliven the
entertainment, and dancing is not prohibited. Between the toasts a poet,
if there be one, may offer some of his productions. “Mirth, harmony, and
sobriety are the characteristics of a Masonic feast.” Officials are
charged to maintain order and decorum in these reunions. They are
instructed to observe a “moderate, fraternal austerity” in their
superintendence. Venial slips may be corrected on the spot, and a trifling
penance imposed, which must be accepted with the best grace. A brother who
more gravely offends against any of the social decencies is to be
rigorously chastised at the first subsequent meeting.

After the claim of Freemasonry to represent a universal brotherhood, and
its professed purpose to effect a general diffusion of its principles and
influence, we are not surprised to find the statutes enjoin the most
absolute respect for all political opinions and all religious beliefs. The
325th article says: “It is never permitted to discuss matters of religion
or affairs of state in the lodges.”(177) We are not, however, to interpret
toleration into a denial of the foundation of religious truth, or into a
wicked connivance at subversive agencies in the body politic. Every
Masonic temple is consecrated to the “Great Architect of the Universe.” In
the name of him, “the purest fountain of all perfection,” the election of
the office‐bearers is proclaimed on S. John’s day. By him they swear when,
with their hands on S. John’s Gospel, they promise fidelity to the order.
All their solemn deeds are inscribed “to the glory of the Great Architect
of the Universe” in the name of S. John of Scotland (S. John the Baptist),
or of S. John of Jerusalem (S. John the Evangelist), according to the
rite. The Bible is always reverently placed on the warden’s table when the
lodges meet, and the proceedings are always opened with an invocation of
the Deity. If the craft admits among its adepts men of all persuasions, it
professes to do so because it does not search consciences. Its toleration,
it declares, does not proceed from atheism, but from enlightened
liberality. Nor has the state anything to apprehend from the brethren, if
we believe the admonition addressed to a novice at his initiation. “Masons
are forbidden to mix themselves up in conspiracies.” The first toast in
all Masonic banquets is to the head of the nation. It would be strange
indeed if, notwithstanding the enlightened scope of the institution and
the jealous care with which it professes to exclude all those who are
troublesome to society or have given cause of complaint in their civil
conduct, any government should find that the Masonic body was not one of
the firmest stays of order. Virtue, philanthropy, benevolence,
brotherhood—these are the watchwords of Masonry, and its statutes
appropriately terminate in the following paragraph:


    “The Freemason is the faithful friend of his country and of all
    men. He must not forget that by the oath he took at his initiation
    he stripped himself of every profane decoration and of all that is
    vulgar in man, to assume no other distinction but the sweet name
    of brother. Let his conduct correspond to the title, and the scope
    of Masonry is attained.”


We have hitherto drawn on the General Constitutions, which are binding on
“all Masonic lodges, and on all Freemasons, of whatever grade, throughout
the two hemispheres.” As these statutes, though carefully guarded from the
eyes of the profane, are put into the hands of the apprentices or youngest
adepts, whose prudence and capacity for _greater light_ have still to be
tested, it would be dangerous to make in them more open professions of
faith than are covered by elastic and general expressions; yet there is
sufficient internal evidence in them to show that the maxims they contain
are mere exoteric doctrine compared to the deeper revelation of the inner
sanctuary, where only the tried craftsman may dare to penetrate.
“Secrecy,” say the Constitutions, “is the first characteristic of the
order.”

And this secrecy is to be observed not merely towards the uninitiated, but
is equally enforced between the different grades of the brotherhood. The
presence of a member of a lower grade regulates the quality of the
business to be transacted in the lodge, even if all the others are master‐
masons. And not only the business but the very ceremonial must be
accommodated to the imperfection of those present. Each of the thirty‐
three grades has its own ritual, the publication of which is high treason
to the order, and which cannot be read without profanation by a member of
inferior degree. The books in the lodge library are by no means
promiscuous reading, but are permitted according to gradation. Hence the
multiplicity of officials with fantastic names who watch over the privacy
of the proceedings, verify the certificates of strangers, look out for
spies or illegitimate intruders; hence the precautions taken with their
documents, and the intricate system of checks and counterchecks on the
very office‐bearers through whose hands the correspondence and written
documents of an intimate nature have to pass. Why all this secrecy, and
why those terrible oaths, which we have still to see, if the end of
Masonry is faithfully exhibited in these Constitutions? As they stand,
they might almost suit a pious confraternity. Doubtless there are
suspicious articles. Their exclusiveness is not a Christian trait.


    “Odi profanum vulgus et arceo”


is not the spirit of religion. The visits to the sick, and the obligation
not to decline them, receive a dubious commentary in the death‐bed scenes
now so distressingly frequent in Italy: when the minister of religion is
driven away by the visitors even when sent for by the dying man or his
relatives. The solemn decree, “The hand of a Mason shall not be raised
against a brother,” throws light on the inexplicable verdicts of juries,
judicial sentences, and remarkable escapes of condemned prisoners with
which the newspapers have made us familiar. But from the statutes we can
learn no more. We cannot discover whether the anti‐Christian and anti‐
social maxims which are unquestionably ascribed to Masonry are the real
outcome of its teaching, or an element quite extraneous to its genuine
principles. This is to be gathered from other sources, and, fortunately,
these are at hand in equally authentic documents, the rituals of the
several degrees, and many of the secret instructions that from time to
time are issued by the directing lodges. An examination of these leaves no
room to doubt the genuine scope of the association. The process may be
tedious, but it is conclusive. It brings out the hideous impiety of the
sect and its satanic hypocrisy.

Let us follow, Ritual in hand, a neophyte in his first initiation to the
grade of apprentice.

A lodge is properly composed of four chambers—a vestibule, the Chamber of
Reflection, the middle chamber, and the lodge proper, or temple. In the
last the ordinary assemblies of the Masons are held, but for the
initiation of a member all the apartments are put in requisition. The
candidate is conducted, if possible, in a carriage, blindfolded, to the
place of meeting; at all events, he must be blindfolded before entering
the Masonic precincts. He is led first into the vestibule, where he is
handed over to the Expert. This functionary, who is clothed in a long,
black robe, with a hood concealing his features, takes the candidate by
the hand, then bids him put his confidence in God, and, after making him
take several turns in the outer chamber, introduces him to the Chamber of
Reflection. This is described in the Ritual as


    “A dark place impenetrable to the rays of the sun, lit by a single
    sepulchral lamp. The walls are painted black with death’s heads
    and similar funereal emblems to assist the recipient in his
    meditations. He has to pass through the four elements of the
    ancients, and here he is supposed to find himself in the bowels of
    the earth, reminded of his last abode and of the vanity of earthly
    things by the spectacle of a skeleton stretched on a bier. In the
    absence of a skeleton a skull must be placed on a small table in
    the centre of the room. On the table are pen, ink, and paper, a
    dish of water, and a piece of bread. A chair completes the
    furniture.”


Inscriptions are distributed over the walls; as, “If curiosity has brought
you here, depart,” “If you are capable of dissimulation, tremble,” and
others, as the lodge may think proper. The Ritual adds: “If it can be
conveniently arranged, appropriate voices may be made to proceed from the
ceiling.” The candidate is made to sit with his back to the door, and the
bandage is taken from his eyes. The Expert addresses him: “I leave you to
your reflections. You will not be alone. God sees every one.” Then he
quits him abruptly, and, closing the door, locks it behind him.

The length of time to be employed in self‐examination is not prescribed in
the Ritual, but is left to the caprice of the Masons, who are now engaged
in the temple. When the brethren are bent on a joke at the expense of the
recipient, it has been known to extend over four hours. The state of the
patient during this time may be imagined. He came with his head full of
mysterious fancies about Masonry, and the first surroundings are
calculated to crowd perplexing thoughts on an already agitated mind. Some
never get past this first essay. They have had enough of the mystic rite
at the threshold, and are accompanied to the door with the gibes and
laughter of the brotherhood, who then close the evening over a repast
prepared at the expense of the candidate with his forfeited entrance
money.

In most cases, however, the time for reflection is just so much as is
necessary to allow the completion of the opening ceremonies in the temple
preparatory to the reception of the neophyte. When these are finished, the
president sends the Expert to require of the candidate written replies to
three questions: “What does man owe to God? What does he owe to himself?
What to his fellow‐men?” The candidate is also to be told that as the
trials through which he has to pass are full of danger, it behooves him to
make his will. When the Expert returns, the will is laid by to be returned
to the candidate at the end of the function; but the answers to the three
questions are discussed in public, and the disquisitions in theology,
philosophy, and ethics may be fancied. If among the auditors there are
junior Masons whose ears are not yet accustomed to unequivocal negations
of God and the human soul, the president strives to moderate the language
of the disputants, and always sums up with a vague and general declaration
of respect for all opinions, and of Masonic toleration.

The recipient is now prepared for further tests. The preparation consists
first in having his eyes once more bandaged in the Chamber of Reflection,
then in being stripped of his clothes, “left only in his shirt and
drawers, with his left breast and arm and his right leg bare, his feet in
slippers, and a cord twined three times round his neck.” He is led by this
cord to the door of the lodge. Here he is to be subjected to a lengthy
interrogatory as to his name, birthplace, age, profession, and other
qualifications. “As Masonry receives into its bosom members of all
opinions and all religions, the president must not propose political or
religious questions to offend the sentiments or belief of the recipient or
of the auditory.”

In due time the neophyte may learn that the creed of Masons is to have
none, and that its politics are the subversion of all authority; but
prejudices must be respected at the outset, and the apprentices are not to
be shocked unprepared. When the examination is over, the farce begins. The
doors of the lodge are thrown open with a great noise, and as soon as the
candidate has been led into the room, the Tiler holding the point of a
sword against his naked breast, they are violently shut. “What do you
perceive?” the president asks. “I see nothing,” the recipient must answer;
“but I feel the point of a sword on my breast.” “That point,” says the
president, “is symbolic of the remorse that would gnaw your heart, should
you ever betray the society you seek to enter. Think what you are about to
do. Awful tests await you. _Terrible_ brother, take this profane one out
of the lodge, and lead him through those places which all must pass over
who would know our secrets.” The candidate is then led out and made to
take so many turns that he completely loses every idea of where he is; and
when he has quite lost his bearings, he is again in the lodge, although he
does not know it; and the brethren, in breathless silence, await the
progress of the comedy.

A large, wooden frame, filled in with paper, has been prepared in his
absence, and set up in the lodge before the entrance. “What is to be done
to this profane one?” asks Brother Terrible. “Throw him into the cavern,”
replies the president. Two Masons then seize the candidate and cast him
against the frame. The paper, of course, breaks, and the candidate is
caught in the arms of some of the brethren who are in waiting. The doors
of the lodge are then closed with noise, an iron ring, passing over a
dentate bar of iron, is made to imitate the bolting of the door, and the
candidate, blindfolded, out of breath, stunned, and frightened, really may
fancy himself at the bottom of a cavern.

The candidate is now seated on a stool, with a jagged bottom and unequal
legs which never find a plane, that with its constant and uneven motion
keeps the occupant in perpetual terror of falling. From this uneasy seat
he must answer all the fanciful questions that the whim of the president
or his own condition suggests. Metaphysics, astronomy, natural sciences,
may all enter into the examination; and as the questions are asked without
previous notice, the replies are not always satisfactory. Although the
Ritual prescribes the greatest decorum and gravity to be observed during
the ceremony, that the neophyte may be properly impressed, and prohibits
all rough usage and buffoonery, this is to be understood by the gloss of
another Ritual, which says that “this test of the stool of reflection is
instituted for the purpose of discovering how far the physical torture
which the candidate is made to suffer in his uneasy seat influences the
clearness of his ideas.”

If after this examination the patient still perseveres in his resolution
to enter the Masonic fraternity, he is admonished to prepare for other
trials. First, he must swear to keep absolute silence on all Masonic
secrets. This oath is to be taken over a cup of water. “If your intention
is pure, you may drink with safety. If in your heart you are a traitor,
tremble at the instant and terrible effects of the potion.” The fatal cup
is then presented to him. This is a chalice‐shaped vessel, having the cup
movable on a pivot in the base, and separated vertically into two
divisions. In one there is fresh water, and this side is presented to the
candidate. In the other there is a bitter mixture. When the candidate,
still blindfolded, has taken hold of the cup, the president invites him to
drink, and at the same time to swear after himself in the following terms:
“I promise the faithful observance of all Masonic obligations, and if I
prove false to my oath”—here he is made to taste the fresh water, and then
the cup is turned so that the next draught must be taken from the side
containing the bitter mixture, and the president continues with the
remainder of the oath to be repeated by the recipient—“I consent to have
the sweetness of this water turned into gall, and its salutary effect
changed to poison.” Here the countenance of the candidate undergoes the
expected change, and at the sight of the fatal grimace the president,
striking a terrible blow on the table with his mallet, cries out, “Ha!
what do I see? What means that distortion of your face? Away with the
profane!” The poor candidate is removed back some paces, and then the
president addresses him: “If your purpose is to deceive us, retire at
once. Soon it will be too late. We would know your perfidy, and then it
were better for you never to have seen the light of day. Think well on it.
Brother Terrible, seat him on the stool of reflection. Let him there
consider what he must do.” When the candidate has been on his uneasy seat
for some time, the president asks him if he means to persevere. If he
persists, the Terrible brother is told to accompany him on his _first
journey_ and protect him in its dangers. The Ritual proceeds:


    “The Expert shall conduct the candidate through this first
    journey, making it as difficult as possible, with thrusts,
    ascents, descents, wind, thunder; in such a way that he can have
    no idea of the ground he goes over, and all in a manner calculated
    to leave a deep impression on the aspirant.”


We really cannot go on without apologizing to the reader for detaining him
over this contemptible mummery. It is humiliating to human nature that men
who make the loftiest professions of respect for its dignity should debase
themselves to such a depth of absurdity. And this, too, when they
matriculate in their school of perfection. Out of a mad‐house and a
Masonic lodge folly like this is inconceivable.

To return to our journey. It is a farce to an onlooker, but it is a
serious matter to the patient. He still supposes himself in the cavern,
and is forced to make several rounds of the lodge, passing over boards
that move under him on wheels, to boards adjusted to take a see‐saw
motion, and from these to others that suddenly yield under his weight in
trap‐door fashion. He is perpetually getting directions to stoop, to raise
his right foot, to raise his left, to leap; and corresponding obstructions
are put in his way at every movement. He is made to mount an interminable
ladder, like a squirrel in a cage, and, when he must think himself as high
as a church‐steeple, is told to fling himself down, and falls a couple of
feet. Perspiring and out of breath, confused, terrified, and fatigued, his
ears are filled with the most horrible noises. Shrieks and cries of pain,
wailing of children, roaring of wild beasts, are heard on every side. All
the theatrical appliances to produce thunder, rain, hail, wind, and
tempest are employed in well‐appointed lodges; and in the others the
ingenuity of the merry brethren supplies the want of machinery. The first
journey is finished when the brethren are tired of the amusement, and then
the candidate makes a second journey without the obstacles, and during
this he only hears the clashing of swords. A third journey is made in
peace, and at last the candidate passes thrice over an ignited preparation
of sulphur, and his purification by earth, water, air, and fire is
complete.

Now comes a Masonic instruction which we shall quote from the Ritual:


    “ ‘Do you believe,’ asks the Venerable, ‘in a Supreme Being?’ The
    answer of the candidate is usually in the affirmative. And then
    the president may reply: ‘This answer does you honor. If we admit
    persons of all persuasions, it is because we do not pry into the
    conscience. We believe that the incense of virtue is acceptable to
    the Deity, in whatever form it is offered. Our toleration proceeds
    not from atheism, but from liberality and philosophy.’ ”


But mark what follows:


    “If the candidate in his reply says he does not believe in God,
    the president is to say: ‘Atheism is incomprehensible. The only
    division possible among candid men is on the question whether the
    First Cause is spirit or matter. But a materialist is no
    atheist.’ ”


This is a specimen of Masonic theology, expressed in guarded terms, to
respect the weaker susceptibilities of an assembly of _apprentices_; for
we must remember that we are assisting at an initiation to the first
grade, which is conducted in presence of the youngest Masons. Still, no
veil can conceal the boldness of the declaration, and the apology of
materialism will surely not protect the dullest adept who remembers the
first lessons of his catechism from taking scandal at its effrontery. But
if he is to graduate in the higher honors, he must sooner or later get an
inkling of what is in reserve, and it is as well that from the very first
grade he should be able without much help to proceed to the development of
the Masonic idea of God—nature and that universe of which he himself is a
part—to pantheism pure and simple. Indeed, the _Rivista della Massoneria_
of the 1st of August, 1874, ventures a little further: “All are aware that
this formula (Great Architect of the Universe) by common consent has no
exclusive meaning, much less a religious one. It is a formula that adapts
itself to every taste, even an atheist’s.”(178)

After this it is scarcely necessary to read on in the Ritual:


    “ ‘What is deism?’ asks the president. Having heard the answer, he
    is to subjoin: ‘Deism is belief in God without revelation or
    worship. It is the religion of the future, destined to supersede
    all other systems in the world.’ ”


The catechising proceeds in a similar strain through a multiplicity of
questions, which are all treated with a studied ambiguity of language,
affirming and denying, saying and unsaying in a breath, leaving nothing
unimplied, to satisfy advanced impiety, and softening down the bolder
expressions that would grate on the ears of a novice.

When the examination is over, the marking of the new brother is to be
proceeded with. He is told to prepare to receive the impression of a hot
iron on his person, and is requested to mention on what part he would
prefer to be branded. The Masons then go through the preparations of
lighting a fire, blowing with a bellows, turning the iron with tongs,
discussing the redness of the heated instrument, all in the hearing of the
patient, who, still blind‐folded, stands pale and trembling, in spite of
his resolution to go through the operation. The diversion this torture
affords the lodge may well be imagined. Of course there is no branding,
but the rituals suggest different methods of producing the sensation. One
recommends violent friction of the part indicated for branding, and then
the sudden application of a piece of ice. Another directs the hot wick of
a candle just blown out to be pressed against the skin. Sometimes the
president declares himself satisfied with the resignation of the neophyte,
and dispenses with the operation. Generally the ceremonies of the Ritual
are considerably curtailed in practice; not even Masons can endure their
tedious trifling.

After this the oath is to be administered. The candidate is warned of the
sacred, inviolable, perpetual nature of the obligation he is about to
assume; and when he has signified his willingness to be bound by it, he is
told that as the time is approaching when he will be admitted to the
secrets of the order, the order requires of him a guarantee—to consist in
the manifestation of some secret confided to him, that he is not at
liberty to reveal. If the candidate agrees, he is to be sharply
reprimanded; if he does not consent, the president praises his discretion.
The latter then proceeds to inform the candidate that the oath he is about
to take requires him to give all his blood for the society. When the
candidate assents, his word is at once put to the test, and he is asked if
he is really to allow a vein to be immediately opened. This proposal
usually draws out a remonstrance, and the victim’s ordinary objection is
the weakness of his health, or the probable derangement of his digestion
by such an operation following so soon after dinner. In the lodge,
however, this is provided for. The surgeon gravely advances, feels the
patient’s pulse, and infallibly declares that he lies, that the blood‐
letting can do him no harm, and positively assures him he will be the
better for it. The bleeding is performed in this manner: The surgeon binds
the arm, and pricks the vein with a tooth‐pick or such like. An assistant
drops on it a small stream of tepid water, which trickles over the arm of
the patient into a vessel held below. The counterfeit is perfect. The arm
is bandaged, arranged in a sling, and the poor man, blindfolded, half‐
naked, terrified, wearied, branded, and bled, is at length conducted to
the _altar_, or table of the presiding master, to seal his initiation with
the final oath. There, on his knees, holding in his left hand the points
of an open compass against his breast, with his right on the sword of the
president (or, according to another ritual, on a Bible, a compass, and a
square), he takes the oath, which we give in its naked impiety, as found
in the Ritual secretly printed at Naples in 1869:


    “I, N. N., do swear and promise of my own free‐will, before the
    Great Architect of the Universe, and on my honor, to keep
    inviolable silence on all the secrets of Freemasonry that may be
    communicated to me, as also on whatever I may see done or hear
    said in it, under pain of having my throat cut, my tongue torn
    out, my body cut into pieces, burned, and its ashes scattered to
    the wind, that my name may go down in execrated memory and eternal
    infamy. I promise and swear to give help and assistance to all
    brother Masons, and swear never to belong to any society, under
    whatever name, form, or title, opposed to Masonry; subjecting
    myself, if I break my word, to all the penalties established for
    perjury. Finally, I swear obedience and submission to the general
    statutes of the order, to the particular regulations of this
    lodge, and to the Supreme Grand Orient of Italy.”


When the profane has finished the oath, the president asks, “What do you
seek?” and the other is to answer, “I seek light.” The most merciless
trick of all follows. The bandage is quickly removed from his eyes.
Unaccustomed for hours to the faintest light, they are suddenly exposed to
the dazzling glare of a great artificial flame started before his face. He
is blinded once more by the change, and closes his eyes against the pain
caused by the brilliancy; and when at last he opens them to look about
him, it is to see the fierce attitudes of the Masons, each pointing his
sword at his face. Few pass this ordeal without exhibiting signs of
terror; some attempt to escape, some beg their lives, and some protest
they have done with Freemasonry. But no one who has reached this point is
permitted to depart without being received, and the novice is comforted
with the assurance that all is over. The president, addressing the new
apprentice, says:


    “Fear not those swords that surround you: they threaten only the
    perjurer. If you are faithful to Masonry, they will protect you.
    If you betray it, no corner of the earth will protect you against
    these avenging blades. Masonry requires in every Mason belief in a
    Supreme Being, and allows him out of the lodge to worship as he
    pleases, provided he leaves the same liberty to others. Masons are
    bound to assist each other by every means when occasion offers.
    Freemasons are forbidden to mix themselves up in conspiracies. But
    were you to hear of a Mason who had engaged in any such
    enterprise, and fallen a victim to his imprudence, you should have
    compassion on his misfortune, and the Masonic bond would make it
    your duty to use all your influence and the influence of your
    friends to have the rigor of punishment lessened on his behalf.”


Our candidate by this lime has somewhat recovered from his confusion. He
is now led up to the president, who, striking him thrice on the head with
his mallet, then with the compass, and lastly with the sword, declares him
Apprentice Mason and active member of the lodge. He is invested with the
insignia, and put in possession of the Masonic signs and passwords. The
description of these would be tedious, and we shall only notice the
_guttural sign_. This is made by bringing to the throat the right hand,
with thumb extended and the other fingers closed together to represent a
square; the whole intended to recall the imprecation in the oath. To this
allusion is made in one of the drinking songs of the Masons, translated
from the French for the brethren in Italy, although the verse has been
left out in the Italian edition:


    Dedans la barque
      Du Nautonnier Charon
    Si je m’embarque
      Je lui dirai: Patron
    A cette marque
      Reconnais un Maçon.


Of the sacred word _Jachin_ there will be occasion to speak again.

When the function is over, the lodge is cleared, tables are spread, and
the brethren sit down to a refreshment which one, at least, has fairly
earned.

Admission to the first three grades of Masonry is easily obtained. Among
the Apprentices, Fellowcraft, and Master‐Masons the official language
always speaks of charity, toleration, and philanthropy. We have seen
sufficient reason to question the sincerity of these expressions in the
mouths of the Masons, and the explanations we have heard from themselves
are far from reassuring. As the society contemplates the gradual formation
of the requisite character in its members, and as most of these at their
first entry have not altogether lost every natural sense of duty, as
understood by the profane, their advance to _perfection_ is generally
slow, and the great bulk never get beyond the symbolic grades. If they are
promoted, it is _pro forma_ in the succeeding grades termed _capitular_,
which are the perfection of symbolism, and are completed in the
Rosicrucian Knight at the eighteenth grade. From this point promotion is
difficult. The degrees that follow up to the thirtieth are called
_philosophic_, and in them the adept is taught plainly, without symbol or
artifice, the practice of true Masonic virtue. Vengeance and death are the
passwords, the poniard the symbol of action. After this the other degrees
are purely administrative, and the Mason of the thirty‐first, thirty‐
second, or thirty‐third grade learns nothing that was not revealed when he
was admitted Knight Kadosh in the thirtieth.

In the nineteenth, or first of the philosophic grades, the Ritual says:


    “It is not difficult to comprehend that the society of Freemasons,
    speaking plainly, is just a permanent conspiracy against political
    despotism and religious fanaticism. The princes who unfortunately
    were admitted into Masonry, were not slow in reducing it to a
    society of beneficence and charity, and maintained that religion
    and politics were foreign to its purpose. They even succeeded in
    having inserted among the statutes that no discussion was to be
    tolerated in the lodges on these subjects.”


In the Ritual of the twenty‐ninth degree:


    “How would not the Masonic mysteries have degenerated, if,
    according to the programme of the common herd of Masons, the adept
    was never to occupy himself with politics or religion!”


And the actual Grand‐Master of the Neapolitan Masons, Domenico Angherà, in
a secret history of the society in that Orient, clandestinely printed in
1864, relates with satisfaction that the work of the Carbonari and Buoni
Cugini in 1820‐21 was conceived and directed by the Masonic lodges, and
carried out by their own adepts under the other designations, and
triumphantly boasts that in those days “the mallets of the Masons beat
harmonious time to the axes of the Carbonari.” In 1869 the Grand‐Master
Frapolli, Deputy in the Chambers, in the opening discourse at the Masonic
gathering held that year in Genoa, acknowledged that “during the previous
fifty years of tyranny Freemasonry in Italy was replaced by the
Carbonari.” He said that on the first reconstruction of the order at
Turin, in 1861, the motto was adopted of “A personal God and a
constitutional monarchy,” but that this was found to be a stifling
limitation, by which the Italian lodges would not submit to be fettered;
and in 1864 a new Grand Orient was established which better corresponded
to the scope. Up to the occupation of Rome in 1870 the aim of the
brotherhood was to “elevate the conscience.” Now they may safely advance a
step. Mauro Macchi, another Deputy, and member of the Supreme Council of
Freemasons, in the _Masonic Review_ of the 16th of February, 1874, thus
expresses his idea of the present practical scope of the society:


    “The keystone of the whole system opposed to Masonry was and is
    that ascetic and transcendental sentiment which carries men beyond
    the present life, and makes them look on themselves as mere
    travellers on earth, leading them to sacrifice everything for a
    happiness to begin in the cemetery. As long as this system is not
    destroyed by the mallet of Masonry, we shall have society composed
    of poor, deluded creatures who will sacrifice all to attain
    felicity in a future existence.”


A Catholic, he says, who mortifies his passions, is consistent and
logical, for to him life is a pilgrimage and an exile, and his career is
but a preparation for a future state; but this the grand‐master refuses to
accept as the type of human perfection.

Let us pass to an inspection of the Ritual of the thirtieth grade of the
Scottish Rite, called Chevalier Kadosh, or Knight of the White and Black
Eagle, printed at Naples, without indication of printer’s name, in 1869.
Here the real ends of Masonry, and the horrible means it directs to their
attainment, are exposed without veil or mystery. As Angherà in his preface
says:


    “Here the great drama of Masonry reaches its _dénoûement_. Only
    Masons of strong capacity and devoted attachment penetrate thus
    far. The other grades are but a sanctuary of approach; this, the
    thirtieth, is the inmost sanctuary, for which the rest is only a
    preparation.”


The infamous nature of the conspiracy which it discloses would justify our
treating it at greater length, if the limits of an article did not oblige
us to hasten to a close. We cannot afford to wade through the tiresome
series of mystifying ceremonies without which nothing Masonic can be
legally performed. Mithric rites, the Temple of Memphis, Zoroaster,
Pythagoras, Numa, the Templars, Manicheans, Rabbinic phrases, and lore
from the Talmud, Arabic, and Hebrew, are jumbled together to give an air
of antiquity to this most modern of widespread impostures. Our business is
to cull out of the mass of profanities a few samples of the perfection
required of the “holy,” “consecrated,” “purified” knight; for such is the
force of the Hebrew Kadosh. Angherà has not proceeded far, when in a note
he takes care to inform us that the two sacred passwords, Jachin and Booz,
which Masons of the first two grades are taught to repeat and understand
as _stability_ and _force_, and whose initial letters, J and B, are
inscribed on the Masonic _columns_, read as they ought to be, backwards,
are two obscene words in the corrupt language of the Maltese Arabs.

The initiation, whenever it is symbolic, recalls the execution of James de
Molai, Grand‐Master of the Templars, and holds up to execration Clement V.
and Philip the Fair, with Noffodei, the false brother. To emancipate
society from the double despotism of priest and king is the duty of the
aspirant. The passwords for him are now _Nekam_, vengeance, _Makah_,
death, and the answer _Bealim_, to traitors. He is told that his duty is
to mark all the murders of friends of liberty, political and religious,
committed by the satellites of despotism, and to avenge the victims of
tyranny; to bind himself, in common action with the other knights, to
annihilate, once for all, the despots of the human race—in a word to
establish political and religious liberty where it does not exist, and
defend it where it is established, with arms if need be. When the theory
of these doctrines has been sufficiently impressed upon him, he is
conducted by the grand‐master before a skull crowned with laurel, and
repeats as he is told: “Honor and glory to persecuted innocence; honor and
glory to virtue sacrificed to vice and ambition.” Next he is shown a skull
crowned with a tiara, a dagger is placed in his hand, and he is made to
exclaim, “Hatred and death to religious despotism!” In the same way,
before a skull on which is placed a kingly diadem, he pronounces “Hatred
and death to political despotism!” Twice must the aspirant repeat this
ceremony, and on the last occasion casts crown and tiara on the
ground.(179) Four times he binds himself by oath to combat political and
religious oppression, to put down religious fanaticism, to overturn
political tyranny, to propagate the principles of Masonry, to disseminate
liberal ideas, to maintain the rights of man and the sovereignty of the
people. Each time the holy name of God is called to witness, but we know
now the value of the invocation—the universe is the Mason’s God.


    “ ‘Do you believe in another world?’ asks the grand‐master, who
    himself resumes, ‘There are not two worlds. We are a compound of
    matter and spirit. These two substances return to their origin:
    this transformation does not remove them out of the universal
    world, of which we form part. What is the future life? The future
    life is the life of our descendants, who are to profit by our
    discoveries.’ ”


Such, then, is the “religion of the future,” by which it is the appointed
task of Masonry to supersede Christianity; such the “progress,”
“civilization,” “perfectibility,” which humanity is to achieve under
Masonic guidance. We have not painted the association in colors of our
own; we have merely produced its official documents, and in the hated
light they leave their own photograph. When society falls under the
influence of such an organization, its demoralization is rapid and
complete. Its circulars regulate the popular elections and control the
votes of parliaments. “Public opinion” is at its beck, the press is its
active instrument. We could quote its instructions to the Italian Deputies
on the Roman question, and a communication of the Grand‐Master of Italy,
sent to all the foreign Grand Lodges, advising a united attack, through
the public mind, on the Carlist movement in Spain. Its theories of
assassination and open rebellion are seldom carried out on its own direct
responsibility. Out of the Masonic lodges arise a multitude of minor
sects, ostensibly independent, but really directed by the brethren. To
these the practical work is committed. As Carbonari, Socialists,
Communists, Internationalists, Mazzinians, they execute orders received
from their common centre. If successful, the result is claimed for the
parent association; if unfortunate, they are disavowed. It is usual to say
that Freemasonry in firmly‐established constitutional states is
comparatively harmless. We are not prepared to affirm that in countries
like the United States or Great Britain the wicked principles of
Continental European Masonry are developed to the same extent
indiscriminately in all the lodges. Where the initiation is supposed never
to advance beyond the three symbolic degrees, the anti‐Catholic principle
of religious indifference is perhaps its most dangerous characteristic.
But this alone is sufficiently repulsive; and the fraternization which
binds together every branch of the association can excuse no individual
member from moral complicity in its worst deeds, wherever perpetrated.

With that keen forecast of danger to the Christian family which has ever
been the characteristic attribute of the Holy See, the popes, from the
first origin of Masonry, saw through its flimsy disguise of benevolent
professions, and over and over again, and chiefly on the eve of those
terrible anti‐social outbursts that have so frequently convulsed Europe
since the formation of the society, raised their prophetic voices,
foretelling the impending storm, denouncing its source, and condemning in
the strongest terms and under the severest penalties all connection with
these secret associations. Princes and peoples disregarded the warning,
and both have suffered for their neglect. Would that at least they had
profited by the lesson! But these eternal enemies of order, emboldened by
their success, are only preparing for a new strife. The state is already
almost everywhere at their control; the church of God everywhere resists.
Against her they now concentrate their warfare. False professions serve no
purpose with the civil government in their own hands, and they have
learned that their hypocrisy does not avail with the church. They drop the
mask. No longer careful to conceal their aim, they make it a public boast.
“Protestantism,” writes B. Konrad from Germany in the _Bauhütte_, a
Masonic paper, “without discipline, faith, or spiritual or moral life,
broken up into hundreds of sects, offers only the spectacle of a corpse in
dissolution. It is not an enemy to oppose us. Our adversary is the Roman‐
Catholic‐Papal‐Infallible Church, with its compact and universal
organization. This is our hereditary, implacable foe. If we are to be true
and honest Freemasons, and wish to promote our society, we must absolutely
cry out with Strauss: We are no longer Christians; we are Freemasons and
nothing else. Amateur Freemasons are no advantage to humanity, and no
credit to our society. Christians or Freemasons, make your choice.”

The church of God fears them not. Her pastors may mourn over the
corruption of morals, the perversion of youth, the irreparable loss of
many souls; but amid the dissolution and universal ruin which infidelity
and revolution are preparing for society, she will stand erect, unshaken,
not shorn of her strength; and when the inevitable revulsion brings
repentant nations to her feet, she will be ready as ever to pour the balm
of religious consolation on their wounds, to bind up their shattered
members, to set humanity once more on the path of true perfectibility, not
to be attained through the impious philosophy of midnight conventicles,
but in the light of the Sun of Justice, preached on the housetops, to the
formation of true Christian brotherhood.




Crown Jewels.


Let’s crown our King with what will show
  His royal power and treasure—
Sharp thorns! ’Tis done! His blood doth flow,
  Of both the might and measure.




Are You My Wife? Chapter II.


By The Author Of “A Salon In Paris Before The War,” “Number Thirteen,”
“Pius VI.,” Etc.



Chapter II. I Introduce My Wife—She Disappears!


“A nice young gentleman you are, Master Clide, to play off such a trick as
this on your family!” said Admiral de Winton, shaking my hand so
vigorously that I feared he was bent in his indignation on shaking it off.
“Come, sir, what excuse have you to offer for yourself?”

“My dear uncle, I sha’n’t attempt any excuse, for the best reason in the
world, that I have not a decent one. But here is my wife,” I said,
catching sight of her coming up the terrace; “let her plead for me. I
leave my case in her hands.”

Isabel stepped in through the open window, and, going straight up to the
old gentleman, held out her hands, blushing and smiling with the prettiest
little pretence of being ashamed of herself and dreadfully frightened.

“No excuse!” growled the admiral, hollowing out his hands to hold the
soft, pink cheeks, then saluting them with a kiss that resounded through
the room like the double report of a pistol‐shot. “No excuse indeed! You
barefaced hypocrite! How dare you tell me such a crammer? You unmitigated
young rascal, what do you mean by it?”

This series of polite inquiries my uncle fired off, holding Isabel all the
time at arm’s length, with a hand on each shoulder, and looking straight
into her face. She was not the least disconcerted by this singular mode of
apostrophe.

“Don’t scold him! Don’t be angry with him! Please don’t! It was all my
fault,” she said, and looked up at him as if she particularly wanted to
kiss him.

“I’ll horsewhip him! I’ll tie him to the mainmast and flog him!” roared my
uncle.

And then came a second volley of pistol‐shots.

“No, you sha’n’t! If you do, I’ll horsewhip you!” declared Isabel, twining
her arms round the old sailor’s neck, and stamping her tiny foot at him.

My step‐mother made her appearance at this crisis with Sir Simon Harness.
She had driven to meet our guests, but, instead of driving back with them,
she and Sir Simon walked up together from the station, and sent on the
admiral alone in the carriage.

After bidding him a cordial welcome, I presented Isabel to Sir Simon. She
held out her hand. He raised it to his lips, bending his venerable white
head before my young wife with that courtly grace that gave a touch of
old‐fashioned stiffness to his manner towards women, but which was in
reality the genuine expression of chivalrous respect.

Isabel, not apparently satisfied with the stately homage, drew nearer,
and, putting up her face, “May I, Clide?” she said.

Sir Simon naturally did not “pause for a reply,” but taking the blushing
face in his hands, he imprinted a fatherly kiss on her forehead. To say
that I was proud of my wife and delighted with the way she had behaved
towards my two friends would be to convey a very inadequate idea of the
state of my feelings. I was simply inebriated. It is hardly a figure of
speech to say that I did not know whether I was on my head or my heels. I
had looked forward to this meeting with an apprehension which, from being
undefined, was none the less painful, and the relief I experienced at the
successful issue was in proportion great. My step‐mother was evidently
quite as surprised, if in a less degree gratified than myself. The
afternoon passed delightfully, chatting and walking about the park; my two
old friends usurping Isabel completely, making love to her under my eyes
in the most unscrupulous manner, quarrelling as to who should have her arm
when out walking, and sit next to her when they came in. Isabel flirted
with both, utterly regardless of my feelings, and even hinted to me at
lunch that my prophecy with regard to Sir Simon ran a fair chance of
coming true. She came down to dinner arrayed like a fairy, in a dress that
seemed to have been made out of a sunset and trimmed with a rainbow. She
had put on all her jewels—those I had chosen for her, and the diamonds
that came to me from my mother. She wore pearls round her neck, and a row
of diamond stars in her hair; while her arms almost disappeared under the
variety of bracelets of every form and date with which she had loaded
them. It may have been in questionable taste and not very sensible, but
there was an innocent womanly vanity in thus seizing the first available
opportunity of showing herself in her finery that I thought perfectly
delightful. I could see, too, that the admiral and Sir Simon were pleased
at the infantine coquetry, and not a little flattered by it. My step‐
mother alone looked coldly on the proceeding; and while Isabel, sitting
between the two old gentlemen, pointed out for their special admiration
“this bracelet, with the diamond true‐lover’s knot, that Clide gave me the
day after we were engaged, and this blue enamel with the Greek word in
pearls that he bought me the day before we came home,” Mrs. de Winton
dissected her walnuts, and, setting her face like a flint, kept outside
the conversation till the subject changed.

When we assembled in the drawing‐room, Isabel opened a new battery of
fascination that was perhaps the most formidable of all. She began to
sing. The excitement of the jewels, and the sympathetic audience, and the
conscious triumph of the hour, all added, no doubt, to the power and
brilliancy of her voice, which sounded richer, fuller, more entrancing
than I had ever heard it before. She sang all sorts of songs. The admiral
asked for a sea‐song. Isabel knew plenty, comic and dramatic, from “Rule
Britannia” down to “A Life on the Ocean Wave,” which she rang out with a
rollicking zest and spirit that fairly intoxicated the old sailor.

Sir Simon enjoyed an English ballad and an Irish melody. The siren gave
him every one he asked for, old and new. In fact, she surpassed herself in
witchery and skill, and one was at a loss which to admire most, the
artless grace of the woman or the gifts and accomplishments of the artist.
The evening passed rapidly away, and it was past midnight before any one
thought of stirring.

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

“Clide,” said my step‐mother next morning, as she was leaving the
breakfast‐room where Isabel and her guests were loitering over their tea‐
cups, while I read the _Times_ in the window, “I wish to speak to you.
Come to me in the library.”

And without waiting for an answer, she walked out. There was no reason why
this commonplace invitation should have brought a sensation of cold down
my back, and of my heart dropping down into my boots; but unaccountably
this double phenomenon was effected in my person. I made a pretence of
going through the leaders before I rose, and then, yawning to give myself
an air of perfect satiety and _ennui_, I sauntered out of the breakfast‐
room, and bent my steps towards the audience‐chamber.

“Clide,” began Mrs. de Winton, when I had closed the door and established
myself on the hearth‐rug, with my back to the fire, “where did your wife
learn singing?”

“Why, in London, I suppose. Where else should she learn it?”

“Did you ask her?” inquired my inquisitor.

“It never occurred to me. Why should it?”

Mrs. de Winton looked at me curiously—not scornfully, as she was
accustomed to do when I committed myself to any ultra‐foolish remark.
Indeed, I thought her face wore an expression gentler and kinder than I
remembered to have seen there since when a child I had seen her look at my
father. She said nothing for a minute. Then fixing her eyes on me with a
glance that sent my heart right out through my heels:

“I have telegraphed to Simpson to come down by the early train to‐day,”
she said.

“The deuce you have!” I exclaimed, and, starting from my impassive
attitude, I dropped my coat‐tails, and stepped off the rug as if it had
suddenly turned into a hot plate.

“Yes,” continued Mrs. de Winton, quite unmoved by my complimentary
ejaculation, “it is my duty, since you are too indifferent to your own
interest to take the....”

“Clide, Clide! Where are you?” cried a sweet voice from the terrace, and,
running up the slopes, Isabel flattened her nose against the window,
peering into the room in search of me. I was so placed that she could not
see me, but she saw my step‐mother. Glad to escape from what threatened to
be a stormy interview, I flew to the window, opened it, and rejoined my
wife.

“Was she scolding you?” asked Isabel, casting a puzzled glance towards the
room where I had so unceremoniously “planted” my step‐mother.

“No, darling,” I answered, laughing.

“What was she saying?” inquired Isabel.

“What an inquisitive little puss it is!” I said, partly amused and partly
at a nonplus for a satisfactory answer.

“Tell me. I’ll go, if you don’t!” And she prepared to carry out the threat
by unlocking her hands and letting go my arm.

But I seized the refractory hands, and held them tight.

“Go!” I said, laughing at her in a most tantalizing way, while she
struggled in vain to set herself free.

“Tell me what you were talking about. I insist on knowing, Clide!”
repeated Isabel, stamping her foot like a naughty child.

I began to dread a repetition of the other morning. Such an exhibition
within hearing of my uncle and Sir Simon would have been so mortifying to
my pride that I was ready to sign away my lawful authority for the rest of
my married life rather than undergo it; so pretending not to notice the
gathering thunder‐clouds:

“My lovely tyrant!” I said, caressing her with the sweetest of smiles, as
we walked past the drawing‐room window, “you don’t suspect me of having a
secret my wife should not share? I was only chaffing you just now for fun,
you looked so mystified. But the fact is, I was put out by the old lady’s
telling me she expected Simpson down here to‐day.”

“And who is Simpson?” inquired Isabel.

“The family lawyer.”

“Ah! Did you tell her to send for him?”

“I tell her! Why, child, if I had, I shouldn’t have been put out to hear
he was coming.”

The question was unpleasantly suggestive. It implied a suspicion in her
mind, which something in my tone resented, probably, for she added
quickly:

“Oh! of course not. I didn’t mean that.”

Then we went on a few steps without speaking.

“Simpson’s a capital fellow,” I resumed, breaking the pause that was
rather awkward. “I’m very fond of him, and shouldn’t the least object to
his coming down here at any other time; only just now it’s a bore. We
wanted to have my uncle and Sir Simon all to ourselves. However, I dare
say you’ll like Simpson too when you see him, though he is of the race of
Philistines. If he’s a shrewd lawyer, he’s a trusty friend and as honest
as the sun. No fear of my ‘doing’ my heiress wife in the settlements,” I
continued laughingly, “or cheating her out of any of her lawful rights,
while old Dominie Simpson has the whip‐hand over me!”

“He’s to be here to‐day, you said?” she remarked interrogatively, as we
entered the house.

“Yes. If he comes by the early train, he may be in time for dinner,” I
replied.

Mr. Simpson did come by the early train, and he was in time for dinner. He
was even an hour and a half beforehand with it, and spent most of the
intervening time closeted with my step‐mother in her private apartment.

My wife appeared in a second edition of sunset and rainbow, and flashed
and sparkled with jewels as on the previous evening.

She received our old friend very graciously, drawing just the right line
of demarcation between her friendly graciousness to him and the daughter‐
like familiarity of her manner towards Sir Simon and her uncle. Dinner
passed off very merrily; but when we rejoined the ladies in the drawing‐
room, I was surprised to find Isabel fast asleep in the depths of a
monumental arm‐chair. She jumped up at the sound of my voice, and, rubbing
her eyes, said she was ashamed to be caught napping, but she was so tired!

“Hollo, Simpson, this is a sorry lookout for you!” exclaimed the admiral.
“We’ve been telling him to get ready his legal soul to be charmed and
devoured by the siren.”

“Oh! I am so sorry,” said Isabel, looking at the old lawyer as if nothing
in this world could give her half so much pleasure as to charm away his
soul on the spot; “but these naughty gentlemen kept me up so late last
night, and made me sing so much, that I have not a note in my voice to‐
night, and I’m just dead with sleep.”

Simpson looked wofully disappointed.

“My pretty pet,” said the admiral, drawing her to him and stroking her
head as if she had been a kitten, “then you sha’n’t sing!”

“If you should lie down for half an hour, dearest,” I said, “do you think
that would rest you, and you might be able to give us just one song?”

I was anxious that Simpson should hear her. He sang a very good song
himself, and his heart seemed set on it.

“Perhaps,” she said, brightening up. “I’ll try, at any rate.”

I gave her my arm, and we went up‐stairs together to her room.

“Don’t come in, or else we’ll begin to talk, and that will wake me up,”
she said, seeing me about to enter; “and I’m so dead with sleep I’m sure I
shall be off in five minutes, if you leave me.”

I did as she wished, and returned to the drawing‐room, where I found my
step‐mother in conclave with the three men on more practical matters than
songs and sirens.

Simpson had been summoned for the sole purpose of discussing and settling
what ought in the proper course of things to have been discussed and
settled before my marriage, and Sir Simon Harness was just as anxious as
Mrs. de Winton that everything should be made straight and clear with
regard to Isabel’s fortune and my due control over it. The admiral alone
was indifferent about it, and exhibited a sailor‐like contempt for the
whole affair—in fact, intimated that it was out of all sense and reason
and morality that I should have got a penny of fortune with such a wife.

“I call it immoral, sir,” he declared, scowling at me from under his bushy
eyebrows; “you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“And so I am, my dear uncle,” I replied hastily. “And that’s just why I
hate having the subject attacked in this precipitate way, as if I wanted
to grab up her money the moment I could lay my hands upon it.”

“Then you can lay your hands upon it?” observed Simpson quietly.

“If I choose,” I said; “my wife is of age, and....”

“Of age!” echoed the admiral, throwing up his hands in amaze. “Why, I
should have given the child fifteen at most!”

“She looks young,” I remarked coolly, while interiorly I was bursting with
conceit; “but she is of age, so there is no reason in the world why I
should bother myself or her about this confounded fortune; besides, I
don’t care a rap if I never see a penny of it!”

“Bravo, Clide! That’s right, my boy!” cried my uncle, clapping me soundly
on the back. “You’re a chip of the old block, and it does my heart good to
hear you. Why, when I was a youngster, ...”

“De Winton,” interrupted Sir Simon, “don’t you think you had better retire
to the piano? Simpson has not come down all the way from London to be
entertained with the follies of your youth. It’s most important that we
should have his opinion about these matters; and if you can’t hold your
tongue or talk sense, you had better make yourself scarce.”

“Talk on,” said the admiral; “I won’t hinder you.” And so they did. I sat
there, feeling as if I were on my trial for some sort of misdemeanor, the
nature of which was unknown to me, but the consequences of which would be
probably appalling if the misdemeanor could be brought home to me. Sir
Simon and my step‐mother were judge and jury, Simpson was counsel for some
mythical antagonist, and the admiral stood by in the capacity of a neutral
but benevolent spectator. Both counsel and judge had been made acquainted
by Mrs. de Winton with all she had to tell. How much or how little that
might be, in Mrs. de Winton’s opinion, I could not say. But clearly on
some shallow inductive evidence she had made out a case vaguely
unfavorable for my wife. No one accused her of anything. Not a word was
said that my irritable pride could take hold of and resent. They spoke of
her as a child whose innocence and ignorance made it doubly incumbent on
them to legislate for and protect, since I was unfit for the duty, while
my morbid delicacy they ignored as beneath contempt.

“We must keep him out of it altogether, I see,” observed Sir Simon when
the conversation had lasted about half an hour. “Leave me to deal with the
child. She won’t suspect me of having married her for her money.”

There was no gainsaying this. Still, I was entering a protest against the
way in which my wishes were being set at naught, when tea was brought in
and cut me short.

“Go and see if Isabel be awake, Clide,” said my uncle, glad to put an end
to the subject; “but don’t disturb her if she’s asleep. She’s not to be
worried for old fogies like us, mind.”

I ran up the stairs lightly, and opened the door as stealthily as a thief.
The light was out. “Isabel!” I said in a low voice. No answer.

I closed the door as noiselessly as I had opened it, and returned to the
drawing‐room.

“She’s as fast asleep as a baby, uncle,” I said. “So I followed your
advice, and left her to sleep it out.”

“Poor little pet! We kept her at it too long last night. You must not do
this sort of thing again, Clide,” observed Sir Simon. “It’s a delicate
flower that you’ve got there, and you must take care of it.”

I expressed my hearty concurrence in this opinion and advice.

Isabel’s absence made a great blank in the evening; but as my three
friends had not met for a considerable time, and I had not seen them for
more than a year, we had a great deal to say to each other, and there was
no lack of conversation. Mrs. de Winton remained with us till eleven, when
she withdrew, leaving us to discuss punch and politics by ourselves. It
was past midnight when we separated. I went into my dressing‐room. The
candles were lighted, but, contrary to his custom, Stanton, my man, was
not there. I rang the bell; but while my hand was still on the rope, the
sound of his voice reached me through the door—not the outer door, but the
door leading into my wife’s room. He was speaking in a loud, argumentative
tone, and was stuttering violently, which he always did when excited. I
flung open the door, and beheld him standing in the middle of the room
with Susette, my wife’s maid, and Mrs. de Winton, who was wrapped in a
dressing‐gown and her feet bare, as if she had been called suddenly out of
bed, and had rushed in in terrified haste.

“Clide!”

“Monsieur!”

“Sir ...” exclaimed the three in one voice when they saw me.

“Good God! what is the matter? Isabel!”

I flew to the bed and drew back the curtains.

The bed was empty.

_My wife was gone!_

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

Here Clide’s journal breaks off. A long gap ensues, and we must fill it up
from the recollections of others. The scene that followed the discovery of
his young wife’s flight was not to be described. First, it was incredulity
that filled the old Moat. “Gone! Fled! Nonsense!” protested Admiral de
Winton, walking up and down the corridor, where he had rushed out in semi‐
nocturnal attire when Stanton had burst into his room with the dreadful
intelligence. The old sailor was scarcely to be recognized in the
_déshabillé_ of his coatless and wigless person, as he blustered loudly,
his hands in his pockets, zigzagging to and fro as if he were pacing the
quarter‐deck and expostulating angrily with a surly crew.

Sir Simon Harness was calmer. He did not contradict his friend’s vehement
assertion that it was all a trick of Isabel’s to terrify us; he even made
a show of pooh‐poohing the notion of a flight as absurd, ridiculous, not
to be entertained for a moment. But there was not that heartiness in his
voice or manner that carries conviction to others. Mrs. de Winton also
made a semblance of chiming in with the admiral’s view, but it was a
palpable failure. Mr. Simpson was the only one who did not try to act his
part in the kindly comedy. He was fully convinced that it was no comedy,
but a most miserable drama that was beginning for the son of his old
friend and client. He had mistrusted Isabel from the first moment he fixed
his keen, legal vision on her. Mrs. de Winton had, it is true, inoculated
him beforehand with a good share of her own mistrust, and he came to the
scrutiny with a jaundiced eye; prejudiced, and predetermined not to be
fascinated or beguiled out of his severest judgment. He regarded hers as a
case of which he was to take a strictly legal view, and which was to be
investigated, sifted, and proved before he would endorse it. It was a very
odd case on the face of it; but Benjamin Simpson had had many odd cases to
deal with in the course of his experience, and he flattered himself he was
not to be baffled by a child scarcely out of her teens. She might be very
clever, and succeed in hoodwinking a rich young gentleman into marrying
her, on the strength of a fictitious story of misery and a still more
fictitious one of heiresship; but she was not likely to stand Simpson’s
cross‐examination long without breaking down. Such ungallant reflections
as these had been passing through the lawyer’s brain while he sipped his
claret and watched the fair face that sat opposite to him at the dinner‐
table, glancing at him with eyes that flashed more brightly than her
jewels. He had made up his mind, as he looked at her, that she was a
delusion; she would disappear sooner or later. The news of her flight was
therefore only a surprise by its suddenness. Clide was rushing all over
the basement story, calling out Isabel’s name into every room, while Mrs.
de Winton and her own and Isabel’s maid were pursuing a similar search in
the upper part of the house. The rambling old mansion was echoing from end
to end with opening and shutting of doors and cries of the fugitive’s
name; but no answer was heard except the echoes of the voices and the
doors.

“My dear boy,” said the admiral, pausing on his imaginary quarterdeck, as
Clide came up the stairs, “I’ll stake my head on it, the sly little puss
is playing a game of hide‐and‐seek with us, and laughing fit to kill
herself in some cupboard or other, while we are kicking up this row; take
my word for it, the best thing we can do is to go quietly to our own beds,
and before long she’ll come out of her hiding‐place.”

Clide muttered an impatient “stuff and nonsense!” Was she likely to perish
herself such a night as this playing hide‐and‐seek for their amusement—she
that could not bear a breath of cold? Even crossing through a fireless
room she would shiver like an aspen. The admiral grunted something about
“deserving to be whipped,” and turned to his zigzag promenade again.

Stanton and some of the other men‐servants had gone out to scour the park
and the gardens; they had been absent now long enough to have discovered
something, if there was anything to discover, but the stars made no answer
to their calling. “Madame! Mistress!” they shouted, till at last they gave
it up, and retraced their steps to the house. Clide had been going to the
window in a restless way, looking out into the night, and listening as if
he expected to hear the silence send him back some sign. It was impossible
to say whether he believed the least bit in the hide‐and‐seek theory,
whether he had a lingering hope of hearing Isabel call out to him or
appear from some corner, or whether he was just in that condition of mind
that precludes alike sitting still or doing something. He might be excited
by hope, or he might be stupefied by despair. He was as white as ashes,
and came and went with the quick, unsteady gait of a man who has lost his
self‐command, and is swayed only by the force of some terrible emotion.
Clide’s face was a fine, manly one; it would have been noble but for the
weakness of the chin and a certain tremulous movement of the lower
lip—perhaps of both; for the upper one was shaded by a light‐brown
moustache that prevented you seeing whether it had the firmness that would
have redeemed the lower one. The eyes were expressive, rather sleepy when
the face was in repose; but they woke up with flashes of lightning when he
was excited, and transfigured the whole countenance into one of energy and
power. There was no need to be a physiognomist to judge of the character
of such a face. The most unskilled observer could read it like a book.
There were all the elements of a stormy life there—passive strength, and
passions that needed only a spark to kindle them into a flame; a man who,
as he was taken, would be as easily led as a lamb or as intractable as a
young hyena. He had started in life with the fixed purpose of steering
clear of storms, of saving himself trouble and avoiding fuss. Poor Clide!
Life, he fancied, had a lake of oil at the entrance of the wide sea where
storms blew and waves roared angrily, and he had made up his mind to
anchor in the lake, and never venture beyond its peaceful margin.

The servants had come back—those that had been scouring the park—and the
others, who had been slamming doors all through the house, were
congregating in twos and threes upon the stairs leading to the broad
landing off which their young mistress’ room stood, its door wide open,
with a dismal, vacant air about it already.

“I see her! There she is!” exclaimed Clide. He had been staring for some
minutes out of the window, and suddenly bounded down the great oak stairs,
and out in the path, making for a clump of laurel‐trees far down near the
water. The admiral, Sir Simon, Simpson, and Mrs. de Winton pressed into
the embrasure of the window, the servants peeping over their heads to
catch a sight of the figure he was pursuing; but they saw nothing except
the winter trees, that stood like silver against the sky, while their
straggling shadows lay black upon the lawn. Still Clide bounded on,
calling out Isabel! Isabel! as he ran, and still no sound answered him;
the thud of his footfall on the frosty grass came sharply distinct in the
silence.

“The boy is dazed!” muttered his uncle; “it was a shadow he saw. But, no!
By Jove, there she is!” Clide was now close upon the laurels, that looked
like a black mound in the moonlight. The group in the window saw a white,
crouching figure rise slowly at his approach; he stopped, uttered a cry of
disappointment, and turned drearily back towards the house.

“What is it? Who is it?” shouted several voices; but before Clide answered
a moonbeam lighted up the figure of a deer, as it glided lightly over the
sward, and disappeared into the distant copse.

Instead of entering the house at once, Clide wandered round towards the
stables. It occurred to him that something in that region might suggest a
clew to the mode of his wife’s escape. He was quickly undeceived. Every
door was locked. There was no sign of any horse having disturbed the
slumbers of its companions.

“There is no use in your passing the night out of doors,” said Sir Simon,
who came to see where Clide had gone. “Come in, and let us put our heads
together to see what is to be done. I’m inclined to believe with De Winton
that it is a trick, and that the foolish child is amusing herself at
seeing us all out of doors searching for her.”

Whether this was honest or not, Clide felt it was meant in kindness. He
let his old friend draw his arm within his and lead him back into the
house. It was lighted up as for an impromptu illumination; every servant,
male and female, was afoot, and they had busied themselves in and out of
all the up‐stair rooms that for years had been untenanted; and as it was
necessary to do something, they lighted candles.

“Suppose it is not a trick!” said Clide, looking into Sir Simon’s face
with a terrible question in his eyes.

“That’s what we have got to find out,” replied the baronet evasively.
“Meantime, come up and let us hear what the others have to say.”

They had nothing to say. Presently Mrs. de Winton remarked:

“I wonder what dress she had on? If she kept on her jewels, and that light
gauze one, with the low body and short sleeves, she wore at dinner, she
can’t have gone far.”

They, went into the empty room to investigate. The jewels were gone, every
one she had worn; there were the empty cases. But the light gauze dress
was there hanging in the wardrobe, as if her maid had carefully put it
away. What she had put on to replace it was the next point which Mr.
Simpson insisted on clearing up. All the elegant dresses of the young
bride’s trousseau were tossed out of drawers and wardrobes by
Susette—Susette had been engaged for her by Clide himself after their
marriage—and counted over, till one was found missing in the roll: the
claret‐colored silk in which she had travelled down from London, and had
never worn since. It was the most appropriate dress of all she had for a
midnight flight, and, being dark, would escape observation. Mr. Simpson
seized immediately on this, “making a point” of it in his legal way, that
so exasperated Clide he could have flown at the lawyer’s throat and
strangled him on the spot. He resisted the impulse, and turned away,
inviting Mrs. de Winton by a sign to go with him. He walked into his own
dressing‐room, and, when his step‐mother had followed him, he closed the
door, and took a turn in the room with a quick, passionate step.

“What in the name of heaven can it be?” he said, stopping abruptly and
coming close up to her, as she stood by the mantel‐piece.

“She is gone,” answered his step‐mother. “I hardly doubted it for an
instant. I have been expecting some such catastrophe for several days
past. If you ask me why, I cannot tell you. I somehow never trusted.... My
dear Clide,” she continued in an earnest tone of kindness, quite unlike
her usual cold manner to him, “I wish with all my heart I could do
something or say something to comfort you or help you. Can you throw no
light at all on it from your own knowledge of things? Is there nothing in
what you know, or in what you do not know, about her antecedents and
connections to help you to form some guess? Where can she have gone to,
and who has she gone with?”

Clide clenched his hand, and moved away with an expression of anguish that
was dreadful.

“Gone to!” he repeated suddenly. “Why, what fools we are not to have seen
to that at once! But it’s not too late....” He pulled out his watch....
“It’s just three‐quarters of an hour since we missed her. Sir Simon and I
will saddle a couple of horses and ride both ways, for Glanivold and
Lanfarl. If she is making for either, we may overtake her.”

He was going to the door, but Mrs. de Winton laid her hand on his arm.
“Not three‐quarters of an hour since we missed her, but she may be gone
more than three hours. It was scarcely eight o’clock when she came up‐
stairs to lie down, and now it’s ten minutes past twelve. Supposing she’s
gone to the station....”

“Nonsense!” broke in Clide; “the station is three hours’ walk from this.
She could no more do it than an infant.”

“I’m only _supposing_; one must suppose something,” replied his step‐
mother patiently. “The train leaves at a quarter to twelve; so if that
were her object, it is too late to stop her.”

“There’s something too absurd in the idea! It’s simply impossible!”
declared Clide with a vehemence that carried no sense of conviction with
it—rather the contrary. “It’s absurd to contemplate it,” he repeated; “but
if you would sleep easier for having the thing certified, I’ll jump into
the saddle, and ride to the station and inquire.”

“Inquire what? Consider what you are going to do, Clide,” said Mrs. de
Winton, holding him back firmly—“raise a hue and cry after your wife as if
she were a runaway thief! Suppose it turns out after all to be a trick,
and that we see her emerge out of some closet or corner before you come
back; how will you look after sending it over the country that your wife
disappeared one night? Do you imagine the world will believe the story of
the game of hide‐and‐seek?”

Before he could reply Sir Simon and the admiral burst into the room.

“We found this on her dressing‐table,” said the admiral, handing his
nephew a note. Clide took it. A cold chill ran through his blood. He tore
open the letter. It ran thus:

“Clide, I am going to leave you. I don’t ask you to forgive me. You can
never do that. But God help me! I shall suffer for having so wickedly
deceived you. I should not have been worthy of you, even if I had been as
true as I have been false. But I loved you, and I shall never love anybody
else. Don’t try to find me. You will never find me. Good‐by, Clide. Forget
me and be happy.

“Your wicked but remorseful and loving

Isabel.”

The letter dropped from the young man’s hand, and he fell to the ground
with a cry.

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

We return to Clide’s journal:

The sun was shining over the sea—the strong‐waved sea that washes the
northern coast of France, the country of legends and cider, and gray ruins
and chivalry, and all that survives in the France of to‐day of the France
of long ago, the “plaisant pays de France” that poets sang to Marie Stuart
in her happy days of young queenhood. There to the right, as the steamer
paddled towards the port, stood the cliff where William of Normandy
harangued his Norsemen before they embarked with him to snatch from Harold
by force the crown he had not been able by fraud to prevent his assuming.
Dieppe lay twinkling in the sunlight below, a town of gossip and carved
ivory and many odors. As we entered the harbor, a strain of wild,
plaintive music came floating towards us from the shore. It was the hymn
of the fishermen’s wives, pulling the fishing smacks along the pier.
Children were toddling by the side of the mothers, and clutching by the
rope with their small fingers, while their shrill trebles piped in chorus
with the elders. A pretty picture, if I had been in a mood to admire it.
But the gloom within quenched all the brightness without.

The boat was steered alongside the quay, where half the town, it seemed to
me, had assembled to jeer at our pea‐green faces, as we emerged from our
separate purgatories and staggered up the gangway. I never feel so
thorough a misanthrope as when I see my fellow‐creatures enjoying the
humiliation of my steamboat misery, and hear them chuckling over me as I
pass along the plank that leads from deck to dry land. On this particular
occasion I remember with what a vehemence of hatred I resented their
inhumanity, and I assumed as defiant an air as was compatible with my
abject bodily and mental condition, as I marched on with my fellow‐
victims, and passed between two hedges of eager, staring eyes. My uncle
was with me. But he was not abject. He was far removed from such a
wretched infirmity as sea‐sickness, and nothing but his kindheartedness
prevented him from joining with the chucklers who were making merry at our
expense. It was almost an aggravation of my own suffering to see the
intensity of his sympathy, the way in which he was perpetually mounting
guard beside me to ward off any random shaft that the chance remarks of
others every now and then aimed at me.

I had now spent six weary months prosecuting my search, the most
extraordinary and unfortunate that ever man was engaged in, and up to the
day I started for Dieppe I had failed to obtain the smallest clew. I had
left nothing untried. I had stimulated the activity of Scotland Yard by
reckless liberality; I had set the whole detective force in motion, but to
no purpose.

I had had recourse to the mysterious column in the _Times_ for months
together; but the agony of feeling that my appeals to Isabel to “come back
to her husband, or communicate with him by letter,” was making all the
breakfast‐tables in the kingdom laugh, brought no response from the
fugitive herself. All this time my uncle seconded me by his exertions and
supported me by his kindness. I think I should have gone mad, if it had
not been for him. He never tired of my lamentations, my long, sullen fits
of gloom, the wearisome refrain of my self‐reproach, my endless wondering
at the behavior of Isabel, and my cursing and swearing at the stupidity of
the Scotland Yard people. He bore with me as patiently as a mother with a
sick child. My step‐mother had talked him into her belief that Isabel had
been on the stage, and that the most likely place to hear of her would be
amongst managers and play‐actors. There was something utterly revolting to
me in this notion, and I burst out into such uncontrollable anger one day
when my uncle was arguing in favor of it with a degree of sense that was
quite unanswerable, that he determined never to broach the supposition
again to me. This did not prevent him from following up the idea by
employing agents in every direction to hunt the theatres both of London
and the provincial towns. Meanwhile, I was secretly doing the same. I
could not look the thing bravely in the face, even with him; but I had in
my innermost heart a dread, amounting at times to certainty, that he was
right, and that if ever I found my wife it would be in the green‐room or
on the stage. I discovered afterwards that my dear old uncle knew
perfectly well the game I was playing, but he left me under the delusion
that he believed in my disbelief, and so spared me the shame I morbidly
shrank from. More than once a false alarm led me to fancy that these were
realized, and that she was in the hands of a manager, and then my
sensation was one of poignant misery, almost of despair. While I knew
nothing I might yet hope. My feelings resembled that of the French miser
who, while looking for the will that if found would rob him of a legacy,
confessed naively: “Je cherche en priant Dieu de ne pas trouver.”

I was sitting at breakfast in my lodgings in Piccadilly one morning when
my uncle came suddenly in, and said abruptly:

“You told me once that the sign by which the police could positively
identify her was a silver tooth?”

“Yes,” I replied, and my heart thumped against my ribs; “a silver tooth in
the left jaw, rather far back.”

“Did it never occur to you to make inquiries amongst the dentists?”

“No, that never occurred to me! But now that you mention it, it seems very
strange that it should not. I quite remember her speaking to me of a
clever one who had put in the silver tooth for her; how he had at first
been obstinate and annoyed about it, and then when it was done how pleased
he was with it. How stupid of me not to have thought of it before!” I
cried in vexation; “but to‐morrow I will begin and set inquiries on foot
in this direction.”

“You needn’t trouble about it,” said my uncle; “I’ve found the man who did
it.”

“You have!” I cried. “And he has seen her! He has told you something! For
heaven’s sake, uncle, speak at once. What does the man know?”

“No great things,” answered my uncle, stepping from the hearth‐rug, where
he had been standing with his back to the clock, and flinging himself into
an arm‐chair. “It seems that your step‐mother’s fancy was the right one
after all; the child _was_ brought up for public singing, and she was here
ten days ago. For aught this dentist can tell, she may be here still; but
I think not. She came to him to have something done to this identical
silver tooth. It was hurting her, and she was in a great state about it,
because she had just got an engagement to sing at a provincial theatre
this season; she didn’t say where, but the last time he saw her—she went
to him for several days running—she was fidgetting about the weather—you
remember we had some stiffish gales last week—and wondering what sort of
passage the people would have who were crossing the Channel with the wind
so high. He could give me no idea what port she had in her mind, or in
fact anything but just what I tell you. Well, I thought it was as well to
make inquiries before I set you on the go again, so I telegraphed to the
police at all the French ports, and just a minute ago I got this from
Dieppe.”

He handed the telegram to me: “Beautiful young woman, answers to
description. Landed on Saturday; sings to‐night. Hôtel Royal. Elderly man
with her.” There was not a doubt in my mind but that this was Isabel. The
elderly man must be the villain who passed himself off as her uncle. I
said so; my uncle agreed with me.

“The dentist fellow described him just as you do,” he continued—“a gruff
old man, with a brown coat and broad‐brimmed hat, and a disagreeable
snuffle when he talked. He used to go with her a year ago, when she got
the silver tooth made, and he was with her the other day. And now, my boy,
when are we to start for Dieppe? Let’s look at the time‐table.”

We started by the tidal train, and reached Dieppe about five P.M. that
evening. It was the season, and every hotel was brimful of English and
French fashion, come to bathe itself in the briny wave of that strong salt
sea. We went straight to the Hôtel Royal, but the landlord had not even a
garret where he could put up a bed for us. The lodging‐houses in the whole
length of the Rue Aguado were overflowing, and we were finally driven to
explore the Faubourg de la Barre, where we were thankful to be taken in by
a garrulous old landlady, who showed us two small rooms on the first
floor. I was not in a frame of mind to quarrel with the accommodation, but
I heard the admiral relieving himself in strong vernacular on the
corkscrew staircase.

We deposited our light _impedimenta_ in these lodgings, and then went out
to see what information was to be gathered concerning the object of our
journey. The first thing we beheld on entering the Grande Rue was a
placard announcing “La Sonnambula” for that evening; the _prima donna_ was
to be a “gifted young soprano _débutante_, Signorina Graziella.” We went
to the box‐office; every place was taken, and we had only a prospect of
standing‐room in the space between the first tier and the balcony. The
_prima donna_ had been heralded by such a flourish of trumpets that the
whole population was eager to hear her—so the box‐keeper informed us.

By this time it was six o’clock; but I was fed by something stronger than
meat, and it never occurred to me that since my breakfast, which had been
suspended before I was half through it, I had tasted no food. My uncle’s
sympathy, however, being of the healthiest kind, was not proof against the
demands of nature, and he suggested that it was time to think of dinner. I
was ashamed of having so entirely forgotten his comfort in my own
absorbing preoccupation, and proposed that we should go to the _table‐
d’hôte_ of the Hôtel Royal, which was served at six. I would have eaten
merely to keep him company; but the first spoonful of soup seemed to choke
me. The brave old sailor was near losing temper with me at last, and vowed
that he would wash his hands of me if I didn’t eat my dinner. He had
roughed it on many a heavy sea, and in nine cases out of ten it was his
hearty appetite that kept him afloat and pulled him through. In any case,
he would not admit fasting to be an element in sentiment with rational
human beings. He called for a bottle of Château Lafitte, and insisted on
my helping him to empty it. I did my best, and the result was that before
dinner was over the generous wine repaid me for the effort, and enabled me
to take, if not a more hopeful, at any rate a less utterly disconsolate,
view of life, and of the particular chapter of it I was now passing
through. It had a still kinder effect on my uncle; his heart soon warmed
by the juice of the red grape to such an extent that he talked of my
miserable position cheerfully, as if it had been the most ordinary
occurrence, and as if there was no reason why I should despond about it at
all. He persisted in treating Isabel as a naughty child who had never been
taught submission to the rules of life, and broke through them the moment
she found they trammelled her. It was no unprecedented event for an
excitable young thing to go mad about the stage; there were, on the
contrary, plenty of instances of it. He could count them on his
fingers—young ladies who had gone quite mad about it, and who had calmed
down, when the freak was over, into excellent wives and mothers. Why
should not this silly little puss do the same? I did not dare remind him
of those terrible words, written in her own hand: “If I were as true as I
have been false.”

It was a solace to hear him rambling on in his good‐natured, foolish talk.
Only when he repeated with stout emphasis for the tenth time that she was
herself the victim and dupe of the designing old scoundrel who called her
his niece, I ventured to remark: “But Simpson says....” “Simpson is an
ass!” snarled my uncle, and I at once assented, and declared my belief
that Simpson was an ass.

The moment we had finished our Château Lafitte we rose and left the
crowded room, where new‐comers were still pouring in to seize upon every
seat as it was vacated. I had been casting uneasy glances towards the
door, after first quickly scanning the three hundred heads that were
bobbing up and down over as many soup‐plates when we entered; but my fears
were vain. Isabel was not likely to run such a risk, if she wished—as
evidently she did wish—to remain undiscovered. I overheard some persons
near us discussing the appearance of the _prima donna_, who, they
observed, never showed herself off the stage. Many curious idlers had
wasted hours lolling about the hotel door, in hopes of seeing her come out
to walk or bathe; but since she had been in Dieppe—four days now—no one
had caught a glimpse of her. They little dreamed, as they bandied this
gossip with one another, that they were stabbing a heart with every word.
The persistent avoidance of notice was but too significant to me of the
_prima donna’s_ identity. It wanted yet half an hour of the time for the
theatre, and my uncle said we might as well spend it inhaling the fresh
breeze that was blowing from the north, borne in by the advancing tide. He
linked his arm in mine, and we sauntered down to the beach. The waves were
breaking in low thunder‐sobs upon the shingles, and all the town that was
not dining was out of doors watching them. The Etablissement was crowded,
and the music of the band that was playing there came floating towards us
with every roll of the waves; but the hum of the chattering crowd rose
distinctly above the sobbing of the sea and the murmur of the more distant
orchestra. I was too excited, too absorbed in my own thoughts, to realize
distinctly anything around me, but I quite well remember how I was
impressed in a vague yet vivid way by the contrast between the sad,
majestic tide heaving and surging on one side, and the human stream
rippling to and fro on the other, dressed out in such tawdry gear, and
simpering and chattering and subsiding like the frothy foam on the
billows. I can remember, too, how I turned, irritated and sick, from the
sight of it to the prettier, purer one of children playing on the sward
beside the beach. The peals of their innocent laughter did not jar upon
me; there was no discord between it and the dirge‐like sound of the water
washing the shore. All this passed and repassed before me like something
in a dream.

But the time was hurrying on, and now I was impatient to see my doom with
my own eyes, or to know that the reprieve was prolonged, and that I might
yet cling to a plank of hope.

“I think it’s time we were going,” I remarked, pulling out my watch; “the
crowd is thinning, and I suppose it is bound in the same direction.” We
were late, as I expected; every spot was filled in the little theatre when
we arrived, and the performance had begun. As the box‐keeper opened the
door to admit us to our standing‐post on the first tier, we were almost
thrown back by the roar of applause that burst upon our ears; it rose and
fell like a mighty gust of wind, and seemed literally to make the ground
shake under our feet and the walls tremble round us. For a moment I was
stunned. There was a lull, and then we went in. The singer had left the
stage, but the air was still vibrating with the melody of her voice and of
the rapturous echoes it had awakened. A fine barytone was confiding his
despair and his hopes to the audience, but it fell idly on their ears
after what had gone before. The _Sonnambula_ appeared again; the first
notes were greeted by another salvo of bravos, louder, more impassioned
and prolonged, than the first; again and again the plaudits rose,
handkerchiefs fluttered, and hands clapped—the house was electrified. She
could bear it no longer; overcome by emotion, she held out her arms to the
spectators in an entreating gesture that seemed to say: “Enough! Spare me;
I can bear no more!” It was either an impulse of childlike nature or the
most finished piece of art ever seen on the stage. Whatever it was, the
effect was tremendous. I suppose it could not really have been so, but I
would have sworn that the house rocked. It was a sustained roll of human
thunder from the pit to the gallery, and from the gallery to the pit.
Isabel—for it was she—made another passionate response with the same
childlike, bewitching grace, and rushed off the scene. I was rooted to the
spot, not daring to look at my uncle; not thinking of him, of anything. I
was like a man in a nightmare, held fast in the grasp of a spectre,
longing to call for help, but powerless to utter a sound.

The manager came forward and addressed a few words of expostulation to the
audience; implored them to control their ecstasies a little for the sake
of the sensitive and gifted being who had called them forth. He was
nervous and at the same time triumphant. He was answered by a loud buzz of
assent. The _Sonnambula_ once more came forth, and this time a deep,
suppressed murmur was the only interruption. The dress, the glare, the
gaslight, the strange way the lustrous coils of her black hair were
arranged—tumbled in a sort of studied tangle all over the forehead—while a
veil, half on, half off, concealed part of the face, the entire
transformation of the _mise‐en‐scène_, in fact, might easily have
disguised her identity from eyes less preternaturally keen than mine; but
my glance had scarcely fallen on the frail, shrouded figure, as it glided
in from the background, than I knew that I beheld my wife; beheld her
clasped—gracious heavens! yes, I saw it, and stood there motionless and
dumb—clasped by the man who was howling out some idiotic lamentations. She
stepped forward, and began to sing. Her head was first slightly bowed over
her breast, and her hands clasped and hanging. The first bars were warbled
out in a kind of bird‐like whisper, as if she were in a dream; but little
by little they grew higher, more sonorous, until, carried away by the
power of the music and her own magnificent interpretation of it, she flung
back her head, and let the gossamer cloud fall from it, revealing the
unshrouded contour of the face, upturned, inspired, all alight with the
triumph of the hour, while the bell‐like notes rang out with a breadth and
pathos that melted and stirred every heart in that vast crowd like touches
of fire. It was a vision of beauty that defies all words. I neither spoke
nor moved while the song lasted; but when the last chord died out, and the
pent‐up hearts of the listeners broke forth in new peals that seemed to
sweep over the songstress in a flood of joy and triumph, I awoke and came
to my senses.

“Come away!” I gasped, and turned to move out. But the words stuck in my
throat. My uncle had caught the delirium, and was cheering and bravoing
like a maniac. “Glorious! Grand, by Jove! Encore! Splendid!” He was
shouting like a madman, whirling his hat and stamping. His brown face was
young again. I never beheld such a transformation in any human
countenance.

“Are you mad, sir?” I shrieked into his ear, while I clutched his arm.

I suppose he was mad; I know he kept on the same frantic shouts and
clappings for several minutes, not paying any more heed to me than to the
floor he was so vigorously stamping. I was frightened at last. I thought
anguish and shame for me had driven him out of his mind; so, taking him
gently by the arm, I said I wanted to speak to him. He let me push him on
before me, and we got out. He was still much excited, and neither of us
spoke till we were in the open air.

“My dear boy,” he said suddenly, with a shamefaced look, “I couldn’t help
it for the life of me! By Jove, but it was the grandest thing I ever heard
in my life. The house reeled round you. I would stake my head there wasn’t
a sane man in it but yourself!”

I laughed bitterly. The irony of the words was dreadful. “Sane?” I cried.
“You think I was sane? I thank heaven I behaved like a sane man; but if I
had been within reach of that ruffian’s throat, I’d have dashed his brains
out as ruthlessly as any escaped maniac from Bedlam. I would do it now, if
I had him!”

My uncle stopped and looked at me. He was thoroughly sobered, and I could
see that he was terrified. He told me long afterwards that he never could
have believed passion could transfigure a face as it did mine; he said I
had _murder_ written in my eyes as plainly as ever it was written on a
printed page. And I believe him. I felt I could have committed murder at
that moment. I would have killed that man, if I had held him, if the
gallows had been there to hang me the next hour. I have never felt the
same towards murderers since that moment. It was an awful revelation to me
of the hidden springs of crime that may lie deep down in a man’s heart,
and never be suspected even by himself, until the touch that can wake them
into deadly life has come. I can never think of that evening without an
humbling sense of my own innate wickedness, of the benign mercy that
overruled that frightful impulse. Given the immediate opportunity and the
absence of the supreme, supervening goodness that stood between me and
myself, and I should have been a murderer. The gulf that separates each
one of us from crime is narrower than we imagine. The discovery of this
truth is humbling, but perhaps none the less salutary for that.

“Come along, Clide; come along with me,” my uncle said in the soothing
tone one uses to a fractious child. “It’s all my fault. I ought to have
known better than to let you go there at all; I ought to have gone by
myself. I’m no better than a blubbering old idiot to you, my boy.”

I went with him passively; we walked to our lodgings without speaking. I
shall never forget the kindness of my uncle all through that night. He was
as patient and as gentle with me as a woman, bearing with me as tenderly
as a mother could have done. I could not rest, and I would not let him
rest. I called for _café noir_, and I kept drinking cup after cup of it
until, added to the stronger stimulant that was setting my blood on fire,
I almost worked myself into a brain fever, bursting out into paroxysms of
childish rebellion, and then lapsing into fits of dumb despair. I had
first insisted on rushing off to the hotel and lying in wait for Isabel,
and compelling her there and then either to return to me or to part from
me for ever; but my uncle was inexorable in opposing this, and I knew by
his tone that he was not to be trifled with. There was a something about
him in certain moods that made resistance to his will as impossible as
wrestling with an elephant. I gave in, and allowed him to give his reasons
for preventing my taking a step which, result how it might, was sure to be
a most humiliating one for me; not only or chiefly as a husband, but as a
De Winton. My uncle’s anxiety lest the old name should suffer by the event
threw his sympathy for my individual sorrow comparatively into the shade.
While my wife’s flight was known only to my immediate household, my step‐
mother—whose pride and touchiness about the honor of a De Winton was
almost as morbid as his own—and the three tried friends of my dear
father’s youth, it was just possible that it might remain a secret beyond
that small circle, and he clung to this hope as tenaciously as I did to
the hope of recovering my wife. The De Wintons were a proud race, and
justly so. We had nobler things to be proud of than the primary one of
ancient, and I may venture to say illustrious, lineage: we could boast
with truth that there was no bar sinister on the old escutcheon; our men
had never known cowardice, nor our women shame; no maiden of our house had
dishonored a father’s white hairs, or wife brought a blot upon her
husband’s name. I was the last of our line so far, and the thought that it
should die out under a cloud of shame with me was bitter with the
bitterness of death to the admiral; for he was at heart as proud as a
Plantagenet, with all his free and easy talk, and his jovial, jolly‐tar
manner to everybody, especially to his inferiors. _Noblesse oblige_ was
engraven on the inmost core of his honest heart; and he could not conceive
a De Winton feeling less acutely on the point than he did himself. He had
never been married; this partially accounted, perhaps, for his inability
to merge the De Winton in the husband. It is possible that, if I had never
been married, I should have comprehended his stern abstract view of the
case, and have felt with him that the husband’s misery was as nothing
compared to the blow dealt at the pride of a De Winton. As it was, I could
not feel this. I could have seen the whole clan of the De Wintons and
their escutcheon in the bottom of the Red Sea, if I could have rescued
myself from the anguish of renouncing for ever the young wife who had so
cruelly charmed and blighted my life. I was driven to make this unworthy
avowal on my uncle’s suggesting that, assuming it were still possible for
me to forgive her, she might lay it down as a condition of our reunion
that she was to pursue her career on the stage. He merely threw out the
idea as a wild notion that crossed his thoughts for a moment; but when I
hinted at the possibility of yielding to this painful and humiliating
condition rather than renounce Isabel for ever, he flew into such a frenzy
of indignation that to calm him I believe I was cowardly enough to swallow
my words, and declare that they had not been spoken in earnest. It was
some time, however, before he subsided from the agitation they caused him.
The idea of alluding, even in jest, to the possibility of a play‐actress
flaunting our name upon the boards of the theatre was too dreadful to be
contemplated without unmitigated horror. If I let her go her mad career
alone, the chances were that this disgrace would be spared us. Isabel had
proved clearly enough so far that she desired secrecy to the full as much
as we did; but if she continued on the stage as my wife, secrecy became
impossible. She might play under the assumed name she now bore, but the
true one would soon be blazoned abroad, do what we all might to conceal
it. The managers who speculated on her voice would be quick to discover
it, and make capital out of it. The admiral was so strong in his
denunciation of the madness of the whole thing that he convinced me he was
right. This little incident left him more than ever determined to keep me
as much as possible in the background, and I so far acknowledged the
wisdom of his views as to consent to let him go by himself to try and see
Isabel in the morning.

It proved a fruitless mission. The _concierge_ said that the _signorina_
had not left her room yet; but the servant, in answer to my uncle’s ring
at her door, informed him that she had gone out for an early drive—it was
not eight o’clock—and that she would not be in until dinner‐hour. Would
monsieur take the trouble to call later? Monsieur said he would, and he
did; but he was then informed that the _signorina_ had taken a chill in
her drive, and had gone to bed. My uncle came home in great wrath; he
believed no more in the chill than he had believed in the drive, and he
was for writing there and then to Isabel, telling her so, and demanding an
interview without more ado, using firm language and hinting at sterner
measures if she refused. I entreated him not to do this. I don’t know
whether in the bottom of my heart I believed the servant’s story, but I
persuaded myself and then him that I did; that it was only natural that a
tender, delicate‐fibred creature like her should have been done up after
the excitement of last evening; and that we had better leave her in peace
for a day. He pooh‐poohed this contemptuously: the excitement was just
what she liked in the business; it was what play‐actors, men and women,
all alike lived on. He humored me, however, and consented to put off the
letter till the next day. Meantime, something might turn up. I might meet
her uncle myself, and button‐hole the scoundrel on the spot. He must walk
out some time or other, and I was determined to be on the watch. I paced
up and down before the hotel for three weary hours, glancing up
continually at the windows. I knew from my uncle what floor Isabel
occupied. Once I fancied I caught sight of the fellow’s face looking out
for a moment, and then hurriedly withdrawn. Was it only fancy, or had he
really seen me, and drawn back to escape my seeing him? I lounged into the
coffee‐room, and adroitly elicited from one of the waiters that the
_signorina_ was keeping very quiet, so as to avoid any disappointment for
the forthcoming representation; she was to sing again in two nights, and
no one was to be admitted to see her in the interval. Orders to this
effect had been given to the _concierge_, who was to deny all visitors on
the plea of the _signorina’s_ state of nervous debility, which made the
slightest excitement off the stage fatal to her. When I repeated this to
the admiral, he set his brown face in a scowl, and we very nearly
quarrelled outright before he again yielded to my resistance, and agreed
to wait two days more, and see whether she kept her engagement for the
next performance. On the morning of the second day we both went out
together to the baths. As we were passing through the Etablissement
gardens, a young man came up to a group of people walking ahead of us, and
gave some news that provoked sudden surprise, apparently of no pleasant
nature; for we heard the words, “Abominable sell!” “What an extraordinary
affair!” repeated with angry emphasis. We had not heard a word of what the
young man had said, but the broken comments that reached us seemed, as if
by some magnetic influence, to inform us of their meaning. The admiral, in
his off‐hand, sailor way, walked up to the party, and asked if any
accident had happened on the coast. “Oh! no; no accident,” the bearer of
the news said, “but a most disagreeable thing for everybody. Graziella has
bolted, no one knows when or how; her rooms were found vacant an hour ago,
and there was not a trace of her or the fellow who was with her. The Hôtel
Royal was in a tremendous commotion about it; the landlord had been down
to the station and to the quay, but there was no trace of them at either
place. The landlord believed they had eloped during the night, by some
highway or by‐way, so as to avoid detection; but why or wherefore was the
mystery. They had paid their bill. It was a horrible sell, for the little
creature was the trump‐card of the season—a second Malibran.”

I knew as well as if I had followed my uncle, and heard the intelligence
with my own ears, what he had to tell me when he turned back, and came up
to me, intending to break it gently. It seemed utterly useless after this
to go to the hotel with the hope of gaining further particulars, but I
urged at the same time that it was possible the landlord himself might be
a party to the affair, and that, if he had been bought over to hold his
tongue, he might be bought to loosen it. I could not count on the
necessary command over myself to speak or to listen to others speaking of
the event at this stage, so I yielded to my uncle’s wish, and went home;
he accompanied me to the door, for he judged by my looks that I was not
fit to be left to go back alone. He then started off to the Rue Aguado. He
found the place in an uproar about the flight, but no one could throw a
particle of light on the time, the manner, or the motive of it. The
_concierge_ remembered seeing a lady, small and slight, and with a very
elastic step, walk rapidly out of the house late on the previous evening,
dressed in the deepest mourning, with a widow’s crape veil, and holding
her handkerchief to her eyes, as if crying bitterly; he had remarked her
at the time, and thought she had been visiting some one in the hotel, and
that she was in fresh mourning for her husband, poor thing! Everybody
agreed that this must have been La Graziella in disguise. But beyond this
not the smallest clew was found that could direct the pursuit of the
fugitives. Their luggage had been carried off as mysteriously as
themselves; no one had seen it removed. This induced the suspicion that
they must have had an accomplice on the premises. The landlord, however,
had a precedent to fall back on—a swindler who had lived at his expense
for three weeks, and then decamped one fine morning, bag and baggage,
having carried them all off himself, disguised as a porter, while several
travellers were under way in the courtyard with their separate lots of
luggage, and porters were hurrying in and out with them.

For two days after this event, which checkmated every movement on our
part, we did nothing but wander about Dieppe, watching helplessly for some
information that could have directed us what to do. My uncle was
constantly down on the quay and at the railway station, questioning the
sailors and the officials, and always coming back just as void of
information as he went. He was more irascible than ever now about the
honor of the De Wintons, and would not allow me to interfere directly or
indirectly. I resented this tyranny; but the fact of my interference
having already proved so disastrous gave him the whip‐hand over me, and I
felt it was wiser in my own interest to subside and let him act. He was
actively seconded in his endeavors to track the fugitives by the manager
of the theatre, who was resolved—so we heard on all sides—to spare neither
trouble nor expense in recapturing his prize. The collapse of such a
_prima donna_ was a serious loss to him; he had gone to considerable
expense in preparing for her _début_, and it had been so brilliant as to
ensure the promise of an overflowing house to the end of the season. On
one side my uncle was gratified at the intelligence and energy displayed
by the manager; but on the other hand it put him in a ferment of terror.
What if, in his search after Graziella, he should discover who she was and
what name she bore! The bare thought of this almost drove him frantic. The
manager’s opinion, it would seem, was that she had escaped in a fishing‐
smack. This was the most likely mode of flight for any one, indeed, to
adopt from a seaport town like Dieppe; no preliminaries were required in
the way of tickets or passports, and the fugitives might steer themselves
to any coast they pleased, and land unobserved where it suited them. It
was useless, however, for us to leave Dieppe until we heard something.
While the manager was vigorously prosecuting the search on his side, my
uncle was busy on ours. He suggested that it would be well to make an
exploring expedition amongst the hamlets on the cliffs‐groups of huts
scattered at short intervals over the long range of the _falaises_
overhanging the sea, and inhabited by a scanty and miserable population.

We had felt it necessary to take a few safe agents of the police into our
confidence; and before setting to work among the _gens de falaise_, as
they are called by the dwellers on the plain, we consulted them as to the
best mode of proceeding, and asked some information as to the sort of
people we had to deal with. The police advised us to leave the attempt
alone. They said the “folk of the cliffs” were so simple that their name
was a by‐word for stupidity down below. It required little short of a
surgical operation to convey a new idea of the simplest kind into their
brain. There was a story current in the town of how, not so very long ago,
a gang of robbers prowled about the neighborhood, and made it expedient
for the mayor to issue a proclamation, wherein it was notified that nobody
would be allowed to enter the gates after night‐fall without a lantern.
The notice was placarded all over the walls, and this is how it worked
with the _gens de falaise_: Ding‐dong came a ring at the gate one evening,
and the sentry called out: “Qui vive?”

“Gens de falaise!” (Pronounced fa_w_laise.)

“Have you a lantern?”

“Eh, oui!”

“Is there a candle in it?”

“Eh, non! We were not told to!”

“Well, now you’re told to; be off and get one!”

Next evening ding‐dong come the travellers again. “Qui vive?”

“Gens de falaise!”

“Have you a lantern?”

“Eh, oui!”

“And a candle in it?”

“Eh, oui?”

“Is it lighted?”

“Eh, non! We were not told to.”

“Well, now you’re told to; go back and light it.”

Away went the _gens de falaise_ again, and finally returned a third time
to the charge with a lantern and a candle in it, and lighted.

This was not very encouraging to persons who wanted to question
intelligent observers. We tried it, however, but soon found that rumor had
not maligned the simple dwellers on the cliffs, and that nothing was to be
gleaned from their dull, unobservant eyes.

Four days passed, and still we were in the same dense darkness. The
suspense and inaction became unendurable to me.

“Uncle,” I said, “I can stand this no longer. I will run up to Paris, and
set the lynx‐eyes of the police there on the lookout for us. Perhaps it
will be of no use; but anything is better than waiting here doing
nothing.”

My uncle fell in with the idea at once. I set off to Paris, and left him
at Dieppe, where, in truth, it seemed more likely that information of some
sort must transpire sooner or later.

To Be Continued.




The Colonization Of New South Wales By Great Britain. Concluded.


It is obvious, then, that, if the remarkable prosperity which has befallen
the English Colonies in Australia is to be ascribed, in any degree, to the
sagacity of the government that sent out the first expedition, or of those
who then and subsequently presided over it, we must look for it in the
perfection of the reformatory system, with a view to which the original
constitution of the colony was exclusively framed. The idea of making the
colonization of a newly discovered territory of prodigious resources
subservient to the reformation of as many as possible of the criminals of
an over‐populated country is a conception of the noblest philanthropy; as
the attempt to use a new and promising colony for the mere purpose of
getting rid anyhow of the dangerous classes would be an act of guilty
folly, the result of an indolent and heartless selfishness, such as even
the most heartless and the most selfish of oligarchies should blush to
have perpetrated. For the prosecution of the former object more care and
pains should have been expended than under ordinary circumstances in
sending out to the new settlement a colony fully equipped with all that
the mother‐country had to give it. The reformed, as they stepped forth
from their cells and shackles, once more masters of their own actions,
free agents, reinvested with reason’s noblest prerogative—the liberty of
choosing good and rejecting evil—should have found a sound and healthy
society with which to mingle. They should have found themselves at once
amidst a society based on those principles of religion, law, and justice
which characterize even the feeblest form of Christian civilization. Such
a society they should have found immediately outside their prison‐walls,
into which they might glide, as it were, unperceived, and from which they
should gradually and insensibly take their tone. What man in his sober
senses could have anticipated any thorough and permanent reformation of
criminals in a society consisting exclusively, after making exception of
the officials and the military guard, of the very criminals themselves? In
reading the inaugural address of the first governor, we naturally conclude
that the government which organized the expedition was deeply impressed
with the necessity of an opposite course. But the illusion is soon
dispelled. We discover to our astonishment that the infant colony took out
with it no one condition of a civilized society. Of law there was simply
none. Even the formalities of martial law, when, soon after the settlement
of the penal colony, it was thought expedient to have recourse to them,
were found to be impracticable, because of some technical difficulty which
there had not been the sagacity to foresee and provide against. Whatever
there was of justice was wholly dependent on the caprice and dispositions
of individuals. Incredible as it may appear, it is nevertheless the fact
that, after the retirement of the first governor, the administration of
the colony was entrusted for three years to the hands of the officers of
the 102d Regiment. Unfit for such a responsibility as were the sea‐
captains from amongst whom the first four governors were selected,
officers of the army were yet more so. The previous habits and training of
English regimental officers are such as to disqualify them, generally
speaking, for judicial functions. But the unfitness of military men in
England for this office was much greater at that period than at the
present day, as they were more illiterate. The government of a colony
transferred to a regimental mess‐room forms indeed a humiliating contrast
to the glowing periods of Commander Phillip. Mr. Therry tells us (p. 69):


    “The first four governors of New South Wales, Phillip, Hunter,
    King, and Bligh, exercised a rule (and this includes the mess‐room
    interregnum) which partook much of the character of the government
    of a large jail or penitentiary.”


Two years and a half after the disembarkation of the first batch of
convicts fresh instructions arrived from the home government respecting
the allotment of land. By these instructions, the advantages already
enjoyed by the emancipists were extended to the privates and non‐
commissioned officers of the military guard on the spot, but no provision
whatsoever was made for free emigrants from the mother‐country. So that,
when the sixth governor, Macquarie, “considered that the colony was
selected as a depot for convicts; that the land properly belonged to them,
as they emerged from their condition of servitude, and that emigrants were
intruders on the soil,” we can only conclude that he interpreted the
policy of the government at home more correctly than the more enthusiastic
sailor who first presided over it. In spite of the singular incapacity
displayed in the first organization of the settlement at Sydney, the
following illustration of the state of law and society therein twenty
years after its establishment, would be incredible if we had it on less
trustworthy authority than that of Mr. Therry. He tells us (p. 74) that,
during the rule of one Capt. Bligh, 1806‐8, “the judge‐advocate, Atkins,
was a person of no professional mark, and was, besides, of a very
disreputable character.” The governor reported of him to the Secretary of
State that “he had been known to pronounce sentence of death when
intoxicated”! With Atkins was associated a convict named Crossley, who had
been transported for forging a will, and for perjury, and who had been
convicted of swindling in the colony.

The result of such a state of things was as unavoidable as it was fatal.
If the reformatory system in the penal colony had been as wise and
efficacious as it was lamentably, nay, wickedly, the reverse, such of the
convicts as yielded to the nobler motives of civil life and the claims of
conscience should have been able to mix unnoticed with the sounder part of
the community. Bygones should have been really bygones. The past should
have been simply ignored. No allusion to it should have been tolerated.
The expiated crime should have been buried out of sight and recollection,
so long as there was no relapse. There should have been no such class as
an emancipist class. The reformatory institution should have remained as a
thing apart, sending from time to time its contingent of convalescents to
be incorporated with the healthy body politic.

Instead of this, as the colony increased, the moneyed and influential
class, the leading class, in a colony intended to reproduce the glories of
England in the fifth great division of the world, consisted of emancipated
convicts. No pains taken to perpetuate the memory of these people’s
disgrace could have attained so undesirable an object more effectually.
They stood out a distinctly marked order in the state. They became landed
proprietors, magistrates, high government officials, even legal
functionaries. Instead of a decent veil of oblivion being thrown over
their antecedents, they were, as in a Methodist experience, even
ostentatiously displayed. It almost constituted a boast, and was worn as
though it were a decoration of honor. When, subsequently, through the
encouragement of one or two of the governors and other causes, the tide of
emigration set in from the mother‐country another moneyed and influential
class arose of untainted reputation. A bitter rivalry between the two was
the immediate consequence. The emancipists excited no sympathy or
compassion for the lingering memory of a misfortune which their subsequent
lives might be supposed to have retrieved, but which, instead of an
obliterated brand, was ostentatiously retained as the badge of a powerful
class, which became thus an object of contempt to the more respectable
new‐comers. The crimes for which they had been punished, and of which they
should, therefore, no longer have borne the burden, reappeared as their
accusers in the intercourse of social life. Society snatched up the sword
which the law had in mercy laid aside; a remitted punishment was exacted
in another form; and the benevolent aim of rescuing the worst class of
criminals from irremediable ruin by a reformatory process, if it were ever
seriously entertained, was wholly frustrated. For scarcely had the infant
settlement, through the gradual influx of immigrants, begun to assume the
appearance of a colony, when the original sin of its constitution appeared
in the form of an evil, fatal not only to the well‐being, but even to the
very existence of a free community. Instead of any effort being made to
heal or, at least, to alleviate this evil by some consistent line of
policy, it was aggravated by the capricious preference of one or other of
the rival classes by successive governors, according to their several
idiosyncrasies. An evil of this nature could end only with the extinction
of one or other of the antagonistic classes, or the dissolution of the
colony; unless indeed the whole reformatory system were remodelled on an
entirely different plan. The problem was solved by the adoption of the
former alternative. The natural advantages of the country and the
commercial energy of the Anglo‐Saxon race proved, at last, too strong for
a reformatory system which was not only crude and faulty to the utmost
degree, but was literally destructive of its own end and object. After a
long struggle against obstacles greater than ever before hindered the
development of vast natural resources, the colony prevailed over the
prison, and the entail of emancipation was finally cut off by the
abolition of transportation in the year 1840.

Turn we now to the penal portion of this quite unique organization for the
reformation of criminals. Here, it may be, we shall be able to trace some
indications, at least, of that humane sympathy, that sorrow for a fellow‐
creature’s fall and anxiety for his restoration, which appeals to whatever
of good may be lingering in the heart of the criminal, not to mention the
higher and more tender charities which religion inspires. No gentler
instrument of cure would appear to have suggested itself to the minds of
the members of the English government of 1788 than the lash!—the lash in
the hands of sots and ruffians!


    “I was once present in the police office in Sydney when a convict
    was sentenced to fifty lashes for not taking off his hat to a
    magistrate as he met him on the road.”


Of Capt. P. C. King, who administered the government from 1800 to 1806,
Mr. Therry writes:


    “He was a man of rough manners, and prone to indulge in offensive
    expressions borrowed from the language then in vogue in the
    navy.... His temper was irascible and wayward. At one time he
    assumed a tone of arrogant and unyielding dictation; at another,
    he indulged in jokes unsuited to the dignity of his position.”


Of Capt. Bligh, who succeeded King, Judge Therry tells us that his


    “despotic conduct as commander of the _Bounty_ had driven the crew
    to mutiny. Yet he who had proved his incapacity for ruling a small
    ship’s company was made absolute ruler of a colony so critically
    circumstanced as that of New South Wales.... He was the same rude,
    despotic man, whether treading the quarter‐deck of the _Bounty_ or
    pacing his reception‐room in Government House at Sydney.”
    “Throughout the colony,” continues the judge, “the uncontrolled
    use of the lash was resorted to, as an incessant and almost sole
    instrument of punishment, and too often those who inflicted this
    degrading punishment regarded themselves as irresponsible agents,
    and kept no record of their darkest deeds.”


But when the backs and the consciences of the unhappy victims of an
English reformatory process had become alike hardened to this demoralizing
torture, a perverse ingenuity had devised in Norfolk Island a place of
penal torment calculated to destroy in its victims the last vestiges of
humanity. To human beings thus circumstanced the scaffold became rather an
object of desire than of dread. And we learn from Mr. Therry that during
the years 1826, 1827, and 1830 no less than one hundred and fifty‐three
persons were hung out of a population of fifty thousand.

But we have not yet fathomed the lowest depth of imbecility and of guilty
indifference to the commonest dictates of prudence and humanity exhibited
in this nefarious scheme for the reformation, forsooth, of criminals.

Incredible as it may appear, it is nevertheless true, that by the authors
of the scheme, although their lips were full of the professions we have
quoted, the influence of religion as an agent of reformation was simply
ignored. It had not been their original intention to send out any minister
at all of their religion with the expedition they had planned. It was
owing to the remonstrance of a dignitary of the Established sect that one
was, at the last moment, appointed. This appointment, however, does not
appear to have been made with any view of bringing the influence of
religion to bear on the unfortunate criminals. To them the rudest objects
of self‐interest appear to have been the only motives of reformation held
out. Dr. Porteous—such was his name—would have displayed more than the
ordinary apathy of his class as to any objects of a merely spiritual
interest, and a less than ordinary keenness of perception as to its
material interests, if he had allowed a large colonial expedition to leave
the shores of the mother‐country without any provision whatsoever being
made for the celebration of the worship of the Established religion in the
distant land to which it was bound. We are told by Mr. Flanagan that a
priest of some Spanish ships, which visited the colony in 1793, “observing
that a church had not yet been built, lifted up his eyes with
astonishment, and declared that, had the place been settled by his nation,
a house would have been erected for God before any house had been built
for men” (_Hist. of N. S. W._, vol. 1. p. 95). In 1791 a fresh batch of
convicts, two thousand and fifty in number, arrived at Sydney, making the
sum total of that portion of the population two thousand eight hundred and
twenty‐eight. Yet, for these, for the large staff of officials, the
military guard, and the few free settlers, the only minister of religion
for six years after the foundation of the colony was this churchless
chaplain, and the only religious influences accessible to that multitude
of unfortunates was the form of Sabbatical prayer adopted by his sect. The
one master cause of the inhumanity of the whole scheme was the complete
and profound disregard of religious influences engendered in the minds of
its authors by that embodiment of religious indifference and lifeless
formalism, the established sect in England.

In few, if in any, exiled convicts have the finer sensibilities of our
common nature been utterly extinguished. In nearly all, charred and
unsightly as may their whole natures have become, diligent and patient
labor will come at last to some unquenched fragment of the precious jewel;
remote and all but lost, but waiting only for one smallest crevice to be
opened through the superincumbent mass of gloom and despair, to spring in
light, like a resurrection, to the surface, and fling its delivered lustre
to the sun. In nearly all, he who should tenderly but perseveringly dig
through the filth and refuse which a highly artificial and evilly
constituted state of society has heaped upon its outcasts, would assuredly
come at last to some faint trickle of the living fountain, which death
only wholly dries up, ready to find its level, and even longing to be
released. How many of those sad ship‐loads, when the shores of their
native country for ever faded from their view, succumbed to the anguish of
some, were it only one, rudely riven tie, and, in the nearest feeling to
despair possible out of the place of reprobation, thrilled with a heart’s
agony of which the severest bodily pain is but a feeble symbol! Cruel to
inhumanity would be the jailer who should refuse to a prisoner in his
dungeon the consolation of one ray of the light of day. But who, with the
hearts of men, could have forbidden to those most miserable of their
fellow‐creatures an entrance to the angels of religion? Who would not have
used every effort to secure their ministrations? The Catholic Church, and
she alone, could have brought the light of hope within those darkened
souls. She alone could have taken from despair that painful past and that
ghastly present, have awakened within those hardened consciences the
echoes of a nobler being, have folded around the poor outcasts her
infinite charities, and enwreathed them in their embrace. She alone could
have recalled them through the tears of compunction to the consciousness
that they were still men, and might yet be saints; and, like the memory of
childhood gliding round the frightful abyss that separated them from
innocence, have beckoned, and encouraged, and helped them up the toilsome
steep of penance, to the place where conquerors, who have narrowly escaped
with their lives, receive their kingdoms and their crowns.

Yet was this mere tribute to the humanity of those forlorn ones wholly
withheld from them. The rigors of penal discipline, increasing in severity
with the progressive depravity of their unhappy victims, reduced them at
length to a condition by comparison of which the lot of the sorriest brute
that was ever becudgelled by a ruffian owner was enviable. What a depth of
misery, and, worse still, what a bitter consciousness of it, is revealed
in the keen reproach of one of them: “When I came here, I had the heart of
a man in me, but you have plucked it out, and planted the heart of a brute
in its stead!” To talk to such men of reformation could only have been a
ghastly jest. Not so much as even a moral motive appears to have been
suggested to them. Nothing but the unlovely object of worldly self‐
advantage.

Of such a system there could be but one result. No longer do we experience
any surprise at finding that the aborigines, who were to have been
civilized, and who, at first, evinced the most friendly disposition
towards the new settlers, were shot down and even poisoned by the
squatters, soldiers, emigrant adventurers, and emancipists, the standard
of whose morality appears to have been about equally high; that men in the
highest judicial stations were notoriously immoral; that amongst the most
prosperous and respectable of Sydney tradesmen were receivers of stolen
goods; that in the time of one governor,


    “the marriage ceremony fell into neglect, and dissolute habits
    soon prevailed; rum became the regular and principal article of
    traffic, and was universally drunk to excess”;


and that, when he left the colony in 1800, “_it was then in a state of
deep demoralization_” (_Therry_, p. 71); that, under the rule of his
successor, to quote Mr. Therry’s own description:


    “The licentiousness that had prevailed in the time of Hunter was
    carried to the highest pitch. Not only was undisguised concubinage
    thought no shame, but the sale of wives was not an unfrequent
    practice. A present owner of broad acres and large herds in New
    South Wales is the offspring of a union strangely brought about by
    the purchase of a wife from her husband for four gallons of rum”
    (p. 72).


Lamentable as must have been the condition of a reformatory colony wherein
the religious sentiment and all concern for a future life were entirely
disregarded, its effects were more terrible to the Catholic portion of the
convicts than to their Protestant fellow‐criminals. The latter, born
blind, were not sensible of the blessing of which they were deprived. To
them religion was a matter of the merest unconcern. The parson was one of
the gentlefolk, nothing more. He made no claim of spiritual power. It was
not likely that they should invest him with it. They felt no need of him
in death, any more than they had throughout their lives. Indeed, they had
all along been taught that it was the special birthright of an Englishman
to die as independently as he had lived. It must be owned, therefore,
that, as far as they were concerned, no privation was experienced nor any
practical loss occasioned by the circumstance that only one Protestant
minister was appointed in the colony during six years, and for another six
years only two.

How different the case of the Catholic portion of the convicts! For them
to be deprived of priestly ministration was a loss all but irreparable.
The clear and rigid dogmatism of the church places the three future states
of existence before her children with a positiveness and reality which the
mysterious power of evil may enable them to brave, but never to ignore.
The intermediate state of temporal punishment forbids the most loaded with
crimes to abandon hope, even at the moment of dissolution. But for this
salvation the sacraments are ordinarily essential, of which the priests,
and only the priests, are the dispensers. To deprive, thus, of priestly
ministrations those poor creatures who stood most in need of them, to drag
them to despair and final impenitence—the only sin from whose guilt the
sacraments are powerless to rescue the sinner—was a cruelty which would
have been diabolical if it had been intentional.

About ten years after the settlement of the colony, the number of Catholic
convicts was greatly increased by large deportations from Ireland after
the unsuccessful insurrection of 1798. But they were a very different
class of men from ordinary convicts. They were superior to the ordinary
political derelicts. If the most brutal and insulting tyranny that ever
goaded a people to rebellion can justify an insurrection against
established authorities, that justification they had to the full. Those
Irish exiles of ’98 were no more criminal than the ministry that arraigned
them or the judges who pronounced their doom. The finer sensibilities of
these men had not been blunted nor their domestic affection stifled by low
associations and long habits of crime. They were, for the most part, men
of blameless manners, and of a people remarkable for virtue. To such men
the rude snapping asunder of the fondest heart‐ties, the being dragged
away for ever from the old spot of home, endeared by all blissful and
innocent memories, from the familiar scenes, the beloved faces, the
cherished friends, the heart‐owned relatives, young and aged, from the
graves of their ancestors, and the country of their birth, to be shipped
off as criminals to the uttermost parts of the earth, with their country’s
deadly enemies for their jailers, must have been a fate from which death
would have been hailed as a deliverer. To deprive those unfortunate
patriots of the consolations and benedictions of their religion was indeed
to make them empty the cup of sorrow to its bitterest dregs. In the year
1829, about forty years after the commencement of transportation from
Ireland, they numbered nearly ten thousand souls. Yet, we are informed by
Mr. Therry,


    “up to that time they were dependent solely on such ministrations
    as could be rendered by a single priest, and for a considerable
    portion of that period there was no priest in the colony.”


How different would have been the organization of the expedition, how far
different its results, if the church had still owned England’s heart, and
her statesmen had been Catholics! The most worldly and ill‐living of such
would not have dreamed of equipping a colony without making full provision
for the celebration of Christian worship and the ministrations of the
church. It would have been their first care. Had they designed to make the
colony subservient to the noble object of reforming those unfortunates
whom society had cast out of its pale, nothing would have been advertently
left undone to bring all the salutary influences of religion to bear upon
them, and to place at their service every one of its supernatural aids.
What is the church, in her actual working in the affairs of men, but a
divinely organized reformatory system? Now a fundamental principle of that
system is that forgiven crime is buried out of sight and out of mind. When
the minister of the divine pardon has opened the doors of the eternal
prison, and has stricken off the deadly fetters from the self‐condemning
penitent, he who was just now kneeling at his side in bonds and death,
together with all the crimes he has committed, are alike forgotten by him.
He is to him quite a new and other man. And with the Christian benediction
he sends him forth reinvested with the royalty of his birth and his
consanguinity to God, to mingle, mayhap, if he correspond to the grace
given, with the most virtuous on the earth, as though he had never broken
its peace or given scandal to his brethren. Men are what their religion
makes them. And no Catholic statesman would have sent out a convict colony
to a distant shore without providing for such as would be reformed a
destination where the past might be at once forgotten and repaired. The
angels of the Gospel, inflamed with the noblest charity that ever dawned
over the everlasting hills on an ice‐bound world, would have been scarcely
ever absent from the prison cells, never weary of importuning their
inmates to save themselves, and to reclaim their place amongst their
fellows by a reformation which would at the same time restore them to
their hopes as immortal men. Far from permitting to them every license of
lust, and the indulgence of every criminal passion which did not interfere
with jail discipline; by their moral reformation, and by it alone, would
they have attempted their reformation as citizens. They would have been
ever at hand to aid them with priestly counsels and the supernatural grace
of the sacraments in those frequent falls and relapses of which nearly
every history of reformation consists. And those who were sufficiently
reformed to be able to conform thenceforth to the easy standard of public
virtue would have found, in the new career to which they were committed,
precisely the same divine system, with its supernatural aids and
exhaustless charities ready to carry on in their behalf the work of
restoration, through the love of man, to the reward of God.

Even in the case of those pitiable beings, in whose crime‐clogged souls
the loving accents of religion appeared to awake no echoes, never would
the indiscriminating and wholesale torture of the lash have been summoned
to its unholy and brutalizing work to deepen still more their moral
degradation and place their reformation for ever out of hope. Restrained
as they were from doing further mischief to society, the church, whose
heart, as of a human mother, yearns with most fondness towards the most
vicious of her children, would never have abandoned, still less have ill‐
treated, the poor outcasts. She would have hoped against hope. Nor would
she for one moment have ceased her importunities, her ministrations, and
her prayers, until final impenitence had taken away the unhappy beings for
ever from the counsels of mercy, or human obduracy had capitulated, at the
hour of death, to the exhaustless love of God.




The Veil Withdrawn.


Translated, By Permission, From The French Of Mme. Craven, Author Of “A
Sister’s Story,” “Fleurange,” Etc.



XXXIX.


The following day Lando, at an unusually early hour, entered the little
sitting‐room next my chamber where I commonly remained in the morning. He
looked so much graver than usual that I thought he had come to tell me
there was some obstacle in the way of his matrimonial prospects. But it
was once more of my affairs, and not of his, he wished to speak.

“Dear cousin,” said he without any preamble, “I come at this unusual hour
because I wish to see you alone. I have something important to tell you.”

“Something that concerns you, Lando?”

“No, it concerns you and Lorenzo.”

My heart gave a leap. What was he about to tell me? What new hope was to
be dashed to the ground?

“Great goodness!” said I, giving immediate utterance to the only object of
my mortal terror, “have you come to tell me Donna Faustina is at Naples,
and Lorenzo has left me again?”

“Donna Faustina? Oh! no. Would to heaven it were merely a question of her,
and that you had nothing more serious to apprehend on Lorenzo’s part than
another foolish journey, were she to lead him beyond the Black Sea! No, it
is not a question of your husband’s heart, which preoccupies you more than
he deserves, but of his property and yours.”

I breathed once more as I heard these words, and my relief was so visible
that Lando was out of patience.

“How singular and unpractical women are!” exclaimed he. “Here you are
apparently grown calm because I have reassured you on a point less
important in reality than the affair in question.”

“I ought to be the judge of that, ought I not, Lando?” said I gravely.

“Of course. I will not discuss their merits with you. But remember, my
dear cousin, if I am correctly informed, it is a question of losing all
you possess! Lorenzo has been playing to a frightful degree! He made such
good resolutions before me, as he was leaving Paris, that he does me the
honor of concealing himself as much from me as from you. He had gone quite
far enough before he went to Milan; but, since his return—influenced, I
suppose, by a mad wish of diverting his mind from other things, and
perhaps of repairing the breaches that had begun to alarm even him—he has
added stock‐gambling to the rest. Some one heard him say the other day
that he expected to triple his fortune, or lose all he possessed. One of
the two was indeed to happen. My dear cousin!... he has not tripled it,
and the other alternative is seriously to be feared.”

I listened with attention, but likewise with a calmness that was not
merely exterior.

“You do not seem to understand,” said he with more impatience than before,
“that you are in danger of losing everything you have? Yes,
_everything_!... What would you say, for example,” continued he, looking
around, “if you were to see all the magnificence that now surrounds you,
and to which you are accustomed, disappear; if this house and all the
precious objects it contains were to vanish for ever from your sight?”

“I should say.... But it is of little consequence what I should say or
think in such a case. For the moment nothing is lost, and, when our
lawsuit in Sicily is once gained, all fear of ruin will be chimerical.
Allow me, therefore, to decline meanwhile participating in your fears.”

“Yes, I know you are certain of gaining your cause, as it is in your
father’s hands. But if some radical change does not take place in
Lorenzo’s habits, the immense fortune that awaits him will share the fate
of that he has just squandered.”

“Therefore, Lando, as soon as the lawsuit is decided, I have formed the
plan of inducing him to undertake one of those long journeys to some
distant land, such as he has made so many of, and to take me with him. We
shall soon come to a region where cards are unknown, and where he will
never hear of dice, roulette, or of stocks.”

“Nor of Donna Faustina, either, eh, cousin?” said he, laughing. “But you
are not in earnest about banishing yourself in this way for an indefinite
period, leaving the civilized world, and sharing the life he leads in
these interminable journeys?”

“I shall not hesitate a single instant, I assure you,” replied I warmly.
“I shall esteem myself the happiest woman in the world if I can induce him
to accede to my wish.”

“Then,” replied he with emotion, “you can really save him; for he now
needs a powerful distraction, a complete and radical change, that will
really give a new turn to his whole life. Nothing less than this can save
him. But you are admirable, Cousin Ginevra, it must be confessed.”

“Wherein, Lando, I beg? In the course of a year you will consider my
conduct very natural, and I hope Teresina will be of the same opinion.”

“Perhaps so. But I assure you I intend to take a very different course
from Lorenzo. I have done many foolish things, heaven knows; but there is
a limit to everything, and I hope never to follow his example.”

“Enough, Lando; you hurt my feelings and distress me.”

He stopped, and soon after went away, leaving me preoccupied with what he
had told me, though I was not troubled. Oh! what life, what repose, I
found in the secret love that had been made manifest to me! The excitement
of my first moment of transport had died away, but I had not become
indifferent. I clearly saw the gathering clouds. I felt I was surrounded
by dangers of all kinds; but I had nothing of the vague fear often
produced by anxiety with respect to the future. What could happen to me?
What tempests, what dangers, had I to fear with the clear, unmistakable
assurance of an unfailing support, constant assistance, and a love ever
faithful and vigilant, and more tender than any human affection—a love
that _is infinite_, which no earthly love can be? We sleep in peace on the
stormiest sea when we are sure of the hand that guides us. How much more
when we know that hand controls the waves themselves, and can still them
at its will!

This conversation with Lando only served to increase my desire to leave
Naples, and it was with real joy I saw the day of our departure arrive at
last. I was joyfully making my preparations at an early hour in my room,
which Lorenzo very seldom entered now, when he suddenly made his
appearance. Of course I was doubly moved. But as soon as I glanced at his
pale, agitated face, I knew he had come to impart some terrible news. But
I only thought of what Lando had communicated, and exclaimed:

“Speak without any fear, Lorenzo. I have courage enough to hear it all.”

But when he replied, it was my turn to grow pale; I uttered a cry of
anguish, and fell at his feet, overcome with horror and grief.

My father was no more! At the very hour when he was arranging the final
documents for his cause, on the very spot where he so long kept me at his
side, he had fallen dead. No one was with him. At the sound of his fall
the old servant, who always remained in the next room, hurried to his
assistance, but in vain. Nothing could recall him to life!

This blow was terrible—terrible in itself and in its effect on my hopes.
In the first place, it put an immediate stop to all my new plans. Lorenzo
felt it more necessary than ever to go to Sicily, but now absolutely
refused to take me with him. He did not seem to understand how I could
desire to go. In his eyes, the sole motive for such a journey no longer
existed. I should now only expose myself to the most harrowing grief,
which it was his duty to spare me. I did not dare insist on going, for
fear of irritating him at a moment when the very pity I inspired might
increase the dawn of returning affection I thought I discovered. Besides,
I had but little time for reflection. Only a few hours intervened between
the arrival of this fatal news and Lorenzo’s departure, which left me
alone, abandoned to my grief and the bitterness of a disappointment I had
not anticipated in the least, mingled with the remembrance of Lorenzo’s
inexplicable farewell!

It was evident he attributed my tears solely to filial emotion. I had seen
him go away so many times without shedding any, that he had no reason to
suppose his departure this time caused them to flow almost as much as the
calamity that had befallen me. He even seemed surprised that I should
insist on accompanying him to the boat and remaining with him till the
last minute.

He had no idea how I longed to be permitted to forgive him on my knees;
how I wished to implore permission to aid him in breaking the fearful
bonds that fettered his noble faculties; to tear off, so to speak, the
mask that seemed to change the very expression of his face! Oh! how I
longed to save him. How I longed to bring this soul, so closely linked
with mine, to itself! The strong desire I once felt, that had been
extinguished by jealousy, frivolity, and temptation, now sprang up again
with a new force that was never to be destroyed. I was ready for any
sacrifice in order to have it realized—yes, even for that of knowing my
sacrifice for ever ignored! Not that I did not aspire to win his heart
once more! It belonged to me by the same divine right that had given mine
to him. I wished to claim it, and I felt that this desire, however ardent
it might be, by no means diminished the divine flame within that now
kindled all my desires—those of earth as well as those of heaven!

He did not, alas! have any suspicion of all this. And yet, when I raised
my eyes in bidding him farewell, he perhaps saw the look of affection and
sorrowful regret I was unable to repress; for he looked at me an instant
with an expression which made me suddenly thrill with hope! One would have
almost said an electric spark enabled our souls to comprehend each other
without the aid of words. But this moment was as fleeting as that
spark—more transitory than the quickest flash that leaves the night as
dark as before!

His face became graver than ever; his brow more gloomy and anxious, as if
some terrible thought had been awakened. He continued to gaze at me, as he
put up the little straw hat I wore, and, pushing back my hair with the
caressing air of protection once so familiar, he kissed my forehead and
cheek, and, pressing me a moment against his heart, he uttered these
strange words: “Whatever happens, I wish you to be happy, Ginevra. Promise
me you will!...”

I had been at home a long time, and seen the last trace of smoke from the
steamboat disappear between Capri and the coast beyond Sorrento, without
having resolution enough to leave that side of the terrace which commanded
the most distant view of the sea. I remained with my eyes fastened on the
horizon, looking at the waves, agitated by the mournful sirocco, whose
dull, sad moans afar off add so much to the gloom felt at Naples when the
bright sun and blue sky are obscured. Elsewhere bad weather is nothing
surprising, but at Naples it always astonishes and creates anxiety, as if
it were abnormal, as the sudden gravity of a smiling face affects and
alarms us more than that of one naturally austere.

I remained, therefore, in my seat, dwelling on my recent hopes, my sudden
disappointment and its distressing cause, on Lorenzo’s departure without
me, his look, his mysterious words, and his affectionate manner as he bade
me farewell.

Oh! why, at whatever cost, had I not gone with him? And then I followed
him in thought to the dear place I was never to behold again—to the old
palace at Messina where I had passed my childhood, happy and idolized,
under the eye of her who always seemed to me like some heavenly vision.
Beside her I saw my father—“my beloved father.” I uttered these last words
aloud, looking, with eyes full of tears, towards the wild gloomy sea that
separated me from him in death as it had in life.

At that instant I heard Lando’s voice beside me. He had approached without
my hearing him. He had a kind heart that redeemed many of his faults, and
had come to pity and console me in his way.

“My poor cousin! I am over‐whelmed.... What a frightful, irreparable
misfortune! I feel as if it concerned me almost as much as you.”

After a moment’s pause he continued:

“And what is to be done now? In three days that great trial is to take
place and your cause is to be decided! What advocate, good heavens! can be
found that can, I will not say equal, but replace, the able and
illustrious Fabrizio dei Monti?”



XL.


The first days of mourning, anxiety, and expectation were spent almost
entirely alone. I only left the house to go to the convent, and saw no one
at home but Stella and my aunt, who, though she resembled her brother but
little, loved him tenderly, and was inconsolable at his loss.

A week passed by, and I began to be surprised at not having received any
news from Lorenzo. The lawsuit must be over. It was time for him to
return, or, at least, for me to receive a letter from him. But none had
come, and I remained in this state of suspense a length of time that was
inexplicable. At last I received two lines written in haste, not from him,
but from my brother:

“I shall arrive the day after this note, and will then tell you
everything. Do not lose courage.

“MARIO.”

Lando was present when this note arrived, and I read it aloud.

“O heavens!” he exclaimed, “you have lost your cause! That is evident. He
tells you so plainly enough!... And I cannot see what he can have worse to
tell you.”

He kept on talking for some time, but I did not listen to him. I read the
note over and over again. Why had not Lorenzo written? Why was Mario
coming, and why did he not say Lorenzo was to accompany him? Why did he
not even mention his name?... I did not dare acknowledge to myself the
terrible fear that passed through my mind; but I recalled his mysterious
words, his look, his voice, and his whole manner when he bade me farewell,
and everything assumed an ominous look. A possibility flashed across my
mind which I did not dare dwell on for fear of losing my reason, and, with
it, the blessed remembrance that was the only support of my life! I
suffered that night as I had not suffered since the hours of grief and
remorse that followed the death of my mother!

The next day, at a late hour, I at last perceived the boat from Sicily
slowly coming up the bay, struggling against a violent out‐wind; for,
after a long continuation of fine weather, now came a succession of
dismal, stormy days, such as often cast a gloom over the end of spring at
Naples. My first impulse was to go to meet Mario at the landing; but I
changed my mind, and concluded to remain at home, that I might be alone
when I should receive the news he was bringing me.

I found it difficult, however, to control my impatience, for I had to wait
nearly an hour longer. But at last I heard his step on the stairs; then my
door opened, and he made his appearance. What I experienced when I saw he
was really alone showed to what an extent I had flattered myself Lorenzo
would return with him. I gazed at him without stirring from my seat,
without the strength to ask a single question. He came to me, took me in
his arms with more tenderness than he had ever shown in his life, and when
he kissed me I saw his eyes were filled with tears.

“Lorenzo! Where is Lorenzo?” I exclaimed as soon as I could speak.

“Be calm, sister,” said he—“be calm, I beg of you.... I will tell you the
whole truth without the slightest evasion.”

“But before anything else, tell me where Lorenzo is, and why he did not
come with you.”

“Ginevra, I cannot tell you, for I do not know yet. I am quite as ignorant
as you what has become of him.”

At this reply the beating of my heart became so violent that I thought I
should faint away; but I struggled to overcome the anguish that seized me,
and said in a hoarse voice:

“At least, tell me all you know, Mario, without delay or reticence.”

Mario drew from his pocket a letter carefully sealed, but still seemed to
hesitate about giving it to me. But I recognized the writing, and cut
short all explanation by snatching it from his hands, and ran to a seat in
the most retired corner of the room, where I could read it at my ease, and
my brother could not guess its contents by my face till it should suit me
to communicate them.

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

“Ginevra, you will doubtless have learned, before opening this letter,
that I have lost my cause—in other words, that I am ruined, irrevocably
ruined. I had a presentiment of this when the only one who could bring it
to a favorable issue was taken away by death at the critical moment; and
when I embraced you at my departure, I felt convinced I was bidding you
adieu for ever.... Whatever I may be, this word will no doubt startle you.
Though the loss of a very bad husband is by no means irreparable, you will
shudder, I am sure, at the thought of all so desperate a state of affairs
may render me capable of, and the most fearful of extremities has already
crossed your mind, I have no doubt. Well, you are not wrong. I confess it
was my intention, and you may be glad to know it was _you_ who caused me
to change it. Yes, Ginevra, the thought of you occurred to my mind, and I
was unwilling to add another horrible remembrance to those I had already
left you, and render a catastrophe, already sufficiently terrible, still
more tragical. It would, however, have restored you to liberty, and
permitted your young life to resume its course and find a happiness I can
no longer promise you. This thought furnished an additional reason to all
those suggested by despair; but the sweet, suppliant look you gave me, the
inexplicable, celestial expression you wore when we separated, arrested
me. The remembrance of that look still haunts me. What did you wish to say
to me, Ginevra? What had you to ask me? What could be the prayer that
seemed to hover on your lips! I can repair nothing now. The past is no
longer in my power, and the future is blighted. The captivating charm of
your beauty has not been powerful enough to enable me to overcome myself.
It is now too late, as you see yourself. All is over. My faults have led
to the most fatal consequences. I have only to endure them, whatever they
may be. I resign myself to the struggle, then. The very word stimulates
me, for to struggle is to labor, and work I love to excess! Why did I not
give my whole soul up to it instead of other things! Ah! if the past could
only be restored!... But let us return to the present. I will work, then;
yes, work, Ginevra, _to gain my livelihood_. However great a sybarite I
have appeared, and am, I am equal to it. I can and will labor, but far
from you—separated from you. Thanks to your brother’s generosity and the
means still at my disposal, which will be communicated to you, this great
reverse will entail no privation on you. This is my only hope, my only
comfort; for, after having clouded the fairest portion of your life, to
invite you to participate in the bitterness of my misfortunes would make
me despise myself and fill me with despair. Be happy, therefore, if you do
not wish me to put an end to my life. And now _adieu_. This word is used
for a brief absence, for the separation of a day. What will be the length
of ours?... A lifelong one, apparently.... May my life be short, that I
may not long deprive you of your freedom!

“Ginevra, you are young, you are beautiful. You are calculated to love and
please, and, however unfaithful and inconstant I have been, I am jealous!
But I leave you without fear, under the protection of that something
mysterious and incomprehensible within you that is a safeguard to your
youth and beauty! I have forfeited the right to love and protect you, but
I know and venerate you as a holy, angelic being. Ginevra, I ought to say,
I wish I could say, forgive me; but that word is vain when it is a
question of the irreparable. I shall do better, then, to say—forget me!

LORENZO.”

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

While I was reading this letter with eager interest, Mario remained in the
place where I left him, his face buried in his hands, absorbed in sad
reflections. I approached him. He instantly looked up.

“Well, sister,” said he anxiously, “have you any idea from this letter
where Lorenzo has gone?”

“No.”

“No?... And yet you look calm and relieved. What other good news could
there be in the letter?”

What good news!... I was really embarrassed to know what reply to make to
his question. I was relieved, to be sure. My heart beat with a certain
joy, but it would not do to say so; nor could I have made Mario comprehend
the reason, for nothing, in fact, could be more serious than my position.

“No good news,” I replied. “His letter contains nothing cheering,
assuredly, for it announces the loss of his lawsuit, which your note had
prepared me for. And Lorenzo seems to bid me an eternal fare‐well, as if
he imagined I should allow him to separate my life entirely from his! That
remains to be decided. But in order to know what I ought to do, you must
tell me everything that has happened, Mario, without any restriction.”

Mario had hoped to be able to avoid telling me the whole truth, but at
this appeal made no further attempt at concealment, and was grateful to me
for the courage which lightened so painful a duty.

Lorenzo arrived at Messina, persuaded in advance that my father’s death
was the signal of his ruin. But when the cause was decided against him, he
remained apparently very calm. During the evening he had a long
conversation with Mario, in which he occupied himself in making
arrangements that would secure my comfort, placing at my disposal all he
had left, and accepting the generous offer of my brother, who now refused
to profit by the renunciation of my right to a portion of my father’s
property which I had made at the time of my marriage. Lorenzo, during this
conversation, repeatedly expressed the desire this storm might pass over
my head without affecting me.

The following morning Mario received a package containing the substance of
this conversation, regularly signed and sealed, and a sealed letter
addressed to me, without any other explanation. My brother waited till the
hour appointed by Lorenzo the night before for a meeting, but he did not
make his appearance; and when Mario went in search of him, he learned he
had taken his departure in the night without leaving any trace of the
direction he had taken. Two boats had left Messina during the night, one
for the Levant, and the other for America. But, notwithstanding all the
precautions taken by Lorenzo to prevent any one from knowing which way he
had gone, Mario thought he had embarked on the latter of these two boats.

Lorenzo had ordered the steward that had always been in his employ to aid
my brother in the execution of his wishes and whatever was to be done in
consequence, either in Sicily or Naples. But he had not revealed to him,
any more than to me or my brother, his personal affairs, or the place to
which he was going.

After listening to this account with the utmost attention, I requested
Mario to leave me alone a few hours, that I might reflect on all I had
heard, and consider at my leisure what course I ought to pursue. I felt
indeed the need of collecting my thoughts in solitude and silence; but
above all ... oh! above all! I longed to be alone, that I might fall on my
knees and bless God!

Yes, bless him with transport! The fear, the horrible, intolerable fear,
that had taken hold of my mind, was for ever removed by the contents of
Lorenzo’s letter. Regret, if not repentance, for his faults was betrayed
in every line he wrote. The manly energy of his character, too, was
manifest throughout. As to what related to me, I felt touched, and more
proud of the tender, confiding, respectful interest he expressed, than of
all the passionate fervor of his former language. And I blessed heaven for
not being unworthy of it. Finally, finally, the words, “I will work to
gain my livelihood,” made my heart leap with joy; for I saw it put an end
to the dangerous, indolent, pernicious life of the past, and held out a
hope of regeneration and salvation—a salvation physical, moral, present,
future, eternal! It really seemed impossible to feel such a hope could be
paid for too dearly!

I remembered, however, that I should have to discuss my affairs with
Mario, and perhaps with Lando also, whose heart was extremely moved by
this catastrophe; and I endeavored, before meeting them again, to moderate
a joy that would have appeared inexplicable, and, at the very time when I
was more reasonable than I had ever been in my life, would have rendered
me in their estimation extravagant in my notions, and without any
practical sense as to the things of the world.



XLI.


When I saw Mario again, therefore, I thanked him affectionately for his
generosity, but declared I would not accept the restoration of the
inheritance I had renounced at the time of my marriage with the Duca di
Valenzano. Livia had done the same on entering the convent. Mario was, and
should remain, my father’s only heir. I was determined not to allow any
change in this arrangement. I had great difficulty in overcoming his
resistance; and when I could not help remarking that the sacrifices which
awaited me would cost me but little, he stopped me by saying I had not yet
made the trial, and insisted I should take no immediate resolution with
regard to the matter.

“Very well,” said I, “if it is your wish, we will discuss the point at a
later day. Let us confine our attention for the moment to what is of much
more importance. You know very well we cannot long remain ignorant where
Lorenzo is, and as soon as we know I shall go to him.”

“Go to him?”

“Do you doubt it?”

Mario looked at me with surprise, and was silent for an instant. Then he
said:

“Sister, Lorenzo’s conduct has been so notorious that, notwithstanding the
solicitude I acknowledge he manifested for you at our last interview, no
one would be astonished at your remaining among your friends and availing
yourself of the means he has used to deliver you from the consequences of
his folly.”

“Accept this beautiful villa, which he wishes to except from the sale of
his property?... Surround myself with the comforts you have together
provided me with, and leave him—him!—alone, poor, struggling against the
difficulties of beginning a new life?... Really, Mario, if you believe I
would consent to this, it is a proof that, though you are less severe than
you once were to your poor little sister, you are not altogether just to
her.”

Mario took my hand, and kissed it with emotion.

“Pardon me, Ginevra; I confess I did not think you were so generous or so
courageous!”

Courageous!... I was not so much so as he thought. A hope had risen in my
heart which would have rendered poverty itself easy to endure, and even in
such a case I should not have been an object of pity. But here there was
no question of poverty. My sight was clearer than that of Mario or Lando,
and I was, in fact, more sensible than either of my two advisers. It was
only a question, at most, of a temporary embarrassment. Lorenzo’s land,
the valuable objects accumulated in his different houses, and the sale of
all my diamonds, would suffice, and more than suffice, to fill the pit dug
by his extravagance, however deep it might be. Besides, his talents alone,
as soon as he chose to turn them to account, excluded all fear of actual
poverty. The mere name of _Lorenzo_ with which he signed all his
productions had long been familiar to the art‐world, and consequently he
would not be obliged to strive for a position.

It was merely a question, therefore, of the relinquishment of all this
display, this magnificence, this overwhelming profusion of superfluities,
and all the luxuries of life that now surrounded me. Ah! I did not dare
tell them what I thought of such _sacrifices_! I did not dare speak of my
indifference, which greatly facilitated their task, however, and still
less did I dare reveal the cause, for fear of being accused of madness,
and that at a time when they should have considered it a proof of the
beneficial effects of supernatural influences on ordinary life. I
contented myself, therefore, with merely explaining the reason why my
situation seemed to me by no means desperate. They were relieved to see me
take things in such a way, and from that moment the necessary changes, so
painful, in their estimation, were undertaken without any delay, though
without haste, without fear, without concealment, and all the so‐called
great sacrifices began to be accomplished.

It would be difficult to render an account of all I experienced during the
following days and weeks. All I can say is that I felt as if my shackles
and barriers one by one were removed, and at every step I breathed a purer
air!... Does this mean I had become a saint, aspiring to heroic sacrifices
and utter renunciation? Assuredly not. I repeat it, I could have no
illusion of this kind. I clearly comprehended that this catastrophe, which
seemed so terrible to others, which Lorenzo considered beyond my strength
to bear, and would have thrown him into an excess of despair, only tore
off the brilliant exterior of my life. But I had often experienced a
confused, persistent desire at various times and places to be freed from
this outer husk, and I now began to understand a thousand things that
heretofore had been inexplicable in the bottom of my soul.

The magnificence that surrounded me belonged, however, to my station, and
all this display was not without reason or excuse; but I felt it impeded
my course, and, as a pious, profound soul(180) has said of happiness
itself, in striving to attain the true end, it only served to _lengthen
the way_!

There was, then, neither courage nor resignation in this case. I was
reasonable and satisfied, as every human being is who in an exchange feels
he has gained a thousand times more than he has lost! The only anxiety I
now felt was to discover the place to which Lorenzo had betaken himself. I
did not in the least believe he had gone either to the Levant or America,
but every means seemed to have been used by him to defeat our efforts to
discover him. One of the two boats that left Messina the night of his
departure was to touch at Marseilles on the way. Reflection and instinct
both assured me he had proceeded no further, but from that place had gone
where he could most easily resume his labors and begin his new life. In
this respect Rome or Paris would have equally suited him, but it seemed
improbable he had returned to Italy. It was therefore to Paris I directed
my search, and I wrote Mme. de Kergy to aid me in finding him.

Perhaps I should have hesitated had Gilbert been at home; but he was
absent, absent for a year, and before his return I should have time to
reflect on the course I ought to pursue, perhaps ask the advice of his
mother herself, to whom, meanwhile, I made known my present situation, my
wishes, my projects, and the extreme anxiety to which I hoped with her
assistance to put an end.

It was not long before I received a reply, and it was much more favorable
than I had ventured to hope. Her large, affectionate heart seemed not only
to comprehend fully what I had merely given her an outline of, but to have
penetrated to the bottom of mine, and divined even what I had not
attempted to say. I felt I had in her a powerful support. Her inquiries
were promptly and successfully made, and the result was what I had
foreseen. Lorenzo was really in Paris, in an obscure corner of the
Faubourg Saint‐Germain. He had narrow quarters adjoining a large studio,
where he had already begun to work. “His celebrity is too great for him to
remain long concealed,” wrote Mme. de Kergy; “besides, the very thing he
is aiming at would prevent all possibility of his remaining long
incognito. Several of his friends have already found him out and called to
see him, but he has only consented to receive one of them, whose counsels
and assistance are indispensable. This gentleman is also a friend of ours.
I have learned through him that as soon as your husband gets under way in
his work, he intends to enter into communication with those he has left,
and probably with you, my dear Ginevra; but he persists in his intention
of remaining by himself, and not allowing you to share his lot. He thinks
he has arranged everything so you can continue to live very nearly the
same as before, with the exception of his presence, which, he says, he has
done nothing to make you desire. You will have some difficulty in
overcoming his obstinacy in this respect; you will find it hard to induce
one who is so sensible of his wrongs towards you to accept the heavy
burden of gratitude. All the sacrifices he imposes on himself will cost
him far less than to consent to those you are so ready to make for him.
Men are all so. Be patient, therefore; be prudent, and have sufficient
thoughtfulness and feeling to manifest your generosity in such a way that
he will perceive it as little as possible....”

It was the easier to follow Mme. de Kergy’s advice that the course she
wished me to pursue would be strictly sincere. I wrote him, therefore,
without affectation or restraint, what my heart dictated, but I wrote in
vain; my first and second letters remained unanswered. The third drew
forth a reply, but it contained a refusal of my wishes which betrayed all
the motives indicated by my aged friend. Alas! to make others accept
forgiveness is often a thousand times more difficult than to obtain it
ourselves!

I was not discouraged, however. I made preparations for my departure, as
if he had sent for me, and I awaited impatiently the time, without the
least doubt as to its arrival, determined to find some means of hastening
it, should the delay be too much prolonged.



XLII.


While so much apparent, as well as real, gloom was gathering around my
path, there was no diminution in the interior brightness of my soul; which
was only manifested, however, by an activity, and at the same time
tranquillity, that greatly surprised my brother and all my friends,
especially my aunt, whose agitation was extreme.

I will not say that Donna Clelia felt in the least that pleasure at the
misfortunes of others attributed by a great satirist to all mankind, but
the change in our respective situations which now afforded her an
opportunity of pitying and protecting instead of envying me, was by no
means displeasing to her pride or kindness of heart.

She offered me the most unlimited hospitality. She wished to establish me
in her _palazzo_ on the Toledo, and give up the largest of her spacious
drawing‐rooms to my sole use. She did not comprehend how I could remain in
my house when it was being stripped of all the magnificence that had
placed me, in her eyes, on the very pinnacle of happiness. But I refused
to the last to leave my chamber and the terrace, with its incomparable
view, the privation of which I should have felt more than anything else. I
remained, therefore, in the corner (a very spacious one, however) of my
beautiful home I had reserved for myself, encouraged by Stella, who,
without surprise or wonder, comprehended my motives, and assisted me in
making preparations for my departure. She always brought Angiolina with
her, which added to our enjoyment; for she continually hovered around,
enlivening us with her prattle. So, in spite of the sadness of my
position, I was able, without much effort, to rise above my dejection and
gloom.

Weeks passed away, however, and, though I had not renounced the hope of
overcoming Lorenzo’s obstinacy, I began to grow impatient, and was
thinking of starting without his consent; for it seemed to me, when once
near him, he could not refuse to see me. This uncertainty was the most
painful feature of my present situation, and the rainy season, meanwhile,
added its depressing influence to all the rest. But to disturb my peace of
mind and diminish my courage would have required a trial more severe and
painful than that.

The sky once more became clear, and we were at length able to return to
the terrace, from which we had so long been banished by the rain. The
clumps of verdure in the garden, the perfume of the flowers, the blueness
of the mountains, sea, and sky—in short, all nature seemed to atone by her
unusual brilliancy for having been so long forced to veil her beautiful
face. But Stella, instead of being charmed and transported, as usual, with
the prospect, looked gravely and silently around for some time, then, with
a sudden explosion of grief, threw herself on my neck.

“Ginevra, what will become of Angiolina and me when you are gone?... Ah! I
ought to love nobody in the world but her!”

She sat down on one of the benches on the terrace, and took up the child,
who had not left us an instant during the day, to play, as she usually
did. And when Angiolina, with her eyes full of tears, begged her to
prevent her dear Zia Gina from going away, all Stella’s firmness gave way
for an instant, and she burst into tears.

Oh! how strongly I then felt, in my turn, the difference there is between
the sacrifice of exterior objects and the interior sacrifices that rend
the soul! The infinite love that tempers all the sufferings of this world
exempts no one from these trials. I might even say it increases them, for
it enlarges the capacity of our affection and pity: it makes us fully
realize what suffering is, and gives it its true meaning.

I could not, therefore, look at Stella in her present mood without being
overcome by a sadness I had never felt before at the thought of our
separation. Her tears, which she was generally so well able to suppress,
continued to flow, as she rocked her child in silence. She remained thus
without uttering a word, even in reply to my questions, until little
Angiolina, after quietly weeping a long time, fell into a heavy, profound
sleep in her mother’s arms.

It was the first time I had ever known Stella to lose courage. Mine failed
me at the sight, and this hour—the last we were to pass together on the
terrace so full of pleasant associations, and so often trod by Angiolina’s
little feet—this hour was sad beyond all expression, and in appearance
beyond all reason. The serenity of the soul, like the sky of Italy, is
thus obscured at times by clouds that trouble and afflict the more because
the light they veil is habitually so bright and serene! Neither Stella nor
I, however, were disposed to believe in presentiments. Besides, our
sadness was too well founded to be surprising. Nevertheless, something
darker hovered over us than we foresaw at the moment: the morrow already
threw its gloom over this last evening!

The sun was going down. Stella suddenly started from her reverie and awoke
Angiolina. It was time to take her home. But the child’s eyes, generally
so bright, were now heavy. She hardly opened them when I approached to
embrace her. Her little mouth made a slight movement to return my kiss,
and she fell asleep again immediately. Her mother, surprised, and somewhat
alarmed at her unwonted languor, hastily wrapped a shawl around her to
protect her as much as possible from the evening air, and carried her
away.

The following day, of sorrowful memory, rose bright and radiant for me;
for when I awoke, I found a letter from Lorenzo awaiting me—a letter which
put an end to all my perplexities, and justified, beyond all my hopes, the
confidence with which I had expected it.

“Ginevra, you have prevailed. I venture at last to beg your forgiveness,
for your letters have inspired the hope of some day meriting it. I no
longer fear, therefore, to meet you again. Come! It is my wish. I am
waiting for you.

“LORENZO.”

These last lines contained the surest promise of happiness I had ever
received in my life, and I kissed them with tears. I longed to start that
very hour, and it will not seem surprising now that I looked around the
sumptuous dwelling I was about to leave for ever without regret, and even
at the enchanting prospect my eyes were never weary of gazing at! It was
by no means these exterior objects that inspired the deep, unalterable joy
of my soul. I did not owe to them the vision of happiness I thought I now
caught the first ray of. My only regret, therefore, was that I could not
start as soon as I wished. All my preparations were made, and I longed to
take my departure at once. But I had to wait three days before the first
boat on which I could embark would leave for Marseilles—a delay that
seemed so long! Alas! I was far from foreseeing how painful and short I
should find them!

Stella had passed every day with me for the last few weeks, and I now
awaited her arrival to communicate my joy. But the usual hour for her to
come had gone by. She did not appear. I was surprised at this delay, and,
instead of waiting any longer, I proceeded on foot to her house, which was
only at a short distance from mine. The previous evening had left me no
anxiety, and its sadness had been dispersed with the joy of the morning.

When I arrived, I found the door open. No servant was there to announce
me. I went through the gallery, a large drawing‐room, and a cabinet,
without meeting a person. At length I came to Stella’s chamber, where
Angiolina also slept in a little bed beside her mother’s. I entered....
Oh! how shall I describe the sight that met my eyes! How express all my
feelings of amazement, pity, affection, and grief!

My dear, unhappy Stella was seated in the middle of the room with her
child extended on her knees, pale, motionless, and apparently without
life!

She did not shed a tear; she did not utter a word. She raised an instant
her large eyes, which were unusually dilated, and looked at me. What a
look! O God! it expressed the grief that mothers alone can feel, and which
no other on earth can surpass!... I fell on my knees beside her. Angiolina
still breathed, but she was dying. She opened her beautiful eyes a
moment.... A look of recognition crossed them.... They turned from her
mother to me, and from me to her mother, and then grew dim. A convulsive
shudder ran over her, and it was all over. The angel was in heaven. The
mother was bereft, for this life, of her only child!...

                  ‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

The longest years cannot efface the memory of such an hour, and time,
which at last subdues all grief, never gave me the courage to dwell on
this. Mothers who have been pierced by such a sword cannot speak of it;
others dare not. The woman who has no child, in the presence of one who
has just lost hers, can only bend in silence and respect before the
sovereign majesty of grief!

I will merely state, with respect to what preceded, that the drowsiness of
the child the night before was a symptom of the violent malady which
suddenly attacked her in the middle of the night. After abating towards
day, it came on again an hour later, and kept increasing without any
relaxation to the end.

As for me, who had given Angiolina the place that had remained vacant in
my heart, the excess of my grief enabled me to form an estimate of hers
whose heart was filled with far greater anguish at being so suddenly
robbed of her all by death. I shuddered at the thought of a sorrow greater
than mine, and did not dare dwell on my own troubles in the presence of a
grief that cast into the shade all the sufferings I had ever witnessed
before. What a remedy for the imaginary or exaggerated woes of life it is
to suddenly be brought to witness the reality of the most terrible of
misfortunes!

What a price was I now to pay for the journey I had so long looked forward
to—the reunion I had longed for with so many prayers and obtained by so
many efforts!

To leave Stella in her affliction was a trial I had not anticipated, and
one which the most imperious duty alone could have induced me to consent
to. I had to do it, however, but not till I had succeeded in gratifying
the only remaining wish of her broken heart—“to leave the world for a few
months, that she might be alone, free to abandon herself entirely to the
dear, angelic memory of her lost joy....”

Stella uttered no complaint. Her grief was mute. But she had expressed
this desire, and it was granted. Livia obtained a place of retreat for her
in a part of her convent that was not cloistered. It was there I left her,
in the shadow of that sweet sanctuary, near the tenderest, strongest heart
she could have to lean on, in presence of the magnificent prospect before
her, and beneath the brilliant canopy of that glorious sky, beyond which
she could follow in spirit the treasure she had been deprived of, but
which she felt sure of some day finding again!



XLIII.


I was filled with solemn emotion when, having taken leave of my brother
and all the friends who had accompanied me on board, I at length found
myself alone with Ottavia on the deck of the boat, gazing at the receding
mountains, hills, villas, and the smiling, flowery shores of the Bay of
Naples as they vanished away. Two years had scarcely flown since the day
when this prospect met my eyes for the first time. But during this short
period so many different feelings had agitated my heart, and so many
events had crossed my path, that the time seemed as long as a whole life.

Joys and sorrows, ardent hopes and bitter deceptions, severe trials,
dangerous temptations, a deadly struggle, grace—to crown all! grace
luminous and wonderful—had all succeeded each other in my soul. And to all
these remembrances was now added the new sorrow which set on these last
days a mournful, heartrending seal! The death of a child, it is true,
would seem to the indifferent to seriously wound no heart but its
mother’s. Mine, however, bled profusely, and the sudden death of the
angelic little creature I had so much loved, as well as the separation
that so soon took place, cast an inexpressible gloom over the hour of
departure I had so eagerly longed for, and which I had obtained at the
price of sacrifices which till now had not seemed worthy of being counted.
Truly, the words already quoted do not apply less to earthly affections
than to the divine love that overrules them and includes them all: “There
is no living in love without some pain or sorrow.” This is indubitable.
The more tender the affection, the more exquisite the suffering it
entails. But by way of recompense, in proportion as these cruel wounds are
multiplied, the never‐failing supreme love affords a remedy by revealing
itself more and more fully, and thereby supplying the place of all these
vanished joys. This love alone assures the promise, the pledge, of their
restoration and immortal duration!

Therefore, whatever the sadness of this hour; whatever the desolation of
heart with which I gazed at the convent on yonder height where I had just
parted from Stella and my sister with so many tears—in short, whatever the
emotions of all kinds that seemed combined to overwhelm me, I felt, in
spite of them, I lived a truer, freer life than when for the first time,
surrounded with illusions and deceitful hopes, I crossed this bay in all
the intoxication of radiant happiness!

These thoughts, and many others of a similar nature, passed through my
mind while the boat was rapidly cleaving the waves, and little by little
the last outline of the coast of Italy faded away and finally disappeared
from my eyes for ever.

Night came on, the stars appeared, but I remained in the place where I
was, without being able to make up my mind to leave it.

This solitude of the sea—more profound than any other—speaks to the soul a
language peculiar to itself. I listened to it with undivided attention,
blessing God for having inclined me to hear his voice, to give heed to no
other during the period of inaction and repose which separated the portion
of my life just closed from that which was about to commence under new and
unknown circumstances.

I did not stop at Marseilles, for I was impatient to arrive at my
journey’s end. And yet, in spite of the summons I was now obeying, I was
not without anxiety as to the reception I should meet with. I knew the
mobility of Lorenzo’s feelings, and that the letter I had so recently
received from him was not a sure guarantee of the disposition in which I
should find him. In fact, when I met him on my arrival at the station, I
did not at first know what to think. He was pale, agitated, and gloomy,
and could scarcely hide the suffering his face expressed much more clearly
than joy at seeing me again. I felt the arm tremble on which I was
leaning, and I remained silent, confounded, and anxious. He hurried me
through the crowd, placed me in a carriage, made Ottavia take a seat
beside me, then closed the door with an air of constraint, saying he
wished to arrive before me.

At first I was astonished at finding myself so suddenly separated from
him, after barely seeing him for a moment. But I saw, by the embarrassment
and painful agitation he manifested, what was passing in his mind, and was
extremely affected. Poor Lorenzo! it was not in this way he had once led
his young bride beneath his roof. This was not the future he then took
pleasure in depicting, or what he had promised. The immense change of
fortune he had undergone was now for the first time to be realized by the
wife he had outraged, and from whom he did not dare expect an affection
which would overlook all and render every sacrifice light. I felt he
regretted now that he had consented to my coming.

After a long drive we at last came to the end of a street at the extremity
of the Faubourg Saint‐Germain, where we entered a small court, and the
carriage stopped before a door of very unpretending appearance.

But the house to which it gave access, covered on the outside with
climbing plants that concealed the reddish tint of the walls, had a
picturesque appearance seldom found in any house in Paris, large or small.
Lorenzo, with his artistic eye, had discovered it, and understood also how
it should be arranged interiorly. Consequently, when he ushered me into a
_salon_ opening into a little parterre filled with flowers, beyond which
rose the trees of an adjacent garden, which made it seem like some rural
solitude; when he took me all over the ground‐floor, where everything was
simple, but nothing vulgar; when on all sides I found evidences both of
his taste and his solicitude for me; above all, when I saw in his cabinet
and studio all the indications that he had resumed his habits of assiduous
labor and serious study, so great a joy filled my heart and beamed from my
eyes that he could no longer feel any doubt, and I saw the cloud that
veiled his brow totally disappear.

“Is it possible?... Is it true?” said he. “You are satisfied, Ginevra? And
I can welcome your presence without remorse?”

I was affected to tears.

“I assure you,” said I, with a sincerity of accent that could not be
mistaken, “this so‐called great catastrophe has only taken away the things
I did not care for: it gives me here all I love, and nearly everything I
desire.”

I looked at him hesitatingly, not yet knowing how far to go. But his look
inspired me with courage, and I continued, with emotion:

“Tell me, in your turn, that you regret nothing, that my presence
suffices, and I pledge you my word, Lorenzo, this hour will be the
happiest of my life.”

Instead of replying directly, he knelt down beside the little divan where
I was sitting, and I saw his eyes beaming with the expression that once
used to flash from them for an instant, not uncertain and transitory as
then, but calm, stable, and profound.

“Ginevra,” said he, “in assuring you to‐day that my reason has been
restored to me, that I have for ever recovered from my detestable
aberration, that I again look upon you as I did when you first effaced
every other image, that I love you as much, yes, a thousand times more
than ever, this is not saying enough, this is not telling you what you
would perhaps listen to far more gladly than all this.”

I opened my eyes and looked steadily towards him. He felt my soul was
trying to read his, and he continued in a low, agitated tone:

“You have made me love in you what is better than yourself. Listen to
me.... Long years of indifference had effaced the memory of divine things
I had been taught in my childhood. Did you think they could ever be
recalled? I had never felt the slightest desire. It is you, Ginevra, who
caused their return. Can you realize it?”

O my God! this hour was too happy for earth! It left me only one wish
more. It realized to the fullest extent all the cherished dreams of the
past, and made me touch at last the summit (alas! always threatening and
uncertain) of earthly happiness! No cloud has ever obscured the bright,
blessed remembrance! No suffering, no trial, has ever checked the effusion
of gratitude I still feel, and which will be eternal!

It will not be difficult to understand that, in this new state of things,
our life speedily and sweetly resumed its course. Strange to say, this
calm, simple life, exempt from splendor, luxury, and worldly _éclat_, was
the precise realization of the secret desire I had always cherished in my
soul, the signification of which had been revealed to me in that great day
of grace which I may call that of my _true birth_!

It would, therefore, have been an absurdity to speak of sacrifice in the
situation in which I now found myself. But Lorenzo did not yet see things
in the same light.

“I acknowledge,” said he one day, after some weeks had passed by—“I
acknowledge we lack nothing essential, that the waifs from our wreck even
afford us a comfortable support, but I wish more than that for you, my
Ginevra. I must work for the means of restoring all my folly has deprived
you of. The public receives my productions with marked favor. They have
all been sold at a fabulous price, except one which I will never part
with. Let me alone, therefore, and I promise you the day shall arrive when
I will place on your brow a diadem even more brilliant than the one you
have lost.”

I made a quick gesture, and was about to express the repugnance such a
prospect inspired. But I stopped. It was better, no matter in what way, he
should be stimulated by some object to be attained by the laborious
efforts to which he devoted all his faculties. I allowed him, therefore,
to dream of the jewels he would adorn me with, and enlarge on his plans
for the future, while I was sitting beside him in his studio, sometimes
reading to him, and sometimes becoming his model again. Whenever he spoke
in this way, I smiled without trying to oppose him.

Mme. de Kergy and Diana hastened to see me the day after my arrival. We
continued to meet almost daily, and I found in their delightful society
the strongest support, the wisest counsels, and an affection which
inspired almost unlimited confidence.

As to Gilbert, he was still absent, and not expected to return till the
autumn of the following year.

When his mother gave me this information, my first feeling was one of
relief. It seemed to me my relations with his family were simplified by
his absence, and I could defer all thought as to what I should do at his
return. But, when I saw my dear, venerable friend secretly wipe away a
tear as she spoke of her son; when she added in a trembling voice that
such a separation at her age was a severe trial which afflicted her more
than any she had ever known; when Diana afterwards came to tell me with a
full heart that Gilbert’s absence was shortening her mother’s days, oh!
then my heart sank with profound sorrow, and I felt an ardent, painful
desire to repair the evil I had caused—an evil which (whatever may be
said) is never altogether involuntary!

Ah! if women would only consider how far their fatal influence sometimes
extends, even those who add hardness of heart to their desire to please
would become indifferent to the wish. They scarcely hesitate sometimes to
sacrifice a man’s career, his abilities, his whole existence. Vanity and
pride take pleasure in ravages of this kind. But if their eyes could
behold the firesides they quench the light of, the maternal hearts they
sadden, the families whose sweet joys they destroy, their trophies would
seem bloody, and they might be brought to comprehend the words of the
Psalmist which I had humbly learned to repeat: _Ab occultis meis munda me,
et ab alienis parce servo tuo._

Lorenzo’s celebrity increased by the productions he now exhibited to the
public. The singularity of our position in returning to Paris, under
circumstances so different from those which surrounded us when we made our
first appearance in the _grand monde_, drew upon us the attention of this
very world which would have enticed us from our retreat. But, thank
Heaven! I did not have to exert my influence over Lorenzo to induce him to
decline it. His pride would have been sufficient, had not his whole time
been absorbed in his labors, and it was even with difficulty he consented
to accompany me one evening to the Hôtel de Kergy.

From that time, however, he willingly repeated his visits, attracted by
Mme. de Kergy’s dignified cordiality and simplicity of manner as well as
by the charm of the intellectual circle of which her _salon_ was the
centre—a charm he would have always appreciated had he not been under the
influence of another attraction. Now there was no counteracting influence,
and he took fresh pleasure every evening in going there to repose after
the fatigue of the day and seek something more beneficial to his mind than
mere recreation.

A person endowed with noble gifts, who returns to the right path after
long going astray, experiences an immense consolation in finding himself
in his true element. It would, therefore, be impossible to tell how great
Lorenzo’s joy now was, or how eloquently he was able to express it. And
nothing could express the feelings with which I listened to him!

The only shadow of my life at this time was my separation from Stella. A
thousand times did I urge her to join me, as she was no longer under any
obligation to remain at Naples. I felt that the only possible solace for
her broken heart would be to leave the place where she had suffered so
much; her courageous soul would find a salutary aliment in the great
charitable movement at Paris, at that time in all the vigor of its first
impulse, given a few years before. I therefore continually urged her to
come, but I begged her in vain. An invincible repugnance to leave the
place of refuge where she had hidden her grief prevented her from yielding
to my wishes.

Thus passed days, weeks, months, yes, even a whole year and more of
happiness. The satisfactory life I had dreamed of was now a reality, and
the world I once fancied I could reveal to Lorenzo unaided he had
discovered himself. It had been revealed to him by trials, humiliation,
and labor. The absolute change in his habits, which Lando had once
indicated as the only remedy, had, as he had foreseen, produced a
beneficial, efficacious, and lasting effect.

But we know one of the anomalies of the human heart is to expect and long
for happiness as its right, and yet to be incapable of possessing it a
single day in its plenitude without trembling, as if conscious it was not
in the nature of things here below for it to endure a long time.

Lorenzo experienced more than most people this melancholy of happiness,
which was often increased by too profound a regret for the errors of his
life. It partook of the vehemence of his character, and it was sometimes
difficult to overcome the sadness awakened by the remembrance of the past.

“Ginevra,” said he one day, “I am far too happy for a man who merits it so
little.”

He said this with a gloomy expression. It was the beginning of spring. The
air was soft, the sky clear, the lilacs of our little garden were in
bloom, and we sat there inhaling the perfume. He repeated:

“Yes, my life is now too happy—too happy, I feel, to be of long duration.”
A remark somewhat trite, which is often thrown like a veil over the too
excessive brightness of earthly happiness! But I could not repress a
shudder as I listened to it. And yet what was there to fear ... to desire
... to refuse ... when I felt the present and the future were in the hands
of Him whom I loved more than anything here below?

To Be Concluded Next Month.




A Bit Of Modern Thought On Matter.


We have now accomplished the first portion of our task, by establishing on
good philosophical and physical grounds the fundamental truths regarding
the essence and the properties of material substance as such. We might,
therefore, take up the second part of our treatise, and begin our
investigation about the nature of the metaphysical constituents of matter
and their necessary relations, in order to ascertain how far the
principles of the scholastic doctrine on matter can nowadays be maintained
consistently with the principles of natural science. But we think it
necessary, before we enter into the study of such a difficult subject, to
caution our readers against some productions of modern thinkers, whose
speculations on the nature of material things confound all philosophy, and
tend by their sophistry to popularize the most pernicious errors. The
number of such productions is daily increasing, owing to the efforts of
powerful societies, and the philosophical imbecility of the scientific
press and of its patrons. The heap of intellectual rubbish thus
accumulated, both in Europe and in America, is quite prodigious; to sweep
it all away would be like purging the Augean stable—a task which some new
Hercules may yet undertake. We shall confine ourselves to a small portion
of that task, by scattering to the winds some plausible quibbles we have
lately met with in an American scientific magazine.

J. B. Stallo is the author of a series of articles published in the
_Popular Science Monthly_ under the title “The Primary Concepts of Modern
Physical Science.” He is a clever writer; but his conclusions, owing to a
lack of sound philosophy, are not always correct. Some of them are
altogether unfounded, others demonstrably false; and many of them, while
attempting to revolutionize science, tend to foster downright scepticism.
We shall single out a few of those propositions which clash with the
common doctrines of modern physics no less than with the common principles
of metaphysics; and we hope to show, by their refutation, the incomparable
superiority of our old over his new philosophy.

_Indestructibility of matter._—“The indestructibility of matter,” says the
writer,(181) “is an unquestionable truth. But in what sense, and upon what
grounds, is this indestructibility predicated of matter? The unanimous
answer of the atomists is: Experience teaches that all the changes to
which matter is subject are but variations of form, and that amid these
variations there is an unvarying constant—the mass or quantity of matter.
The constancy of the mass is attested by the balance, which shows that
neither fusion nor sublimation, neither generation nor corruption, can add
to, or detract from, the weight of a body subjected to experiment. When a
pound of carbon is burned, the balance demonstrates the continuous
existence of this pound in the carbonic acid, which is the product of
combustion, and from which the original weight of carbon may be recovered.
The quantity of matter is measured by its weight, and this weight is
unchangeable.”

So far all is right; but he continues: “Such is the fact familiar to every
one, and its interpretation equally familiar. To test the correctness of
this interpretation we may be permitted slightly to vary the method of
verifying it. Instead of burning the pound of carbon, let us simply carry
it to the summit of a mountain, or remove it to a lower latitude; is its
weight still the same? Relatively it is; it will still balance the
original counterpoise. But the absolute weight is no longer the same....
It is thus evident that the constancy, upon the observation of which the
assertion of the indestructibility of matter is based, is simply the
constancy of a relation, and that the ordinary statement of the fact is
crude and inadequate. Indeed, while it is true that the weight of a body
is a measure of its mass, this is but a single case of the more general
fact that the masses of bodies are inversely as the velocities imparted to
them by the action of the same force, or, more generally still, inversely
as the accelerations produced in them by the same force. In the case of
gravity, the forces of attraction are directly proportional to the masses,
so that the action of the forces (_weight_) is the simplest measure of the
relation between any two masses as such; but in any inquiry relating to
the validity of the atomic theory, it is necessary to bear in mind that
this weight is not the equivalent, or rather the presentation, of an
absolute substantive entity in one of the bodies (the body weighed), but
the mere expression of a relation between two bodies mutually attracting
each other. And it is further necessary to remember that this weight may
be indefinitely reduced, without any diminution in the mass of the body
weighed, by a mere change of its position in reference to the body between
which and the body weighed the relation subsists.”

The aim of the author is, as we shall see, to prove that “there are and
can be no absolute constants of mass”; hence he endeavors at the very
outset to shake our opposite conviction by showing that there is no
absolute measure of masses. Such is the drift of the passage we have
transcribed.

But we beg to remark that absolute quantities may be known to be absolute
independently of any absolute measurement. Three kinds of quantity are
conceivable: intensive quantity, which is measured by _degrees_; dimensive
quantity, which is measured by _distances_; and numerical quantity, which
is measured by discrete _units_. Of course dimensive quantity is
altogether relative, inasmuch as it entirely consists of relations, and
cannot be measured but by relative and arbitrary measures; but intensive
quantity, though measured by arbitrary degrees, is altogether absolute,
because it consists of a reality whose value is independent of correlative
terms. And in the same manner numerical quantity is altogether absolute,
because it consists of absolute units, by which it can be measured,
absolutely speaking, though we may fail to reach such units, and are then
obliged to measure it by some other standard. Now, the mass, or the
quantity of matter in a body, is a numerical quantity; for it consists of
a number of primitive units, independent of one another for their essence
and for their existence, and therefore absolute in regard to their
substantial being. Consequently, every mass of matter has an absolute
value corresponding to the number of absolute units it contains; and thus
every mass of matter is “an absolute constant of mass.” It is true that we
have no means of ascertaining the absolute number of primitive units
contained in a given mass; hence we are constrained to measure the
quantity of matter by a relative measure—that is, by comparing it with an
equal volume of another substance, whose density and weight we assume as
the measure of other densities and weights. But does our ignorance of the
absolute number of primitive units contained in a given mass interfere
with their real existence? or, can our method of measuring change the
nature of the thing measured?

We are told that “the weight of a body may be indefinitely reduced without
any diminution in the mass of the body weighed.” Would not this show that,
contrary to the author’s opinion, the body weighed possesses “an absolute
constant of mass”? We are told at the same time that “the weight of a body
is a measure of its mass.” This cannot be true, unless, while the mass
remains unchanged, the weight also remains unchanged. Hence the author’s
idea of carrying the pound of carbon to the summit of a mountain in order
to diminish its weight, is inconsistent with the law of measurement, which
forbids the employment of two weights and measures for measuring one and
the same quantity.

The atomists measure the quantity of matter by its weight, because they
know that every particle of matter is subject to gravitation, and
therefore that the weights, all other things being equal, are
proportionate to the number of primitive particles contained in the
bodies. Thus, if a body contains a number, _m_, of primitive particles,
and each of these particles is subject to the gravitation, _g_, while
another body contains a number, _m´_, of primitive particles subject to
the same gravitation, the ratio of the weights of the two bodies will be
the same as the ratio of the two masses; for

_mg_ : _m´g_ : : _m_ : _m´_;

and if the two bodies were carried to the summit of a mountain, where the
gravitation is reduced to _g´_, the weights would indeed be changed, but
their ratio would remain unaltered, and we would still have

_mg´_ : _m´g´_ : : _m_ : _m´_.

Hence, whether we weigh two bodies in the valley or at the summit of the
mountain, so long as we keep the same unit of gravitation for both, the
ratio of their masses remains the same. This shows that the quantity of
matter existing in those bodies implies “a constant of mass” _independent_
of the intensity of gravitation, and that the ratio of the two masses is
the ratio of two “absolute” quantities—that is, of two numbers of
primitive material units.

It is not true, therefore, that the weight is not “the presentation of an
absolute substantive entity,” as the author pretends. Weight implies mass
and gravitation, and presents the one as subject to the other. Now, the
mass is an “absolute substantive entity,” as we have shown. Nor is it true
that weight is “the mere expression of a relation between two bodies
mutually attracting each other,” as the author imagines. The pound of
carbon is a pound not because of an attraction exercised by the carbon
upon the earth, but merely because of the attraction exercised by the
earth on the mass of the carbon. Were it otherwise, the mathematical
expression of weight should contain, besides the mass of the body weighed
and the action of gravity upon it, a third quantity representing the
action of the body upon the earth, and the gravitation of the earth
towards the body.

The writer proceeds: “Masses find their true and only measure in the
action of forces, and the quantitative persistence of the effect of this
action is the simple and accurate expression of the fact which is
ordinarily described as the indestructibility of matter. It is obvious
that this persistence is in no sense explained or accounted for by the
atomic theory” (p. 708).

We admit that, owing to our inability to determine the absolute number of
primitive elements in a body, we resort to the persistence of the weight
in order to ascertain the persistence of a certain quantity of matter in
the body. But this does not show that the action of forces is the “only
measure” of masses. A mass is a number of material units; its true measure
is _one of such units_, and it is only in order to determine the relative
number of such units in different bodies that we have recourse to their
weights. It is not the quantity of matter that follows the weight of the
body, but it is the weight of the body that follows the quantity of
matter; and therefore, although we determine the relative quantities of
matter by the relation of their weights, it is not the weight that
measures the quantity of matter, but it is the quantity of matter that
measures the weight. In other terms, the persistence of the mass is merely
_known_ through the persistence of the weight, but the persistence of the
weight is itself _a consequence_ of the persistence of the mass. Hence the
persistence of the mass is perfectly accounted for by the atomic theory,
notwithstanding Mr. Stallo’s contrary assertion.

He says: “The hypothesis of ultimate indestructible atoms is not a
necessary implication of the persistence of weight, and can at best
account for the indestructibility of matter if it can be shown that there
is an absolute limit to the compressibility of matter—in other words, that
there is an absolutely least volume for every determinate mass” (p. 708).
Both parts of this proposition are false. The first is false, because the
weight of a body is the result of the gravitation of all its particles;
and, therefore, it cannot persist without the persistence of the
gravitating particles. The second part also is false, because the
persistence of the weight implies the persistence of the mass
independently of all considerations concerning a limit of compressibility
or an absolute minimum of volume. Hence, whatever the author may say to
the contrary, it is quite certain of scientific certainty that there can
be, and there is, in all bodies, “an absolute constant of mass.”

_Atomic theory._—The writer objects to the atomic theory on the ground
that it does not explain impenetrability, and that it misconceives the
nature of reality. He begins by remarking that “the proposition, according
to which a space occupied by one body cannot be occupied by another,
implies the assumption that space is an absolute, self‐measuring entity,
and the further assumption that there is a least space which a given body
will absolutely fill so as to exclude any other body” (p. 709). We think
that the proposition implies nothing of the kind. The space occupied by
one body cannot _naturally_ be occupied by another, because all bodies are
made up of molecules which at very small distances repel one another with
actions of greater and greater intensities, thus preventing
compenetration, while successfully struggling for the preservation of
their own individuality. This the molecules can do, whether space can be
filled or not, and whether space is a self‐measuring entity or not. Hence
the remark of the author has no foundation.

But he continues: “The atomic theory has become next to valueless as an
explanation of the impenetrability of matter, since it has been pressed
into the service of the undulatory theory of light, heat, etc., and
assumed the form in which it is now held by the majority of physicists.
According to this form of the theory, the atoms are either mere points,
wholly without extension, or their dimensions are infinitely small as
compared with the distances between them, whatever be the state of
aggregation of the substances into which they enter. In this view, the
resistance which a body, _i.e._, a system of atoms, offers to the
intrusion of another body is due not to the rigidity or unchangeability of
volume of the individual atoms, but to the relation between the attractive
and repulsive forces with which they are supposed to be endowed. There are
physicists holding this view, who are of opinion that the atomic
constitution of matter is consistent with its compenetrability—among them
M. Cauchy, who in his _Sept Leçons de physique générale_ (ed. Moigno,
Paris, 1868, p. 38), after defining atoms as material points without
extension, uses this language: ‘Thus, this property of matter, which we
call impenetrability, is explained when we consider the atoms as material
points exerting on each other attractions and repulsions which vary with
the distances that separate them.... From this it follows that, if it
pleased the Author of nature simply to modify the laws according to which
the atoms attract or repel each other, we might instantly see the hardest
bodies penetrate each other, the smallest particles of matter occupy
immense spaces, or the largest masses reduce themselves to the smallest
volumes, the entire universe concentrating itself, as it were, in a single
point’ ” (p. 710).

We think that the author’s notion of the form in which the atomic theory
is now held by physicists is not quite correct. The chemical atoms are now
considered as dynamical systems of material points, so that the atomic
theory is now scarcely distinguishable from the molecular theory. That
such a theory “has become next to valueless as an explanation of the
impenetrability of matter” is not true. Of course two primitive elements
of matter, if attractive, would, according to the theory, as we understand
it, pass through one another; as nothing can oppose their progress except
repulsion, which is not to be thought of in the case of attractive
elements. But the case is different with molecules; for every molecule of
any special substance contains a number of repulsive elements, and
possesses a repulsive envelope(182) which resists most effectually all
attempt at compenetration on the part of other molecules. Hence the
impenetrability of _bodies_ (not of _matter_, as the author says) is a
simple result of the molecular constitution of bodies, as explained in the
atomic theory of the modern chemists.

That the resistance which a body offers to the intrusion of another body
is due “not to the rigidity or unchangeability of volume of individual
atoms, but to the relation between the attractive and repulsive forces
with which they are supposed to be endowed,” is an obvious truth. We do
not see by what kind of reasoning the author can infer from it that “the
atomic theory has become next to valueless as an explanation of
impenetrability.” We rather maintain that the theory is correct, and that
no other theory has yet been found which explains impenetrability without
assuming much that philosophy condemns. As to M. Cauchy’s views, we remark
that, when he defines atoms as “material points without extension,” he
does not speak of the chemical atoms, or equivalents, but of the primitive
elements of which such atoms or equivalents are composed.

The author says: “The assumption of atoms of different specific gravities
proves to be not only futile, but absurd. Its manifest theoretical
ineptitude is found to mask the most fatal inconsistencies. According to
the mechanical conception which underlies the whole atomic hypothesis,
differences of weight are differences of density; and differences of
density are differences of distance between the particles contained in a
given space. Now, in the atom there is no multiplicity of particles and no
void space; hence differences of density or weight are impossible in the
case of atoms” (p. 715).

This conclusion would be quite inevitable, if it were true that the atom
of the chemists contains no multiplicity of particles and no void space;
but the truth is that chemical atoms are nothing but _equivalents_, or
_molecules_—that is, dynamical systems of material points intercepting
void space. Hence the author’s argument has no foundation. The very fact
that men of science unanimously agree in attributing to different atoms a
different weight, should have warned Mr. Stallo that the word “atom” could
not be considered by them as a simple material point.

The author in his second article (November, 1873) argues against the
_actio in distans_. We have given his words in one of our own articles,
where we undertook to show that _actio in distans_ cannot be impugned with
any good argument.(183) The author, however, we are glad to see, honestly
acknowledges that “the transfer of motion from one body to another by
impact is no less incomprehensible than the _actio in distans_” (p. 96);
which shows that, after having rejected the action at a distance, he is at
a loss how to account for any communication or propagation of movement. A
little later he quotes a passage of Faraday, which we have given in
another place, and in which the English professor considers the atoms as
consisting of a mere sphere of power, with a central point having no
dimensions. Then he gives his own view of the subject in the following
words:

“The true root of all these errors is a total misconception of the nature
of reality. All the reality we know is not only spatially finite, but
limited in all its aspects; its whole existence lies in relation and
contrast, as I shall show more at length in the next article. We know
nothing of force, except by its contrast with mass, or (what is the same
thing) inertia; and conversely, as I have already pointed out in my first
article, we know nothing of mass except by its relation to force. Mass,
inertia (or, as it is sometimes, though inaccurately, called, matter _per
se_), is indistinguishable from absolute nothingness; for matter reveals
its presence, or evinces its reality, only by its action, its force, its
tension, or motion. But, on the other hand, mere force is equally nothing;
for, if we reduce the mass upon which a given force, however small, acts,
until it vanishes—or, mathematically expressed, until it becomes
infinitely small—the consequence is that the velocity of the resulting
motion is infinitely great, and that the ‘thing’ (if under these
circumstances a thing can still be spoken of) is at any given moment
neither here nor there, but everywhere—that is, there is no real presence.
It is impossible, therefore, to construct matter by a mere synthesis of
forces.... The true formula of matter is mass × force, or inertia × force”
(p. 103).

The author is greatly mistaken in assuming that those who consider the
atoms (primitive elements) as centres of force totally misconceive the
nature of reality. That Faraday, notwithstanding his saying that “the
substance consists of the powers,” admits with the power the matter also,
is evident from his very mention of the _centre_ of the powers; for such a
centre is nothing else than _the_ matter, as we have proved above. He
says, indeed, that the nucleus of the atom “vanishes”; but by “nucleus” he
means the _bulk_ or the continuous material extension of the atom. This
bulk, says he, must vanish, inasmuch as the centre of the powers must be a
mere unextended point. He therefore denies, not the matter, but only its
intrinsic extension.

Mr. Stallo volunteers to show us “the true root” of all our _errors_.
According to him, we totally misconceive the nature of reality. “All the
reality we know,” he says, “is not only spatially finite, but limited in
all its aspects.” About this we will not quarrel, for we admit that all
created substances are limited; yet we would ask the author whether he
thinks that the range of universal attraction has any known limit in
space; and, if so, we would further ask where it is; for we admit our full
ignorance of its existence. “We know nothing of force,” he continues,
“except by its contrast with mass, or, what is the same thing, inertia.”
Our readers know that mass and inertia are not the same thing; the mass is
a quantity of matter, while inertia is the incapability of self‐motion. A
writer who can confound the two as identical is not competent to correct
our _errors_ and to teach us the nature of reality. As to the contrast of
force with mass, we have no objection; yet, while speaking of the nature
of things, we would prefer to contrast matter with form rather than force
with mass. The term _force_ applies to the production of phenomena, and is
usually confounded with action and with movement, neither of which is a
constituent of substance; whilst the term _mass_ expresses any quantity of
matter from a single element up to a mountain; and thus it does not
exhibit with precision the matter due to the primitive material substance.

“Mass, or matter _per se_, is indistinguishable from absolute
nothingness.” Of course, matter _per se_—that is, without form—cannot
exist. In the same manner “mere force is equally nothing”—that is, the
material form, which is the principle of action, has no separate existence
without its matter. This every one admits, though not on the grounds
suggested by Mr. Stallo. “If we reduce,” says he, “the mass upon which a
given force, however small, acts, until it vanishes—or, mathematically
expressed, until it becomes infinitely small—the consequence is that the
velocity of the resulting motion is infinitely great.” We deny this
consequence, as well as the supposition from which it is inferred. Masses
are numbers of material elements, or units. When such units are reached,
the division is at an end, because those primitive units are without
dimensions. Hence the extreme limit of the reduction of masses is not an
infinitesimal quantity of mass, as the author imagines, but an absolute
finite unit; for this unit, when repeated a finite number of times, gives
us a finite quantity of mass. But, even supposing that the hypothesis of
the author might be entertained (and it must be entertained by all those
who consider matter as materially continuous), his consequence would still
be false. For, let there be a continuous atom having finite dimensions. If
such an atom is acted on, say by gravity, it will acquire a finite
velocity. Now, it is evident that, when the atom has a finite velocity,
every infinitesimal portion of it will have a finite velocity. Therefore
the action which produces a finite velocity in the finite mass of the
atom, produces a finite velocity in the infinitesimal masses of which the
atom is assumed to consist. The error of the author arises from his
confounding quantity of movement with action. A quantity of movement is a
product of a mass into its velocity; and evidently the product cannot
remain constant, unless the velocity increases in the same ratio as the
mass decreases. The action, on the contrary, is _directly_ proportional to
the mass; and therefore, in the author’s hypothesis, the consequence
should have been the very opposite of that which he enounces; that is, the
velocity acquired by an infinitesimal mass would still be finite instead
of infinitely great. But, as we have said, the hypothesis itself is
inadmissible, because only continuous quantity can be reduced to
infinitesimals, whilst masses are not continuous but discrete quantities.

That it is impossible “to construct matter by a mere synthesis of forces”
is undeniable; but there was no need of arguing a point which no one
contests. The author should rather have given us his ground for asserting
that “the true formula of matter is _mass multiplied by force_.” This
assertion can by no means be made good. All physicists know that mass
multiplied by force represents nothing but a quantity of movement; and the
author will not pretend, we presume, that matter is a quantity of
movement. The true formula of matter is its essential definition; and it
is not a mathematical but a metaphysical product, or rather a metaphysical
ratio, as we have shown in another place. Material substance is _matter
actuated by its substantial form_, and nothing else.

The author continues thus: “We now have before us in full view one of the
fundamental fallacies of the atomic theory. This fallacy consists in the
delusion that the conceptual constituents of matter can be grasped as
separate and real entities. The corpuscular atomists take the element of
inertia, and treat it as real by itself: while Boscovich, Faraday, and all
those who define atoms as _centres of force_, seek to realize the
corresponding element, force, as an entity by itself. In both cases
elements of reality are mistaken for kinds of reality” (p. 103).

It is rather singular that a man who is so little at home in questions
about matter should undertake to point out the fallacies and delusions of
the best informed. Is it true that Boscovich, Faraday, and others of the
same school, consider force as an entity by itself? And is it true that
the corpuscular atomists treat the element of inertia as real by itself?
There is much to be said against corpuscular atomists for other reasons,
but they cannot surely be accused of maintaining that the element of
inertia—that is, the mass of the atom—can exist separately without any
inherent power, as they uniformly teach that their atoms are endowed with
resisting powers. The accusation brought against Boscovich, Faraday, and
others, is still more glaringly unjust. They do not seek to realize force
“as an entity by itself”; on the contrary, when they define the atoms as
centres of force, they manifestly teach that both the force and its centre
are indispensable for the constitution of a primitive atom. And, since by
the word _force_ they mean the principle of activity (the form), and in
the centre they recognize the principle of passivity (the matter), we
cannot but conclude that the accusation has no ground, and that the
fallacy and the delusion is on the side of Mr. Stallo himself.

Moreover, is it true that _mass_ and _force_, or, to speak more
accurately, the matter and the form, are nothing more than “the
_conceptual_ constituents” of material substance? This the author assumes
as the base of his argumentation; yet it is plain that, if the
constituents of a thing are only conceptual, the thing they constitute
cannot be anything else than a conceptual being—that is, a being of
reason. We must therefore either deny the reality of matter or concede
that its constituents are more than conceptual. Could not the author
perceive that, if mass is a mere concept, and force another mere concept,
their alliance gives nothing but two concepts, and that the reality of the
external world becomes a dream?

We live in times when men of a certain class presume to discuss
metaphysical subjects without previous study and without a sufficient
acquaintance with the first notions of metaphysics. One of these first
notions is that all real being has real constituents. Such constituents,
when known to us, are the object of our conceptions, and consequently they
may become conceptual; but they do not cease to be real outside of our
mind. Were we to conceive matter as separated from its form, or form as
deprived of its matter, nothing real would correspond to our conception;
for nowhere can real matter be found without a form, or a real form
without its matter. Hence form without matter and matter without form are
at best beings of reason. But when we conceive the matter as it is under
its form, or the form as it is terminated to its matter, we evidently
conceive the real constituents of material substance as they are in
nature—that is, as metaphysical realities contained in the physical being.
Does it follow that “elements of reality,” as the author objects, “are
mistaken for kinds of reality”? By no means. The constituents of physical
reality are themselves metaphysical realities, but they are not exactly
two kinds of reality, because they belong both to the same essence which
cannot be of two kinds. Hence the matter and the substantial form, or, in
general, act and potency, notwithstanding their real metaphysical
opposition and distinction, are one essence, one kind, and one being. But
let us go back to our author.

In his third article (December, 1873) he says: “The ordinary mechanical
explanation of the molecular states of matter, or states of aggregation,
on the basis of the atomic theory, proceeds on the assumption that the
molecular states are produced by the conflict of antagonistic central
forces—molecular attraction and repulsion—the preponderance of the one or
the other of which gives rise to the solid and gaseous forms, while their
balance or equilibrium results in the liquid state. The utter futility of
this explanation is apparent at a glance. Even waiving the considerations
presented by Herbert Spencer (_First Principles_, p. 60 et seq.), that, in
view of the necessary variation of the attractive and repulsive forces in
the inverse ratio of the squares of the distances, the constituent atoms
of a body, if they are _in equilibrio_ at any particular distance, must be
equally _in equilibrio_ at all other distances, and that their density or
state, therefore, must be invariable; and admitting that the increase or
diminution of the repulsive force, _heat_, may render the preponderance of
either force, and thus the change of density or state of aggregation,
possible, what becomes of the liquid state as corresponding to the exact
balance of these two forces in the absence of external coercion? The exact
balance of the two opposing forces is a mere mathematical limit, which
must be passed with the slightest preponderance of either force over the
other. All bodies being subject to continual changes of temperature, the
equilibrium can at best be but momentary; it must of necessity be of the
most labile kind” (p. 223).

This argument against the atomic theory would be very good, if its
premises were not deceptive. Mr. Stallo, unfortunately, relies too much on
the terminology of physical writers, which is not always correct. Thus, it
is not true that the solid form is the result of an actual preponderance
of attraction between the molecules. If attraction prevailed, the
molecules would not remain in their relative position, but would move in
the direction of the attraction. The truth is that molecules, whether in
the solid or in the liquid form, are in equilibrium of position;
accordingly, neither attraction nor repulsion actually prevails between
them.

Their position of equilibrium is determined by their own constitution, and
may change; for the molecules admit of accidental changes in their
constitution. Hence the distance of relative equilibrium is not
necessarily constant, but changes with the change of state of each
molecule. This shows that bodies, whether solid or liquid, can retain
their solid or liquid form while subjected to considerable molecular
changes, and that therefore neither the solid nor the liquid form is
necessarily impaired by “the changes of temperature” or other molecular
movements. The molecules of bodies attract each other when their distance
is great, and repel each other when their distance has become very small;
whence we immediately infer that there is for every kind of molecules a
distance which marks the limit of their mutual attraction and repulsion,
and that at such a distance the molecules must find their position of
equilibrium. A body will be solid when, its molecules being in the
position of relative equilibrium, from a small increase of their distance
an attraction arises, which does not allow of the molecules being easily
separated or arranged in a different order around one another. A body will
be liquid when, its molecules being in the position of relative
equilibrium, from a small increase of their distance a weak attraction
arises, which allows of the molecules being easily separated or easily
arranged, without separation, in a different manner around one another. A
body will be expansive and fluid when its free molecules are at a distance
sensibly less than that of relative equilibrium, and therefore repel each
other, and are in need of exterior pressure to be kept at such a distance.
But we must not forget that the distance of relative equilibrium varies
with the intrinsic dynamical variation of the molecules, and that
therefore “the exact balance of the two opposing forces is _not_ a mere
mathematical limit,” but is comprised between two mathematical limits
determined by the amount of the variations of which each species of
molecules is susceptible before settling into a different form.

Having thus disposed of the main argument by which the author wished to
show “the utter futility” of the ordinary mechanical explanation of the
molecular states of matter on the basis of the atomic theory, we may add a
few words concerning Herbert Spencer’s argument alluded to by the author.
The law of actions inversely proportional to the squares of the distances
is true for each primitive element of matter, but it is not applicable to
molecules acting at molecular distances, as we have proved in another
place.(184) Hence Spencer’s argument, which assumes the contrary, is
entirely worthless. On the other hand, were the argument admissible, we do
not see how the proposition, “The constituent atoms of a body, if they are
_in equilibrio_ at any particular distance, must be equally _in
equilibrio_ at all other distances,” can justify the conclusion that
“their density or state must be invariable.” It seems to us that a change
of molecular distances must entail a change of density; but, of course, we
are behind our age.

_Relativity of material realities._—“It has been a favorite tenet, not
only of metaphysicians, but of physicists as well, that reality is
cognizable only as absolute, permanent, and invariable, or, as the
metaphysicians of the XVIth and XVIIth centuries expressed it, _sub specie
æterni et abroluti_. This proposition,” Mr. Stallo continues, “like so
many others which have served as pillars of imposing metaphysical
structures, is the precise opposite of the truth” (p. 223). Do you
understand, reader? Metaphysicians and physicists of all centuries count
for nothing; they were blind, every one of them; but a great luminary has
appeared at last, a Mr. J. B. Stallo, whose superior wisdom, if not
philosophical infallibility, opens a new era of thought, and dispels the
darkness which has been thickening around us up to the present day. Yet
even the sun has spots; and Mr. Stallo will permit us to remark that his
statement of the metaphysical doctrine of the ancients is not altogether
correct. They did not teach “that reality is cognizable _only_ as
absolute, permanent, and invariable”; they well knew and taught that there
were realities cognizable, both relative and changeable. Substance, of
course, was considered by them, and it is still considered by us, as an
absolute reality; but they never imagined that the essence of such a
reality was cognizable except through its constituent principles as
related to one another, and therefore through an intelligible relation.
This relation, as intelligible, was considered necessary and invariable,
but, as an actual reality in nature, was considered contingent and
changeable; the intelligible essence of things was known _sub specie
æterni_, but their existence was known _sub specie contingentis_. Now, on
what ground does Mr. Stallo impugn this doctrine? How does he prove that
it is “the precise opposite of truth”? Alas! we should be exceedingly
simple were we to expect proofs. Progress consists nowadays of stout
assertions on the part of the writer, and of a silly credulity on that of
most readers. Hence our author, instead of proving what he had rashly
asserted, gives us a strain of other assertions equally rash and
ridiculously absurd.

He says: “All material reality is, in its nature, not absolute, but
essentially relative. All material reality depends upon determination; and
determination is essentially limitation, as even Spinoza well knew. A
thing ‘in and by itself’ is an impossibility” (_ibid._) Spinoza! a great
authority indeed! But we should like to know how the proposition,
“Determination is essentially limitation,” can lead to the conclusion that
“a thing in itself and by itself is an impossibility.” To make a logical
connection between the two propositions, it would be necessary to assume
that “nothing finite can be in itself and by itself.” But the assumption
is so foolish that even Spinoza, who based on it his revolting system of
Pantheism, could never support it except by a false definition of
substance, and by giving to the phrases “in itself” and “by itself” an
extravagant interpretation, which proved, if not his malice and bad faith,
at least his profound philosophical ignorance. Let Mr. Stallo consult any
good philosophical treatise on this subject, and he will see how stolid a
man must be to fall a victim to the gross sophistry of the Jewish
dogmatizer.

What shall we say of the other assertion, “All material reality is, in its
nature, not absolute, but essentially relative”? Can anything be
_relative_ without at the same time being _absolute_? Can relation exist
without two absolute terms? Relativity connects one absolute thing with
another; the things thus connected acquire a relative mode of being, but
they do not for that lose their absolute being. Thus Mr. Stallo may be an
American citizen without ceasing to be a man, though he cannot be a
citizen without being endued with a relation not involved in his nature as
roan. So, also, husband and wife are essentially relative; yet we hope the
author will not say that the relative _Husband_ annihilates the absolute
_Man_, or that the relative _Wife_ excludes the absolute _Woman_.

These remarks apply to all relations, whether merely accidental or founded
in the essence of things. Pantheists imagine that creatures cannot have
any absolute being, because their being is essentially dependent, and
therefore relative. They should consider that a creature is a _created
being_—that is, a being related to its Creator. Such a creature, inasmuch
as it is a being, _is_; and inasmuch as it is related, _connotes_ its
Maker. Now, to be and to connote are not identical. The first means
_existence_, the second _dependence_; the first is perfectly complete in
the creature itself, the second is incomplete without a correlative term;
and therefore the creature is in possession of absolute being, while it is
endued with an essential relativity. Take away the absolute being; nothing
will remain of which any relativity may be predicated.

Perhaps the author, when pronouncing that “all material reality is in its
nature essentially relative,” alludes to the essential constitution of
material realities, and to the essential relation of matter and form. If
such is his meaning, the utmost he can claim is that the reality of the
form is essentially connected with the matter, and the reality of the
matter essentially connected with the form. This every one will concede;
but no one will infer that therefore the reality which results from the
conspiration of matter and form is not an absolute reality. For as the
matter and the form are the principles of one essence, and as their mutual
relativity connotes nothing extrinsic to the same essence, but finds in it
its adequate consummation, it is evident that the resulting reality is
intrinsically complete, and subsistent in its individuality. Hence this
resulting reality is an _absolute_ reality; and only as such can it become
the subject of relativity, and acquire the denomination of _relative_.

Our author, entirely taken up by Spinoza’s views, proceeds in the
following strain: “All quality is relation; all action is reaction; all
force is antagonism; all measure is a ratio between terms neither of which
is absolute; every objectively real thing is a term in numberless series
of mutual implications, and its reality outside of these series is utterly
inconceivable. A material entity, absolute in any of its aspects, would be
nothing less than a finite infinitude. There is no absolute material
quality, no absolute material substance, no absolute physical unit, no
absolutely simple physical entity, no absolute constant, no absolute
standard either of quantity or quality, no absolute motion, no absolute
rest, no absolute time, no absolute space.... There is and can be no
physical real thing which is absolutely simple” (p. 225).

This string of blunders needs no refutation, as no reader who has a
modicum of common sense can be deceived by what is evidently false. Yet,
as to the assertion that “there is and can be no physical real thing which
is absolutely simple,” it must be observed that there are two kinds of
simplicity, as there are two kinds of composition. A being is physically
simple when it is free from physical composition; whilst it is
metaphysically simple, if it has no metaphysical components. Now, God
alone is free from metaphysical as well as physical composition; and
therefore God alone is absolutely simple. Hence, created beings, though
physically simple, are always metaphysically compound.

What follows is a curious specimen of Mr. Stallo’s philosophical
resources. He says: “Leibnitz places at the head of his Monadology the
principle that there must be simple substances, because there are compound
substances. _Necesse est_, he says, _dari substantias simplices, quia
dantur compositæ_. This enthymeme, though it has been long since exploded
in metaphysics, is still regarded by many physicists as proof of the real
existence of absolutely simple constituents of matter. Nevertheless, it is
obvious that it is nothing but a vicious paralogism—a fallacy of the class
known in logic as fallacies of the suppressed relative. The existence of a
compound substance certainly proves the existence of component parts,
which, _relatively to this substance_, are simple. But it proves nothing
whatever as to the simplicity of these parts in themselves” (p. 226).

Our reader will ask when and how Leibnitz’ enthymeme has been “exploded.”
We shall inform him that it has _not_ been exploded, though the attempt
has often been made; because in the whole arsenal of metaphysics no powder
could be found that would produce the explosion. The enthymeme, therefore,
is as good and unanswerable now as it was in Leibnitz’ time; and it will
be as good and unanswerable hereafter, notwithstanding Mr. Stallo’s
efforts against it. He says that “it is nothing but a vicious paralogism”;
but he himself, while endeavoring to prove this latter assertion, resorts
to a paralogism (_vicious_, of course) which we may call “fallacy of the
suppressed absolute.” The existence of a compound proves the existence of
its component parts, as the author admits. These parts are either compound
or simple. If simple, then there are simple substances. If compound, then
they have components; and these parts are again either compound or simple.
We must therefore either admit simple substances, or continue our analysis
by further subdivisions of the compound substance without any chance of
ever coming to an end. But if the analysis cannot come to an end, the
compound has no first components; and thus it will be false that “the
existence of a compound substance proves the existence of the component
parts.” The fallacy of the author consists in stopping his analysis of the
compound before he has reached the first components. If the parts he has
reached are still compound substances, why does he not examine their
composition and point out their components? For no other reason, we
presume, than that he did not wish to meet with an _absolute_ substantial
unit, which he was sure to find at the end of the process. His argument is
therefore nothing but a despicable fraud.

In his fourth article (January, 1874) Mr. Stallo remarks that “the recent
doctrine of the correlation and mutual convertibility of the physical
forces, as a part of the theory of the conservation of energy, has shaken,
if not destroyed, the conception of a multiplicity of independent original
forces” (p. 350). Of course, there are men whose convictions can be
shaken, or even destroyed, by the sophistic generalizations of the modern
school; but there are men also whose convictions rest on too solid a
ground to be destroyed or shaken; and these latter have ere now challenged
the abettors of the “recent doctrine” to clear up their case with
something like logical precision—a thing which modern thinkers must have
found impossible, since they have constantly ignored the challenge. We
have proved elsewhere(185) that “the mutual convertibility of physical
forces,” as understood by the champions of the theory, confounds movement
with action and the effects with their causes. The facts on which the
theory is based are true; but the theory itself is false, for it
attributes to the powers by which the phenomena are produced what
exclusively belongs to “the phenomena”, besides deforming the nature of
the phenomena themselves by denying the production and extinction of
movement. It is plain that such a theory can have no weight in philosophy;
and it is no less plain that no philosopher will, for the sake of the new
theory, renounce his firm conviction concerning “the multiplicity of
independent original forces.”

“I have endeavored,” says the author, “to show that there are no absolute
constants of mass; that both the hypothesis of corpuscular atoms and that
of centres of forces are growths of a confusion of the intellect, which
mistakes _conceptual_ elements of matter for _real_ elements; that these
elements—force and mass, or force and inertia—are not only inseparable, as
is conceded by the more thoughtful among modern physicists, but that
neither of these elements has any reality as such, each of them being
simply the conceptual correlate of the other, and thus the condition both
of its realization in thought and of its objectivation to sense” (p. 350).

As we have already discussed all the points which the author vainly
endeavored to establish, we shall only remind the reader that the matter
and the form have no separate existence; and therefore have no reality in
nature, unless they are together. The author, therefore, is right when
affirming that neither of them has any reality _as such_; but he is wrong
in inferring that they have no reality _as united_. As action has no
reality without passion, nor passion without action, so also matter has no
reality without form, nor form without matter; but as action producing
passion is real, so also is a form actuating matter; and as passion is no
less real than the action whence it proceeds, so matter also is no less
real than the form by which it is actuated. Both are, of course, only
metaphysical realities.

The author says: “The mathematical treatment of mechanical problems, from
the nature of the methods, necessitates the fiction that force and mass
are separate and distinct terms” (p. 351). By no means. It is not the
nature of the methods, but the nature of the things that compels the
distinction of the two terms. Their distinction, therefore, is not a
“fiction.” But the author’s remark has no bearing on the question of the
constitution of matter; for mechanical forces are not substantial forms.

He adds: “A material object is in every one of its aspects but one term of
a relation; its whole being is a presupposition of correlates without....
Every change of a body, therefore, presupposes a corresponding change in
its correlates. If the state of any material object could be changed
without a corresponding change of state in other objects without, this
object would, to that extent, become absolute. But this is utterly
unthinkable, and therefore utterly impossible, as we have already seen....
Mechanically speaking, all force, properly so‐called—_i.e._, all potential
energy—is energy of position.... Whatever energy is spent in actual motion
is gained in position; ... thus we are led to the principle of the
conservation of energy” (p. 351).

This is a heap of absurdities. If a material object is the term of a
relation, it is absolute in itself, as we have shown. Again, the change of
a body presupposes only the exertion of active power, and not the change
of another body, as the author imagines. That the absolute is unthinkable
he has failed to prove. Lastly, mechanical force, properly so‐called, is
the product of a mass into its velocity, whilst “energy of position” is a
myth.(186)

But the author says: “Force is a mere inference from the motion itself
under the universal conditions of reality, and its measure, therefore, is
simply the effect for which it is postulated as a cause; it has no other
existence. The only reality of force and of its action is the
correspondence between the physical phenomena in conformity to the
principle of the essential relativity of all material existence. That
force has no independent reality is so plain and obvious that it has been
proposed by some thinkers to abolish the term _force_, like the term
_cause_, altogether. However desirable this might be in some respects, it
is impossible, for the reason that the concept _force_, when properly
interpreted in terms of experience, is valid; and, if its name were
abolished, it would instantly reappear under another name.... The reality
of force is purely conceptual; ... it is not a distinct and individual
tangible or intangible entity” (p. 354).

Here the author treats us to a luxury of contradictions. Force is “a mere
inference from motion,” yet it causes motion; for it is active. Hence the
causality is a mere inference of its effect. It is therefore the effect
that gives existence to its cause, and the cause “has no other existence”
than that which may be imbibed in the effect for which it is postulated.
What, then, becomes of the “force, properly so‐called”—that is, of the
potential energy, or of the energy of position, which has no actual
effect? Again, “the reality of force, is purely conceptual.” This means
that the reality of force is unreal; which would just amount to saying
that Mr. Stallo’s intellect is unintelligent or that his writings are
unwritten. Again, the “reality of force and of its action is the
correspondence between the physical phenomena”; but, if the reality of
force is merely conceptual, the correspondence between the physical
phenomena must be merely conceptual; which would prove that the concept
“force,” when properly interpreted in terms of experience, is _not_ valid,
though the author maintains the contrary. Moreover, what can the author
mean by “the action of force”? Is this action real or unreal? If unreal,
it is no action at all; and if real, it implies a real active power. We
defy Mr. Stallo to conceive a real action of an unreal force. We are
informed that “some thinkers” wish to abolish the term “force,” like the
term “cause,” and we are told that this proves how plain and obvious it is
that force has no independent reality. This, however, proves only that
some so‐called “thinkers” are either lunatics or knaves. After all, if
force is purely conceptual, as the author pretends, its reality must be
denied without any restriction. Why, then, does he deny merely that force
has an “independent” reality? Has it any “dependent” reality if it is
“purely conceptual”?

But we must come to an end. Mr. Stallo’s conclusion is that “the very
conception of force depends upon the relation between two terms at least,”
and that therefore “a constant central force, as belonging to an
individual atom in and by itself, is an impossibility” (p. 355). In this
argument the term “force” is used equivocally. It stands for _active
power_ in the consequence, while it stands for _action_ or for _movement_
in the antecedent. Hence the conclusion is worthless. “I have shown,” says
he, “that there are and can be no absolute constants of mass. And it is
evident now that there are similarly no constant central forces belonging
to, or inherent in, constants of mass as such” (p. 356). We say in our
turn: No, Mr. Stallo, you have not shown what you imagine; and, if
anything is evident, it is not that there are no constant central forces,
but that philosophical questions cannot be solved without good logic and a
clear knowledge of metaphysical principles.




The Blind Student.


When Ernest D’Arcy left the University of ——, all the glorious
possibilities of life seemed to unfold themselves invitingly before him.
He was young, he was clever, he was ambitious. Unlike too many American
students, he had not wasted the golden hours of college life in idleness,
dissipation, or even social enjoyment. He had been a hard, indeed, an
enthusiastic, student; but on commencement day, when his brow was bound
with victorious wreaths, he felt rewarded for having scorned the seductive
pleasures of youth, and rejoiced that he had lived laborious days and
nights.

But D’Arcy did not consider his education finished because he had passed
through the university brilliantly. He well knew that the college was only
the vestibule to the temple of learning. Through this vestibule he had
passed; and now he wished to enter the noble temple itself. But on its
very threshold he found himself suddenly stopped. A dangerous disease
attacked his eyes. The most eminent oculists were consulted at once;
absolute rest alone could save him from total blindness. He was forbidden
to read or write a line. This was indeed a terrible blow to the ambitious
young student. His golden hopes left him; his sweet dream of fame faded
away; his bright career was blighted in the very bud. Unsustained by the
holy influence of religion, a deep and dangerous despondency seized him;
he abandoned himself to despair, and could not follow the advice of Burke,
“Despair, but work even in despair,” for the affliction that caused his
despair prevented him from working. So depressed was he at times that he
contemplated suicide as a happy relief.

The D’Arcy family were of Norman origin. The grandfather of Ernest escaped
from France in the early days of the Revolution, bringing with him to the
United States the fortune that had descended to him through a long line of
ancestors. Like so many French gentlemen of the last century, M. D’Arcy
had imbibed the fashionable scepticism of the time of Voltaire and the
Encyclopædists. After coming to America, he married a Catholic lady, and
his scepticism gradually settled into a form of mild indifferentism.
Ernest’s father was a devoted Catholic, but he died while his children
were in their infancy. His wife was a Protestant, a woman of fashion,
whose highest ambition was to be a leader of society. Her children, Ernest
and his sister Mary, were brought up from their infancy on the
Chesterfieldian model: _to shine in society_. To this end everything else
was sacrificed. From the nursery they went to the dancing‐school, and had
masters to teach them all those superficial accomplishments which make up
a modern fashionable education. Ernest’s clever and original mind saved
him from the evil effects of such an education. But, unfortunately, he did
not escape a worse danger. With no one to direct his studies, at the
susceptible age of seventeen he began to read the infidel French
literature of the XVIIIth century, which formed a large part of his
grandfather’s library. Fascinated by the diabolical wit of Voltaire,
Ernest’s young and undisciplined mind mistook sophistry for argument,
ridicule for reason, wit for wisdom. The fashionable religion of his
mother had never possessed any charm or interest for him, and now,
rejecting all belief, he became a free‐thinker.

Ernest entered the University of —— in his eighteenth year, eager for
distinction and determined to succeed. Succeed he did; and when he
graduated, four years later, he was the first student of the university
and unanimously chosen the commencement orator. No student ever left the
University of ——, which has been the Alma Mater of so many distinguished
men, with a brighter future before him than Ernest D’Arcy. But it was a
future for this world, and for this world alone. Fame was the god of his
idolatry. His residence at the University of ——, which boasts the absence
of all religious teaching, had strengthened his scepticism. But the
scepticism of Ernest D’Arcy was a scepticism of the head, not of the
heart. His natural love for the true, the beautiful, and the good had kept
him pure, even at the most dangerous period of youth, when the blood is
warm, the passions strong, and the will weak. While the heart is good and
pure, however the head may err, there is always hope. The unbelief of
Ernest D’Arcy was not the cold, heartless, satisfied unbelief of the
hardened scoffer rejoicing in his infidelity. It was the natural result
upon an eager and active intellect of an education without religion, a
home without God.

The same year that Ernest left the university his sister “finished” at the
Academy of the Visitation of ——. Mary D’Arcy was not a brilliant girl, but
very sweet, gentle, and interesting. Three years at the convent school had
removed all traces of her unfortunate home education. Mary’s most intimate
friend at the convent was Edith Northcote, a young Catholic girl from the
South. When they parted on distribution day, it was with the understanding
that Edith should pass the next winter with Mary, and the two young ladies
enter society together.

One morning, towards the end of October, Ernest was sitting in the
library, surrounded by the most enchanting literature of the world, and
not allowed to read a single line. D’Arcy was no sentimental dreamer or
aimless student.


            “To sleep away his hours
    In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy.”


He wished to be a man among men. His ambition was first to teach himself,
and then to teach the world. He wished to elevate the tone of society; to
raise it from its fallen state. His was no splendid dream of
revolutionizing the social world; he had no fond hope of creating an
Utopia out of this busy, bustling America of the XIXth century. But he
knew that life was too precious to be dedicated solely to the one selfish,
absorbing pursuit of wealth; that the entire surrender of mind and heart
and life itself to the accumulation of money was corrupting our people and
exercising a baleful influence over the whole nation. Our merchants rival
the merchant princes of Italy in wealth and enterprise; why should they
not rival them also in their princely tastes? The palaces, the gardens,
the galleries, the libraries, of Florence, Venice, and Genoa, “all tell
the story of great thoughts and noble tastes which gold and trade may
nurture when nobleness and greatness deal with them.” We should take time
to cultivate the beautiful as well as the useful; the poetical as well as
the practical. The artist should be patronized as well as the artisan.
Time should be given to the refinement, the grace, the sweetness of life.
We have followed too long and too earnestly the false philosophy taught in
“Poor Richard’s Almanac,” that money‐getting is a sort of secular
religion, and “there will be sleeping enough in the grave.” Our American
life is one long “fitful fever.” We give no time to rest. Repose, a
cultivated leisure, is not idleness. An elegant essay on this
subject—leisure(187)—by a distinguished Baltimore lawyer, should be read
and pondered by our eager and restless people, who are devoured by their
business as Actæon was by his own dogs. “I mean,” says this writer, “the
rest which is won and deserved by labor, and which sweetens and
invigorates it and furnishes its reward. Whence comes this doctrine, that
life, to be anything, must be for ever in motion? There is no process of
physical development which does not need and depend upon repose. To all
the green and beautiful things that deck the earth—the flowers that give
it perfume, and the fruits and foliage that make it glad—there is needful
the calm sunshine and the peaceful shade, the gentle rain and the yet
gentler dew. Not a gem that flashes but has been crystallized in the
immovable stillness of the great earth’s breast. I believe that to be
false philosophy which denies to individuals their seasons of leisure and
meditation; teaching them that existence was meant to be nothing but a
struggle.” Our very amusements are unwholesome and dangerous: the midnight
“German,” the lascivious drama, the race‐course, the steamboat excursion,
the political meeting. The priceless time of youth should have some better
employment than dancing and novel‐reading. Our young men should be taught
that life is too valuable, time too precious, to be frittered away in idle
pleasures, in frivolous amusement, in heartless dissipation. Our young
women should be taught that there is something nobler in life than the
passing triumphs of the ball‐room, gay flirtations, and dazzling toilets.

Thoughts like these occupied Ernest D’Arcy on that bright October
morning—thoughts that stirred his heart and mind, and made him eager for
the glorious work. With a soul longing to “be up and doing,” he was
compelled to sit idle in the golden prime of his manhood. These were the
moments of his greatest despondency, when all the brightness seemed gone
from his life, and all the hope from his soul. Sitting there in the
library that morning, D’Arcy recalled the beautiful lines of Miss Procter
in “My Picture”:


            “He had a student air,
    With a look half sad, half stately,
    Grave, sweet eyes and flowing hair.”


The library‐door was opened, and there came in one who was always
welcome—Mary D’Arcy.

“Ernest, I have a letter from Edith Northcote,” Mary said. “She will be
here to‐morrow.”

“I am glad to hear it. From all you have told me about Miss Northcote, I
think I shall like her.”

“I am sure of it,” returned his sister. “If you don’t, my opinion of your
taste is gone for ever.”

“She is nothing of the bread‐and‐butter miss, I hope? I have all Byron’s
antipathy, you know, for that class.”

“Byron himself could have found no fault with Edith on that ground,” said
Mary.

“Well, I am relieved of no little apprehension,” said Ernest. “I have a
perfect horror of the common run of girls, who haven’t an idea above the
last novel and the last fashion.”

The next day Edith arrived, and her appearance certainly realized all of
Ernest’s expectations. She was nineteen—an age when the sweet graces of
girlhood still linger and lend an additional charm to the blooming woman.
Her features were not regularly beautiful, but her face possessed a charm
and an interest which no faultlessly beautiful face ever had. If a true
woman’s soul, full of the sweetest sympathy, ever brightened and
beautified a human face, it was that of Edith Northcote. Then, her voice
was so sweet and cordial and warm—and what is more attractive than a low,
sweet voice in woman? Edith was scarcely the medium height, but
exquisitely formed, and perfectly natural and graceful in all her
movements, in charming contrast with the trained glances and artificial
manners of our fashionable society belles. Like Alexandrine, in _A
Sister’s Story_, there was an air of refinement about this lovely girl as
rare as it was delightful; she had all the freshness and fragrance of the
rose without the rose’s thorns. Mrs. D’Arcy, who was a female Turveydrop
in the matter of deportment, said she had never seen in any society
manners so elegant and at the same time so sweet and natural as the
manners of Edith Northcote. Such praise from such a woman was in itself
fame.

Edith soon became the life and joy of the house; she was an elegant lady
in the parlor, an intelligent companion in the library, and the charming,
sweet girl everywhere. The influence of her bright presence pervaded the
whole household. Even stately Mrs. D’Arcy yielded to the general
enthusiasm, and declared that Mary was fortunate in having such a friend.
But of all the family, Ernest felt the influence of Edith’s society the
most. The library, where he had passed so many hours in gloom and
despondency, was now brightened by her daily and hourly presence. She read
beautifully, and with a voice and manner that threw a charm around
everything. Her true, womanly heart sympathized deeply with Ernest in his
great affliction, and she at once determined to do all in her power to
relieve it. So it soon became the custom for Ernest and Edith to retire to
the library every morning after breakfast, where she read the morning
paper to him while he smoked his cigar. Then two or three hours were
devoted to serious study. The books, so long neglected, were again
resumed. The literary work, which Ernest loved so well, was again taken
up. Edith was his librarian, his reader, his amanuensis. He had the true
student’s dislike of any person touching his books and papers; but Edith’s
touch seemed to have magic in it, for she could do what few ladies can
ever do—put papers in order without putting them out of place.

But not only as his literary assistant was Edith serviceable to Ernest;
she was his sweet and gentle companion, his kind and sympathetic friend,
ever ready in all things to make him forget his blindness and his
consequent dependence. Inspiring and stimulating him to renewed exertion,
she also directed his ambition to the noblest ends. She opened a new life
to the brilliant young student—a life full of love and sweetness and
humanity. Her bright and joyous influence banished from his soul the dark
despair that had been enthroned there so long, and again there was raised
in his heart


                                    “A hope
    That he was born for something braver than
    To hang his head and wear a nameless name.”


Edith found time for everything; duty, as well as pleasure, had each its
allotted place in her daily life. Before the rest of the family were awake
she was up and off to early Mass. In the winter twilight, when other young
ladies were returning from the fashionable promenade, Edith could often be
seen with a little basket on her arm, carrying delicacies to the sick, or
more substantial food to relieve the necessities of Christ’s suffering
children. Ernest sometimes accompanied her on these errands of mercy, and
it was a new revelation to him to see Edith, so gay, sparkling, and
fascinating in society, visiting the humble homes of the poor, cheering
and comforting the sick and destitute. Her very presence seemed like a
sunbeam in their dreary dwellings. Edith did not think she was performing
any heroic virtue by these things. She knew she was only following the
injunction of Him who loved the poor so well that he became like one of
them. She knew the Catholic poor were the blessed inheritance of the
Catholic Church. Many Catholic young ladies, delicately nurtured and
fastidiously refined, are daily doing what Edith did.

Ernest was benefited by attending Edith on those missions of love. His
warm heart was touched and all the latent sweetness of his nature brought
out by the distress which he witnessed, and of which he had never dreamed
amidst the luxuries of his own elegant home. There was one case that
particularly interested him; unfortunately, there are many such in this
age of boasted religious liberty. It was that of a Mrs. White. She was a
woman of education and refinement, and had been accustomed to all the
comforts of life in her father’s house. Early in life she married a poor
but worthy young man. He was a clerk, and labored for his wife and
children with an industry that knew no flagging. By constantly bending
over his desk he literally worked himself into consumption. After
lingering a few months, during which all his little savings were spent, he
died, leaving his family in utter destitution. During his sickness he had
been visited by several Catholic ladies, who attended to his wants with so
sweet a charity that his heart was touched, and he longed to know more of
a religion which taught such blessed humanity. As the Author of all truth
has declared that he who seeks shall find, so Mr. White found the truth
which he sought, and died a most beautiful and edifying death. His wife
soon afterwards became a Catholic, converted by the example of the good
ladies who had so kindly ministered to her dying husband. In the extremity
of her distress Mrs. White appealed to her father, who had refused to have
any intercourse with her since her marriage. What do you think was the
answer of this father to a daughter whose only offence was that she had
left _father and mother to cleave to her husband_? We blush for the
humanity that could send to a grief‐stricken and desolate daughter so
brutal a message as this:

“Now your chosen husband is dead, I will receive you back, provided you
give up, at once and for ever, the Catholic religion, which you have
recently professed. Otherwise, you may die as you have lived—a pauper and
an outcast.”

And so she lived and died a pauper and an outcast; but, so living and so
dying, her lot was more enviable than that of her cruel and unnatural
father. Her last moments were comforted by the promise of Ernest D’Arcy to
provide for her two children. The elder, a bright little fellow of
thirteen, he placed in a lawyer’s office; the other, a boy nine years old,
was admitted into a Catholic orphan asylum.

Thus visiting the sick and relieving the poor, and frequently meeting
Catholic priests and Catholic Sisters in pious attendance on death‐beds,
the conversation of Ernest and Edith naturally took a religious turn. One
evening, after returning from one of their charitable visits, they were
sitting in the library before the great wood‐fire (for Ernest would not
allow that abomination, miscalled a modern improvement, a furnace‐flue, in
his _sanctum_), as they generally did before tea. Ernest was unusually
thoughtful that evening, so much so that Edith observed it and asked him
the cause.

“I am thinking about you and myself—about all your goodness to me,” he
said; “about what I was before I knew you, and what I may be by your noble
example. Edith, the daily beauty of your life makes mine ugly. My father
was a Catholic, and I am—nothing. The cold and fashionable religion of my
mother neither satisfied my mind nor interested my heart. I became a free‐
thinker, an infidel, but never a scoffer at religion. I did not believe,
because I did not know what to believe.”

“We must read together Chateaubriand’s _Genius of Christianity_—that
magnificent tribute to the truth and beauty of the Christian religion,”
Edith replied. “You know the story of his conversion: in his extreme youth
he yielded to the gay scepticism which at the time controlled French
society, and he, a son of the Crusaders, became a disciple of Voltaire,
and wrote in the interest of infidelity. The death of Chateaubriand’s
mother, whose last moments had been saddened by his scepticism, and whose
last words were a prayer for his conversion, recalled him to a sense of
that religion in which he had been educated. ‘_I became a Christian_,’
Chateaubriand wrote. ‘_My conviction came from the heart. I wept and I
believed._’ He resolved to devote to religion the eloquent pen which had
been used against her. The result was his immortal work the _Genius of
Christianity_. The beautiful style, the vast information, the glowing
descriptions of art, scenery, poetry, and music cannot fail to delight and
interest you.”

The next day Edith commenced Chateaubriand’s great masterpiece. As, day
after day, the reading continued, Ernest grew deeply interested. He saw
clearly demonstrated the noble and inspiring fact that “the Christian
religion, of all the religions that ever existed, is the most favorable to
liberty and to the arts and sciences; that the modern world is indebted to
it for every improvement: from agriculture to the abstract sciences; from
the hospitals for the reception of the unfortunate to the temples reared
by the Michael Angelos and embellished by the Raphaels.”

Other books were read, all breathing the same divine spirit, the same
exalted Christian charity, the same sweet human sympathy. The warm, tender
heart of Ernest D’Arcy was fascinated by the beautiful and noble
sentiments expressed in the volumes which were now a part of his daily
reading. He compared them with the false philosophy of a Voltaire and the
senseless sentimentality of a Rousseau, which taught how to destroy, but
not how to save; whose end was the destruction, not the amelioration, of
society. These books certainly opened a newer and a sweeter world to the
student. But it must not be supposed that the young D’Arcy saw immediately
the truth of Catholicity in all its divine beauty. Few, like S. Paul, are
miraculously changed from the enemy to the friend of God’s church. Few,
like Chateaubriand, can say: “I wept and I believed.”

With the opening of spring Edith returned home, and Earnest was again left
alone with his books. But how changed seemed everything! The brightness
was gone from the library. The pleasure was gone from his studies. He
sadly missed her who had been his constant companion for so many months.
Fortunately, about this time his eyes improved sufficiently to allow him
to read for a short time every day. He continued the reading to which
Edith had introduced him. This was some consolation to him, now that he
was separated from her. But, alas! it was a consolation not long allowed
to him. If that stern old moralist, Dr. Johnson, acknowledged that he
found it easier to practise abstinence than temperance in wine, it will
not be surprising that so ardent a student as Ernest D’Arcy found it
absolutely impossible to practise temperance in reading when he read at
all. And now he had a greater incentive to work than ever before. He felt
that he must make himself worthy of the sweet girl whom he loved. The
delicately refined nature of this perfect gentleman would not allow him to
make a formal declaration of love to Edith while she was a guest in his
mother’s house, but that unerring, never‐failing instinct which belongs to
woman enabled her to see plainly that he was deeply, fondly interested in
her. Nor was Edith insensible to the many attractive qualities of Ernest
D’Arcy; his cultured mind, his noble heart, his high ambition, his exalted
sentiments of honor and morality, claimed her enthusiastic admiration,
while the romantic character of their constant intercourse pleased her
girlish fancy.

D’Arcy’s Catholic reading had enchanted his impressible mind. As an
historical institution, the church delighted and astonished him. He saw it
rise triumphantly on the ruins of the empire of the Cæsars; he saw it
conquer and civilize the barbarians of Germany and the North; he saw it
tame the fierce passions of the Franks and Goths; he saw it in the middle
ages standing between the people and princely despots; he saw it always on
the side of right and always against wrong, always raising its powerful
voice in favor of the oppressed; he saw it in the XVIth century
successfully sustain itself against the most formidable religious
revolution the world had ever known; he saw it in the XIXth century serene
in the midst of tumbling thrones and political convulsions, teaching one
faith and one doctrine, while heresy was broken into a thousand
indistinguishable fragmentary sects.

With his mind fresh from these new and interesting studies, Ernest D’Arcy
began to write the story of his mental life, which he called _From
Darkness to Light_. Like Milton, he became so engrossed in his work that
his eyes grew rapidly worse; and, like him also, he was unwilling to
discontinue his studies, until at length study was impossible. Edith
Northcote heard of this new trial through Ernest’s sister Mary; for Ernest
himself was too manly, too considerate, to annoy Edith with his troubles.
She determined at once to make a Novena to Our Lady of Lourdes to obtain
the cure of Ernest’s eyes. She procured some of the celebrated miraculous
water, and sent it to Ernest, telling him that on a certain day she would
commence the Novena, requesting him to apply the water to his eyes each
day, and say the prayer to Our Lady of Lourdes contained in the little
book recently published. The account of the apparition greatly interested
Ernest, and, though not yet a Catholic, he did not hesitate to comply with
both of Edith’s requests.

Thousands of unrecorded miracles have been wrought by the water of
Lourdes, and the restoration of Ernest’s eyes was one of them.(188) As the
darkness left his eyes, the divine light of faith entered his soul; and he
who had been both mentally and physically blind, now saw with the eyes of
the body and saw also with the eyes of the soul. He saw the truth, the
beauty, and the goodness of the Catholic religion; seeing, he believed;
believing, he professed; professing, he practised. Ernest D’Arcy became a
Catholic—a devout, a zealous, a fervid Catholic.

Ernest did not inform Edith by letter of the happy effects of the water of
Lourdes. He visited her in her Southern home. Simply saying a friend
wished to see her, he awaited her entrance with no little impatience. At
length she appeared. Ernest advanced to meet her. The few words he spoke
explained everything: “_Edith, I am a Catholic._”

The next few weeks were the sweetest Ernest had ever known—sweeter than he
had ever dreamed of. He had found what he had so long sought in vain—the
true religion; and in finding the religion which was to make him happy in
heaven, he also found the being who was to make him happy on earth.




Turning From Darwin To Thomas Aquinas.


UNLESS in thought with thee I often live,
  Angelic Doctor! life seems poor to me.
  What _are_ these bounties, if they only be
Such boon as farmers to their servants give?
That I am fed, and that mine oxen thrive,
  That my lambs fatten, that mine hours are free—
  These ask my nightly thanks on bended knee;
And I _do_ thank Him who hath blest my hive
  And made content my herd, my flock, my bee.
  But, Father! nobler things I ask from thee.
Fishes have sunshine, worms have everything!
  Are we but apes? Oh! give me, God, to know
I am death’s master; not a scaffolding,
  But a true temple where Christ’s word could grow.




The Future Of The Russian Church.


By The Rev. Cæsarius Tondini, Barnabite.



III.


In presence of the melancholy reality of to‐day, and in expectation of a
yet sadder morrow, those Russians who are sincerely attached to their
church, and who have at heart the interests of their faith, will perhaps
ask themselves if it be not needful to labor in some direct manner to
deliver the Russian Church from a protection which has been so fatal to
her.

The question is a very serious one; we do not venture to decide upon it.

As Catholic, and precisely because we are Catholic, we must, in a question
of this kind, consider souls. Now, to work _directly_ to overthrow the
religious autocracy of the czars might easily, considering the actual
circumstances of Russia, hasten this morrow we have been considering, and
that without any efficacious remedy being at hand to accompany or to
follow quickly upon so great an evil. If it were not to be feared that,
under present circumstances, the overthrow of the official church would
cause the unbelief of the higher classes to descend also among the lower,
thus rendering it general, and endangering the existence of every faith in
the Russian people, the question would be easy to answer; but so long as
this doubt exists it is quite a case to which to apply the principle that
of two evils we must choose the least. From this point of view we prefer
the continuance of the present state of things, because it seems to us the
lesser evil.

There exist, however, other doubts, and their existence is of an extreme
gravity, in determining the attitude of Russians toward their church; they
are these:

Will the czars, even should they change their policy and show themselves
for the future true protectors and not masters, be able long to continue
to the Russian Church the support of the laws?

Again: Will Russia much longer have the czars?

These doubts are not chimerical.

In the first place, it appears to us unlikely that the czars should be
able to continue indefinitely to refuse liberty of conscience. Already, at
this present time, the Russian authorities shut their eyes to many
infractions of the laws relating to the different religious communions;
the ever‐increasing and multiplied relations of Russia with other
countries, and of her people with foreigners, and foreigners with
Russians, might easily create serious embarrassments, and even give rise
to political complications, if there were a desire to apply the religious
laws in all their rigor.

Nevertheless, it seems to us equally difficult to imagine that Russia
should, at one bound, arrive at declaring the civil law to be atheistical,
and to repel all solidarity between material interests and the religious
interests of the people. During some time Russia will probably offer to us
the same spectacle as in England, the classic land of religious license,
where every one, _except the sovereign_, is free to believe what he
pleases, and where at the same time _convenances_ and multiplied interests
keep the official church standing. But the Anglican Church has a far
different past and far other memories—above all, a very different
literature—from the Russian Church. In continuing this comparison the
reader will find an explanation of the vitality shown by the state‐church
of England, and at the same time the motives which do not allow us to
predict for that of Russia either able defenders or even a lingering
death.

If, then, the Russians ought not to labor directly to overthrow the
religious autocracy of the czars, seeing that, in present circumstances,
the overthrow of this autocracy might be the cause of still greater
disasters than those of the past, they nevertheless ought not to fold
their arms and contemplate with indifference the probability that this
overthrow may be brought about at no distant period by the mere force of
circumstances.

There remains the other doubt: Will Russia much longer have the czars?

This doubt, considering the epoch in which we live, scarcely needs to be
justified. What sovereign is there who can promise himself that he shall
end his days upon the throne? One alone—the Pope, because even in a
dungeon he is obeyed just as if he were upon a throne.

Let Russians who have at heart the interests of their faith boldly face
this second doubt and the fears to which it gives rise. Never, perhaps,
could history offer us a more remarkable spectacle than that of an
orthodox church, and a perfect automaton; to‐day receiving speech,
movement, and action from an orthodox emperor, and to‐morrow receiving
them from the head of a Protestant government, perhaps a Jew, perhaps an
atheist. In fact, the organization of a church reckoning nearly fifty
millions of adherents cannot be changed in twenty‐four hours, especially
if this organization is identified with the state to the degree of
confusing herself with the latter. What will then become of the Synod we
do not know, but neither do we know whether the new government will
readily consent to lose the profit of so powerful an _instrumentum regni_
as the church organized by the czars.

In presence of these eventualities, which, on account of the rapid march
of modern revolutions, are far from improbable, and may take place any
day, is there anything the Russians can do in order to save orthodoxy?
There is one thing, and, we believe, one only. We will say what that is,
though we greatly doubt whether it will be accepted; too many prejudices,
too many objections, will oppose themselves to it; everything else will be
tried, rather than have recourse to it; a great confidence especially will
be placed in the triumph of the panslavist idea; but each new attempt will
but prove this one plan to be the only efficacious one, and the ill‐
success of all the others will gradually lead minds to ally themselves to
it. In the alternative of accepting this, or else of letting orthodoxy
perish, Russians sincerely attached to their faith will not indefinitely
hesitate. Besides, a Providence watches over states and peoples; in that
Providence we place our trust, and it will not be in vain.

If, calling things by their names, we were to say plainly that this only
way is the reunion of the Russian with the Catholic Church, a Russian who
might do us the honor to peruse these pages would perhaps throw down the
book, and, however well disposed he might be, would see nothing more in it
than vain and dangerous imaginations. This alarm, however, would prove,
more than anything else, the exceeding power of the words. We will
endeavor to express the same idea in another manner; and, without
flattering ourselves that we shall gain acceptance for it, we hope at
least to obtain for it serious examination.

What is Russian orthodoxy? It is the collection of the dogmas accepted and
taught by the Russian Church. Now, these dogmas, with the exception of
some few misunderstandings,(189) are the same as those of the Catholic
Church; the point which really separates the two churches is the denial,
on the part of the Russians, of the jurisdiction of the Pope over the
universal church. At the utmost, a real doctrinal disagreement should be
admitted respecting the infallibility of the Pope defining _ex cathedrâ_
on faith or morals. But however important this disagreement may be in the
eyes of Catholics, it has no importance in the eyes of Protestants and
rationalists. Those who admit no revelation would not certainly prefer
orthodoxy merely because there is in it one article less to believe. As to
Protestants, the difficult point is to make them admit a visible authority
taught by God himself, and having the right and mission to explain the
Scriptures and to make a practical application of them to our lives. Now,
is it likely that, in their eyes, an authority residing in the dispersed
church, without the necessary bond which unites the bishops to each other,
would be much more acceptable than a central authority, always living,
always ready to declare its oracles, and, by that very fact, independent
of the obstacles which an inimical government or any other adversary might
raise against it to prevent it from declaring itself? For the rest, the
_Spiritual Regulation_ will let Protestants know whether a church
organized as is that of Russia at the present time can alone make a free
word to be heard.

Protestants and rationalists are, then, common adversaries of the Russian
and also of the Catholic Church. Common adversaries also, on doctrinal
grounds, are all those who cannot be exactly classed with either
Protestants or rationalists, but against whom the Russian Church will no
less have to defend herself—Jews, Mahometans, and, lastly, the Raskolniks
also, unless, indeed, a portion of the latter should not prefer to ally
themselves to the Catholic Church rather than to the Synod, if only they
can be persuaded that in becoming Catholics they do not by any means cease
to be Russians. Now, when in the XVIIth century the heresy of Calvin was
for a moment seated on the patriarchal throne of Constantinople in the
person of Cyril‐Lucar, and when that patriarch had published his _Orthodox
Confession of the Christian Faith_,(190) which was full of Calvinistic
errors, the gravity of the danger to orthodoxy was then sufficiently
powerful to render the Greeks far from being disdainful of the support
offered to them by Catholics, and even by the Pope himself, for the
purpose of guarding in safety the articles of the common faith.

Nothing was found too hard to be said against Catholics and Rome, because
of their intervention in the deposition of the heretical patriarch and the
condemnation of his doctrine. For their justification we may be permitted
to refer the reader to a publication which, upon its appearance, had the
importance of a great event, and this is No. 42 of the _Tracts for the
Times_, which, in England, opened the way to the Catholic faith.(191)

This historical precedent will not, we hope, remain without its
consequences in history. Already Catholic theologians unconsciously afford
a solid support to orthodoxy, with regard to the defence of the dogmas
which are common to us with the Russians. Our theological works find
entrance into Russia, and are there studied and quoted; whilst it is
rarely, if ever, that we find modern authors of the Greek Church quoted,
unless it be to draw from them arguments against the primacy of the Pope,
and to perpetuate the misunderstandings relating to the Procession of the
Holy Ghost and to purgatory.

From the time of Peter the Great orthodoxy has done nothing but lose
ground in Russia; neither the patriarchs of the East nor the other heads
of the various branches of the Orthodox Church appear to be solely
occupied with it. One might say that any heresy inspires them with less
horror than the Catholic doctrine about the Pope, and that they consider
the rejection of this doctrine a sufficient proof of a healthy orthodoxy.
But the day will come when every Russian who loves orthodoxy above all
else will no longer regard with so much horror as now a church which is
far better calculated than the Greek Church to furnish him with arms
wherewith to defend the divinity of Jesus Christ, the Real Presence, the
sacraments, the veneration of Mary and the saints. The same horror with
which we Catholics still inspire many orthodox Russians we formerly
inspired Anglicans. Relations with us, and _study_, have disabused many
credulous minds; in Russia, moreover, the double sentiment will operate in
our favor of the danger to which orthodoxy will be exposed, and the
insufficiency of the succor which can arrive to it from any quarter except
the Catholic Church alone.

But Protestants, rationalists, Jews, Mahometans, and Raskolniks are not
the only adversaries which the Russian Church must prepare to combat, and
against whom she will find no help more efficacious than that which
Catholics can afford. Among her adversaries she may reckon the government,
atheism in the legislation, obstacles of every kind created against the
propaganda of orthodoxy, compulsory irreligious instruction, unbelief and
materialism “crowned” by the academies—in a word, all the constituted
authorities upon which the people depend. Can the Russian Church promise
herself that she will be able successfully to contend against such
adversaries? No one will maintain that the past history of this church
offers a certain guarantee that she will; her existence, especially since
Peter the Great, has been too monotonous, and has had a sphere of action
too circumscribed, to allow her to make trial of her strength. Alas! there
is something more; however monotonous may have been her existence, it
nevertheless offers one characteristic feature, and this is, the facility
with which she has permitted the czars to impose their laws upon her, and
to obtain from her that which nothing would have forced from the great
doctors and fathers of the Greek Church. Now, if the Russian Church has
been so feeble in presence of the czars, is it very certain that she would
instantaneously recover her energy, were she to find herself face to face
with a government inspired by principles the most hostile to Christianity,
and the declared enemy, no longer of the whole Christian church only, but
of Jesus Christ himself? We are no prophet; but, after all, it is not
absolutely impossible that, at a period more or less distant, some Russian
socialist may find himself seated in the place of the czars.

Thus the past history of the Russian Church is far from being a sure
warranty that she will know how to wrestle with impious governments. What
succor, in fact, can she expect from churches which, in presence of the
sultan, and of the sovereigns of the other countries where they are
established, have shown themselves fully as feeble as the Russian Church
has been in presence of the czars? The sultan—to speak of him only—has not
he himself settled the Bulgarian question? And, besides, will not these
churches have enough to do to defend themselves at a time when political
importance decides everything? What influence in the religious affairs of
Russia can be exercised by little states occupying scarcely the third or
fourth rank among the states of Europe?

Should the Russian Church accept the aid of the Catholic Church, it will
be a very different matter. In the same way that history shows us the
latter as having already had to deal, on doctrinal ground, with every sort
of error, and of having fought against it, thus offering, with the weight
of her experience, the aid of a science as vast as the variety of errors
against which it has combated; so also has the Catholic Church already
encountered, on practical ground, every sort of obstacle, and has passed
through storms and tempests which would a thousand times over have
submerged her were she not divine. The number, variety, and gravity of the
struggles she has maintained also against governments and nations give her
the right to repeat with a calm security, each time that the signs of a
fresh persecution appear: _Alios vidi ventos aliasque procellas_—“Other
tempestuous winds and other storms have I seen.” She possesses
institutions born of these struggles and adapted to those of the future,
which will also create new ones in their turn. Her missionaries and her
priests present us with the spectacle of an army as numerous as it is
varied, answering to all the needs of war and to all the possible
eventualities of the field of battle. Still more: in the existence of the
church warfare is, so to speak, the normal condition, and peace the
exception; it thus follows that the powers of the Catholic Church are kept
in continual exercise, and that the science of the means of victory is
never reduced to simple memories.

This, from the history of the past, is what may be with certainty
foreseen, whether with regard to the inefficiency of the help which the
Russian Church may promise herself from the various branches of the
orthodox communion, in a struggle against unbelief and impious
governments, or with regard to the solid support which, in this case, she
would find from the Catholic Church. But this prevision is not only
justified by history. History has done nothing more than throw light upon
that which had been foretold to us by a terrible declaration of Jesus
Christ; and it is in this declaration that lies the deep reason and the
true explanation of that which history causes to pass before our eyes.
_Omne regnum in seipsum divisum desolabitur_—“Every kingdom divided
against itself shall be brought to desolation” (S. Luke xi. 17), Our Lord
has said.

The Orthodox Church is a divided kingdom—divided into as many branches as
there are states in which she counts her adherents; divided to such a
degree that, without the consent of sovereigns, no communication is
possible between these divers branches; so divided that it is also the
will of sovereigns which regulates and measures the relations which the
bishops of the eparchies (dioceses) of one self‐same state may hold among
themselves. The Orthodox Church is a kingdom divided against itself—so
divided that nowhere is there to be found an authority which, being itself
the source of jurisdiction, can terminate the litigations about
jurisdiction without appeal; so divided that a little boldness and
obstinacy sufficed to enable Greece to withdraw herself from the
jurisdiction of the Patriarch of Constantinople; that a little boldness
and obstinacy sufficed to gain the cause for Bulgaria, when, not long ago,
she also shook off the authority of the same patriarch; and that a little
boldness and obstinacy always suffice to enable the revolted definitively
to shake off the yoke of their pastors.(192)

Alas! it is not even here that the desolation of this kingdom ends. Of the
Orthodox Church it may be truly said that the desolation has no bounds. It
has no bounds because already the principle has been established that the
church of each state ought to be independent, and that each separate
nation also ought to have its distinct and independent church. It is
endless because to these principles—subversive of all order and all
stability, and which make ecclesiastical jurisdiction depend no longer
upon the laws and customs of the church, but on the chances of war, the
valor of conquerors, and the craftiness of conspirators—the Orthodox
Church can oppose nothing but vain protestations; it is endless because
the very bishops themselves of the Orthodox Church take the lead in
upholding these principles, and are the first to treat with contempt the
complaints of those of their brethren whose jurisdiction is injured.

And, in fact, it was by invoking its political independence that the
recently‐formed kingdom of Greece declared itself, in 1833, freed from the
jurisdiction of the Patriarch of Constantinople. This declaration was made
and carried by _all_ the bishops of the kingdom, assembled at Nauplia; not
a single voice appears to have been raised to require that the patriarch
should at least be first consulted. The patriarch appealed to the canons
of the church, and protested—and they let him protest. For seventeen years
he went on protesting, until at last, in 1850, his successor recognized
the accomplished fact; had he not done so, he would have been allowed to
protest to an indefinite period, as long as he might be inclined. It was
by appealing to the principle of nationality (_phyletism_) that the
Bulgarians shook off the authority of the same patriarch. Their bishops
nominated an exarch, and long before the sultan had definitely settled
this affair they gave no more heed to the patriarch’s protestations than
for seventeen years had been given by the bishops of the Hellenic kingdom.
In the hope of leading back the Bulgarians to obedience, the patriarch, in
1872, convoked a great council in the Church of S. George at
Constantinople. He made his complaints against his rebellious children,
and without apparently considering the effect which might be produced by
the publicity given to his words, he there related that, having summoned
the recalcitrant bishops to return to obedience, one of them had answered
him, _by the telegraph_, that he should go and receive the reply from the
exarch.

The council thereupon proceeded to excommunicate the Bulgarians, who had
already so willingly excommunicated themselves, sure beforehand that they
would none the less continue to be considered members of the Orthodox
Church— a certainty which could not fail to be realized. The example of
Greece had borne its fruit. Besides, this council was not œcumenical;
amongst others, the Russian bishops did not sit there at all; a letter of
the Synod had the mission of representing them, probably unknown to
themselves, and certainly without their permission. By what right, then,
could the council separate the Bulgarian nation from _the whole_ church?
By what right did it speak in the name of _the whole_ church? It had so
much the less right, also, from the fact that the Patriarch of Jerusalem,
Cyril, who happened to be then at Constantinople, determinedly refused,
for reasons which gave evidence of more than unwillingness, to appear at
its sittings.(193)

Will it be said that the Bulgarians were excommunicated by virtue of the
canons of the church; that the council applied to them an anathema already
decreed by the fathers and the œcumenical councils against those who
violated the canons? We have some acquaintance with these canons; and, if
they are to be taken literally, we would not take upon ourselves to prove
that the whole Orthodox Church has not long ago fallen under some
excommunication pronounced by her own canons; such, at any rate, would be
the case with regard to the Russian Church, which forms its principal
portion. To escape this somewhat embarrassing conclusion, it becomes
necessary to admit that the canons must be understood, as it is commonly
expressed, _cum grano salis_, and that they are susceptible of a mild
interpretation. It is this which the Bulgarians believe themselves to have
done. They have found in the past history of their church _several_
examples authorizing an interpretation of the canons conformable to their
wishes; amongst others, that of Peter the Great, who, _without ever
ceasing to be considered orthodox_, abolished the patriarchate of Moscow,
instituted the Synod, made it the principal authority of the Russian
Church, and declared himself to be the “Supreme Judge” thereof; after
which he informed the Oriental patriarchs of what had happened, and
demanded of them an approbation which he was fully determined to do
without, in case it should be refused. The crime of the Bulgarians
consisted in interpreting the canons as they had been interpreted by the
numerous bishops who had not on that account been, by any means, expelled
from the church; and if the letter of the Russian Synod, the mandatory of
the Russian episcopate at the council of 1872, blamed them, besides that,
in their revolt, they were sustained by Russia.(194) The Bulgarians called
to mind that it was Russia, too, which had the most strenuously labored to
induce the Patriarch of Constantinople to recognize the independence of
the Church of the Hellenic kingdom as an accomplished fact. With memories
such as these, the anathema of the Council of Constantinople of 1872 could
scarcely disquiet the Bulgarians.

And this is not all. This council made a decision which is, in truth, a
_doctrinal_ decision by declaring that the exterior constitution of the
church is independent of the principle of nationality, and in condemning
the application of this principle to the church, as being contrary to the
Scriptures and to the Fathers. By what right did this council, not being
ecumenical, make a decision of this kind, and what value could it possess?
Will it be said that this council did nothing more than define and affirm
what was contained in the Scriptures and the Fathers? It was precisely
this to which the Bulgarians would not agree, and of which the Patriarch
of Jerusalem—to mention him only—was by no means convinced; in short, that
which only a truly ecumenical council could _authoritatively_ decide. In
presence of a merely nominal doctrinal authority, it was perfectly natural
that the Bulgarians should keep their own view of the matter.

But still more embarrassing by far would be the consequences resulting to
the Orthodox Church if it were admitted that this council possessed a
really doctrinal authority, and that its decisions were obligatory on the
consciences of the orthodox faithful. In this case the Orthodox Church
would have added yet another definition to those already recorded in the
seven Ecumenical Councils allowed by her. This church has always boasted
of having _added nothing_ to the doctrine expressed in the seven
Ecumenical Councils, in which, according to her, the Holy Ghost has
deposited, _once for all_,(195) whatever it is necessary to believe. She
is so persuaded that nothing can be added to them that she takes pleasure
in recognizing in these councils the seven pillars of wisdom, the seven
mysterious seals, spoken of by S. John—pillars and seals which will
eternally remain seven in number, without any possible chance of reaching
even to the number eight. Therefore it is that she throws in our faces our
western councils and their definitions, and therefore that she reproaches
us with _new dogmas_. But the Immaculate Conception of Mary and the
doctrinal Infallibility of the Pope—these two dogmas which the church has
found in the Scriptures and in the Fathers—were they newer in the eyes of
the Bulgarians than the dogma defined at the Council of Constantinople in
1872, that “the church, in her exterior constitution, is independent of
the principle of nationality”—a dogma condemned, implicitly at least, by
the previous practice of a large portion of the Orthodox Church?

Finally, why should the Bulgarians have submitted to the decision of a
particular council—a decision, carried by the Greeks _judices in causâ
propriâ_, when the Russian Church, as all the world knew, thought so
lightly of the doctrine and practice of the whole Greek Church in a matter
of far greater importance, _the validity of baptism_? Baptism by infusion
is in fact recognized at St. Petersburg and Moscow as valid, while at
Constantinople it is null and void. A Protestant or a Catholic baptized by
infusion, who should ask to be received into the Orthodox Church, would be
accepted unconditionally in Russia: but at Constantinople he would be
required to be rebaptized. A Christian in the dominions of the czar, he
would become a pagan at Constantinople; and yet this is one and the same
church!(196)

Yes, the shock has been given. The Council of Constantinople of 1872 has
not been able to hinder the defection of the Bulgarians, but it has
attracted the attention of the Christian world to the fact that the
Orthodox Church has no authority which can force consciences to reject as
heretical the application to the exterior constitution of the church,
either of the principle of nationality, or any other principle upon which
might be based the political constitution of nations. And further, the
acts of the Council of Constantinople of 1872 give evidence of the
hesitation and uncertainty existing among the representatives of the
orthodox faith(197) with regard to a question so momentous, and which
concerns the very life of that church. The shock has been given. Error has
a terrible logic. Where will the divisions, the sub‐divisions, and the
parcellings‐out of the orthodox communion end?

And what consequences may result from the want of exterior unity, not only
for the independence, but also for the faith, of the church, we have just
glanced at; but it will be revealed by the _Ecclesiastical Regulation_ in
a manner more convincing and more sad.

Assuredly the future had not been foreseen when, in the _Confession of the
Orthodox Faith_, the great catechism of the whole Oriental Church, it was
considered sufficient to explain as follows the unity of the church:

“The church is one, ... according to the teaching of the apostle: _For I
have espoused you to one husband, that I may present you as a chaste
virgin to Christ_ (2 Cor. xi. 2). For even as there is but one Christ,
even so his spouse can be but one; as it is written in the fourth chapter
of the Epistle of S. Paul to the Ephesians (iv. 5, 6): _One Lord, one
faith, one baptism: there is but one God, the Father of all._”(198)

Nor was the future any more foreseen when, in the catechism of Mgr.
Philarete, the unity of the church was defined:(199)

“Q. Why is the church one?

“A. Because she represents one _spiritual_ body, animated by one sole and
only divine Spirit, and having one head only, who is Christ.”

Let us now turn away our gaze from the Orthodox Church, in which the
terrible declaration of Jesus Christ finds only too fully its
accomplishment. Another church appears before us. She is not a divided
kingdom: on the contrary, if there be one characteristic mark by which she
may be at once recognized by all who seek for her, it is the imposing
unity of her exterior organization. The pope forms this unity. Let us ask
of history what the pope has done for the church.

And history answers: The pope has saved the church. The pope alone has
been able to hinder this church from breaking up, as the Orthodox Church
has done, into so many national churches, at first under the protection,
then under the authority, and finally under the rod, of sovereigns who
were at first kings, then presidents of a republic, sometimes
Robespierres. It is the pope, and the pope only, who has maintained, not
merely the vague notion, but the living sentiment of Catholic fraternity—a
sentiment which inspires the adversaries of the church with a fear which,
in spite of themselves, they betray. It is the pope, and the pope alone,
who has caused the sap of Christian piety to circulate in the whole
Catholic world, by the honors of the altars accorded to the saints of
every land, and by those institutions which, originating in one country,
belong to all countries, as powerful, in the realization of their vast
aspirations, as zeal and charity themselves. It is the pope who makes the
treasures of virtue and learning which he discovers in any particular
locality the common property of the world—in a word, it is the pope who
causes the church always to survive, not only the enemies who desire her
death, not only the false prophets who, for centuries past, have gone on
announcing this death as imminent, but all kingdoms and all empires, their
institutions, and even their remembrance. This is what the pope is for the
Catholic Church.

Thus we see, on the one side, division, and, as its consequence, the
dissolution foretold by Jesus Christ; on the other side, unity, and, with
unity, victory and strength. This is the signification of the church
having or not having a pope. Besides, the unity of government is so
necessary to arrest the indefinite parcelling out of one church into a
number of independent churches, and as a safeguard to the common faith,
that each separate branch of the Orthodox Eastern Church has not been able
to maintain its integrity without the aid of a supreme and central
authority. Instead of the pope, this is a patriarch, or it is a synod, or
it is the sovereign of the country, but everywhere and always the very
adversaries of the Papacy themselves render an involuntary homage to the
Catholic dogma which declares a visible head, a pope, necessary to the
church.

Yes, a pope is necessary for the church—necessary to her existence, and
necessary for the fulfilment of her mission.

Let us consider it with regard to the most powerful of the various
branches of the orthodox communion—the Russian Church. Even could this
church (by hypothesis) maintain herself alone, and could she continue her
work without the operation of the laws; could she alone combat unbelief,
and alone make head against impious governments, the pope would be none
the less necessary for her. And why? Because the Russian Church calls
herself _Catholic_; that is, _universal_. Now, it is not enough for a
church which calls itself Catholic, and the one church of the Saviour of
all, to be able to maintain her ground in that part of the world in which
she is now enclosed; it is not enough that she should combat unbelief in
the empire of the czars, nor that she should be able to resist an impious
government which may succeed to theirs.

If she is Catholic, she ought, the Russian Church herself, to be equal to
penetrating _everywhere_, and everywhere to maintain herself; to combat
_everywhere_ heresy and unbelief, and everywhere to sustain collision with
the government. If she is Catholic, let her issue from the limits of the
country of the czars, and at least _attempt_ the conquest of Italy,
Germany, France, England, all Europe; America, the whole world; let her,
in the name of Jesus Christ, utter words of authority to the conquerors of
the earth, brave the hatred which the consciousness of her rights would
draw upon her, and dare to declare to crowned heads that all Christians
belong to her; let her not confine herself to raising in capital cities
Russian temples for the use of the Russian embassies, but let her require
every government to recognize the orthodox worship; let her missionaries
penetrate, whether welcomed or repelled, into all the countries of the
earth with the sole credentials of the apostles, and, strong in this
single right, let them return whither they are driven out, and sprinkle
with their blood the soil wherein they sow the seed of orthodoxy. Then,
and only then, will the Russian Church show herself Catholic; that is to
say, universal; that is to say, the church of the Saviour of all. Until
then in vain may she call herself Catholic while the title is denied by
the fact.

But these things the Russian Church will never be able to accomplish
without a pope.

From whom, in fact, will her priests hold their commission? To whom will
they recur for counsel, protection, and support? In whose name will they
speak to governments and kings? To whom will they refer the latter to
authenticate the validity of their mission, to propose objections, or to
lodge complaints? If we except Russia, Turkey, the Hellenic kingdom,
Roumania, Servia, and some provinces of the Austro‐Hungarian Empire, the
rest of the world is missionary ground for the Orthodox Church, just as
much as is China for the Catholic Church. Let us suppose the Russian
Church wishing only to undertake the conversion of France. Paris already
possesses a Russian temple; it is now the Synod, in concert with the
government, which nominates the persons attached to this temple. When the
official church shall have fallen, and all the Russian bishops shall be
canonically equal, or at least independent of each other, to which among
them will the charge of this mission belong?

Paris is a place to stimulate the zeal of many bishops. It is allowable to
believe that a settlement will not be very quickly made. Let us suppose it
made, however, and moreover that even there is established a college _De
Propaganda Fide Orthodoxâ_ at St. Petersburg or Moscow. What would be the
attitude of the Greek Church of Constantinople? Will the latter possess,
or will she not possess, the right to evangelize France, and there to
exercise ecclesiastical jurisdiction? If it be allowed that she has this
right, the same question presents itself also for the three patriarchates
of Antioch, Alexandria, and Jerusalem; it also presents itself for the
Greek Church of the Hellenic kingdom, for the Church of Roumania, for that
of Servia, for the Orthodox Church of the Austro‐Hungarian Empire, and
even for that of Montenegro. Here is already an accumulation and
intermingling of jurisdictions liable to give rise to numerous contests.
Who shall decide amongst them? Will they come to a mutual agreement? But
an agreement will be everlastingly impossible between the Greek and
Russian Churches, at least so long as the question of the validity of
baptism by infusion remains undecided. We will say Catholics are to be
“converted” to orthodoxy: the Russian ministers will not rebaptize them.
The Greek Church knows it—this church, as we have just said, which regards
baptism by infusion as null. If the Greek Church consents that the Russian
missionaries shall evangelize France, it declares, by that consent, that
baptism is no longer necessary for belonging to the church. If, however,
she opposes their so doing, who is to decide between them? And the simple
ones who had previously let themselves be incorporated into the Russian
Church—would they be very certain that they really belonged to the church?
Which, then, will be the true missionaries?

We confine ourselves to this example. Let us apply ourselves carefully to
realize, in imagination, what would be the situation of a church
attempting to do without a pope that which must be done by a church
believing herself divine, and invested by God with a commission to convert
the world—wishing to do, without a pope, what is done by the Catholic
Church every day. Then it will be easy to understand whether there can be
a divine church without a pope.

And this pope, without which the Russian Church will never be the
universal church of Jesus Christ nor fulfil the mission of that
church—where would she seek him? Would she, on account of the needs
created by her new situation, confer upon one of the bishops all the
authority which is now concentrated in the hands of the Synod? Will she
say to him, Help me to fulfil the mission of converting the world? But
this charge, this part, would it not with greater right belong to the
Patriarch of Constantinople, who, so powerful is the need of unity, has
already declared, upon one solemn occasion, that on him rests the _care of
all the churches?_(200) We are supposing in the Russian Church, and in the
other branches of the orthodox communion, enough self‐denial to consent to
this. But when this great event shall have been accomplished, what will
have been done?

It will have been acknowledged before the face of all the world that it is
not Rome who made the schism. It will have been confessed that during ten
centuries it has been charged as a crime upon the Catholic Church that she
has not sacrificed that which, after ten centuries of disasters, the
Eastern Church has found it necessary to force herself to regain under
pain of ceasing to exist. There will have been rendered to the Catholic
Church the most splendid of testimonies, in confessing that she alone
possesses the true sense of the words of Jesus Christ, and that the rock
on which Jesus Christ has built his church is Peter.

Indeed, from that day forward there will be no more excuse for schism.
Between a rock designated by men of the XIXth century, and that rock of
which the manifest existence goes back to Jesus Christ himself, and has
been pointed out by him, who that but knows how to read and write can
hesitate for an instant?

Such, therefore, is the alternative: either the Orthodox Church will be
forced to give herself a pope, to show that she is really that which she
entitles herself, “Catholic,” or universal, and to fulfil the mission
imposed by this name, or she will never be able to justify her
appreciation of this title. What will happen in the former case, we have
just said; if, on the contrary, the Orthodox Church delays to give herself
a pope, the rapid march of events, and the revolutionary storm from which
neither Russia nor the East will by any means be preserved, will, before
very long, prove to us that it is not upon the sand that Jesus Christ has
built his church.

To Be Concluded Next Month.




Burke And The Revolution.


Bacon’s grand testamentary vindication of his life, “bequeathing his name
and memory to foreign nations and his own countrymen after some time be
passed over,” might have been written with even greater justice of
himself—because free from any imputation of moral weakness—by the master‐
mind of the XVIIIth century in England in the domain of political
philosophy—Edmund Burke, the illustrious orator and statesman, the author
of _Reflections on the Revolution in France_. To‐day, when France,
“incessantly agitated by a propaganda of the most pernicious
doctrines,”(201) still vindicates the sagacity which foresaw the
disastrous course of the Revolution, while England, which he saved from
the same propaganda, uninterruptedly illustrates the “beneficial influence
of the regular action of the public powers,” it may not be amiss to recall
some of the opinions to which he gave utterance at the beginning of the
storm. Burke’s genius, like Bacon’s, was indeed too refulgent not to be
acknowledged even in his own day. But the burning questions upon the
discussion of which and their solution, so far as human reason can go, he
has built up an enduring fame—_monumentum ære perennius_—lighted up
passions too gigantic and furious in the tremendous conflict then
inaugurated to allow of contemporary justice being done to his labors. Nor
did their negatory influence upon his fame end with his death; two allied
causes have conspired to partially obscure the clear and immortal flame of
his genius, even to our time:

First, the jealousy of the political and literary followers of Charles
James Fox.

Second, the inimical spirit of the Revolution.

Burke, as it is well known, had to contend, during his parliamentary
career, not only against the Tory prejudices of the country party,
represented by such men as William Lord Bagot and Col. Onslow, but also
against the ill‐concealed jealousy and oligarchical exclusiveness of his
nominal allies, the Whig aristocracy. But this influence of caste, which
in his lifetime placed over his head his political pupil, Charles Fox, as
the representative of the Whig family compacts, has been succeeded since
his death by a more acrimonious spirit of personal jealousy in defence of
the fame of his younger rival. The partisans of Fox have never been able
to forgive Burke’s renunciation of his alliance with the eloquent Whig
leader; and so large a share of literary and political criticism during
the last half‐century has come from the pens of that small but popular
band of writers who took their inspiration from the traditions of Holland
House, that the acknowledgment of Burke’s profound and prophetic genius
has been unduly circumscribed by the desire of elevating the “great man”
of the family. Macaulay and Earl Russell have given expression to this
feeling; the former by covertly insinuating a doubt of Burke’s judgment,
while lavishly extolling the splendor of his imagination; the latter by
open denunciation of his course at the outbreak of the Revolution; Earl
Russell with unconscious self‐satire quoting these lines from La Fontaine:


    “L’homme est de feu pour le mensonge
    Il est de glace pour la vérité.”


The efforts of a powerful literary and family connection to elevate its
idol, Charles Fox, at the expense of Burke, have had, however, but small
effect in limiting the measure of the latter’s fame, compared with the
hostile spirit of revolution animating the current periodical literature
of England and America. If the apostles of the Revolution, who steal
Burke’s thunder without acknowledgment, when it suits their purpose,
against the despotism of power, could bury out of sight his protests
against that worse despotism of unchained human passions, which is their
ideal of liberty, they would gladly place him in their Pantheon. But the
mind of the great political philosopher was too grandly comprehensive to
be narrowed within the grooves of that fashionable “liberalism” which
covers even the basest tyranny, if directed against the Catholic Church.
His humanity was too broad and true not to be aroused into flaming
denunciation of the abuse of power, whether it assumed the shape of
“opulent oppression” in India or democratic priest‐slaughter in France.
Hence it is that Burke holds but a half‐allegiance of the Liberal party;
that his fame has been, as it were, truncated, so far as they have been
able to effect it; and that his magnificent vindications of the cause of
liberty, bounded by no limitations of race, government, or creed, are
circumscribed in their minds by his ante‐revolutionary labors.

But it is not in the power of any class of critics, least of all of the
light artillery of “liberalism,” to narrow or permanently diminish Burke’s
kingdom over human thought. His fame will not be dependent upon the
fashion of this or any single age. The _consensus_ of humanity has crowned
him among the Immortals. When Macaulay and Russell shall have become
obscure names, the works of Burke will endure as monuments of our
civilization. His place will be with Demosthenes and Cicero, and in the
estimation of a more remote posterity he will probably overtop them both.

The long, lean figure, with spectacles on nose, once familiar to the
caricaturists of the third George’s reign, has faded a good deal from the
eyes of the present generation. We now turn over with a smile the prints
of the “concealed Jesuit” from S. Omer’s, _barrette_ on head, and long
_soutane_ clinging to his heels; or the more portly figure of the
highwayman, blunderbuss in hand, waylaying, in company with North and Fox,
the “savior of India” (Warren Hastings); or the “Watchman” of the
constitution, in heavy cloak, lantern in hand, and spectacles on the
formidable nose, ferreting out the revolutionary preacher, Dr. Price, in
his midnight study. The gravers of Gilray and Sayer have yielded to those
of the caricaturists for _Punch_. The figures of Gladstone, Disraeli, and
Bright have supplanted those of Pitt, Fox, and Burke. The great orator and
statesman has taken his place as a classic on the shelves of all
libraries, but is popularly known only by a few rounded extracts from his
speeches, or by Macaulay’s description of the entrance on the
parliamentary stage of Lord Rockingham’s young Irish secretary, “who to an
eloquence surpassing the eloquence of Pitt, and an industry that shamed
the industry of Grenville, united an amplitude of comprehension to which
neither Pitt nor Grenville could lay claim.” But if Burke has shared the
fate of all great writers not strictly popular in being conventionally
admired but practically neglected by the general reader, no political
author is more diligently studied by the “middlemen” of thought, the
makers and leaders of public opinion. He is the private tutor of public
teachers; the _vade mecum_ of the orator and politician. Most of the
questions of political ethics which have been the subjects of discussion
during the present century have been profoundly treated of by him.
Catholic emancipation, parliamentary reform, the freedom of the press,
ministerial responsibility, the relations of church and state, the
abolition of the slave trade, the amelioration of the criminal law—all
have received from him their most ample and brilliant illustration.

Of all the events of his time, however, the Revolution of 1789 gave the
chief exercise to his powers. Born in 1730, he was then at the zenith of
his fame, in the full maturity of his massive yet acute intellect. Earl
Russell’s senile complaint in his life of Fox of “the wreck of his
(Burke’s) judgment” betrays only the dotage of his own. Advancing age had
better fitted him for the contest. His mind had, as Macaulay truly says,
bloomed late into flower, although the rhetoric of the essayist has
caricatured the sterility of his youth. The giant trunk was now crowned
with a luxuriant and graceful foliage, which added to its beauty, while it
detracted nothing from its strength. The experience of “his long and
laborious life,” the accumulated stores of his prodigious industry,
furnished him with weapons of finest temper and irresistible force. Thus
armed, stepping to the front as the champion of civilization and religion
against the Giant Despair which had broken its bonds in Europe, it was
with striking appropriateness that his friend, Sir Joshua Reynolds,
applied to him, at the moment of his rupture with Fox and the opposition,
the lines written under the engraving of 1790 from the portrait of
1775—lines in which Milton describes the faithful Abdiel striding forth,
solitary, from amid the rebel host:


    “So spake the fervent angel, but his zeal
    None seconded: .....
    ...... Unmoved,
    Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified,
    His loyalty he kept, his love, his zeal;
    Nor number nor example with him wrought
    To move from truth, or change his constant mind,
    Though single. From amidst forth he passed
    Long way through hostile scorn, nor of violence feared aught;
    And with retorting scorn, his back he turned
    On those proud towers to swift destruction doomed.”


The efforts of Burke’s single mind at this critical moment decided the
course of events in England. His speeches in Parliament and the
publication of his _Reflections on the Revolution in France_ aroused a
national feeling that all the efforts of the revolutionary propagandists
were unable to stem; which Pitt followed rather than led; and which
enabled England to carry on without flinching, to a triumphant close, the
long and bloody war in national self‐defence into which she was driven by
the aggressive spirit of the Revolution. Pitt only gave utterance to the
national feeling when he declared at the close of Burke’s speech on the
Army Estimates, in which he flung down the gauntlet to the Revolution,
“that not only the present generation but the latest posterity would
revere his name for the decided part he had that day taken.”

It was Burke’s fortune to witness the temporary triumph, but not the
succeeding repulse, of the first outbreak of the Revolution. He died at
the full tide of its fury. Yet the tremendous blows he dealt its
principles, single‐handed, before all that was mortal of him was laid at
rest at Beaconsfield, undoubtedly saved England from succumbing to its
influence in his own day, and their conservative force is still felt in
the government of that country. “This man,” said Schlegel, “has been to
his own country and to all Europe—and, in a particular manner, to all
Germany—a new light of political wisdom and moral experience. He corrected
his age when it was at the height of its revolutionary fury; and without
maintaining any system of philosophy, he seems to have seen further into
the true nature of society, and to have more clearly comprehended the
effect of religion in connecting individual security with national
welfare, than any philosopher or any system of philosophy of any preceding
age.” True words, and worthy of attention at this moment, when Germany has
entered on a new and dangerous course of political action.

From the first mutterings of the revolutionary storm Burke had distrusted
its character and future violence. Alarmed by what he had seen of the
undisguised levity and scepticism of Parisian society during his visit to
France in 1772, he had taken occasion in one of his speeches, as early as
1773, to point out “this conspiracy of atheism to the watchful eyes of
European governments.” The outrages in the name of liberty which were
simultaneous with its outburst determined his course, although his keen
political vision had long before penetrated the hollowness of its
professions. The old political gladiator, “in whose breast,” as he proudly
and truly said of himself, “no anger, durable or vehement, had ever been
kindled but by what he considered as tyranny”; whose potent voice had re‐
echoed across the Western ocean in support of the American colonist, had
pleaded for the African slave and Hindoo laborer, and had instilled fresh
hope, in the broken heart of the Irish “Papist,” roused himself now to his
last and most powerful effort in defence of the fugitive French
“aristocrat” and hunted priest.

“I have struggled,” he said, “to the best of my power against two great
evils, growing out of the most sacred of all things—liberty and authority.
I have struggled against the licentiousness of freedom, I have contended
against the tyranny of power.” Nearly ten years before, in his speech on
the Marriage Act, defending himself against the charges of “aristocrat”
and “radical” which had been alternately levelled against him, he had
predicted his course in these noble words:


    “When indeed the smallest rights of the poorest people in the
    kingdom are in question, I would set my face against any act of
    pride countenanced by the highest that are in it; and if it should
    come to the last extremity, and a contest of blood, my course is
    taken. I would take my fate with the poor, and low, and feeble.
    But if these people come to turn their liberty into a cloak for
    mischievousness, and to seek a privilege of exemption, not from
    power, but from the rules of morality and virtuous discipline, I
    would join my hand to make them feel the force which a few united
    in a good cause have over a multitude of the profligate and
    ferocious.”


Burke’s theory of true reform, illustrated by the honorable labors of his
whole public career, was in fact so radically opposed to that of the
French constitution makers that no standing‐ground common to both could be
found. He foresaw plainly enough what were the secret aims and aspirations
of the revolutionary leaders from the first, whatever might be their
humanitarian professions; that whatever their changes of leaders or
watchwords, their goal would always be the same—the destruction of
existing society; not reparation, but ruin. He would have seen in M.
Gambetta’s programme of a _nouvelle couche sociale_, enunciated at
Grenoble in 1872, only a new reading of M. Marat’s schemes of universal
confiscation in 1792. Neither would have found more favor in his eyes than
in those of any English reformer from S. Thomas à Becket to Hampden. He
believed with Bacon that there could be no wise design of reform which did
not set out with the determination “to weed, to prune, and to graft,
rather than to plough up and plant all afresh.” Sixty years afterwards
another writer, after an elaborate and prolonged study of the _ancien
régime_, and a lifetime’s experience of the results of the Revolution,
arrived at the point from which Burke started. The writer was Alexis de
Tocqueville. Those who are familiar only with the _Democracy in America_,
the work of his inexperienced youth, would do well to read his _Memoir and
Letters_ by De Beaumont. Writing to M. Freslon in 1853, after the events
of 1848‐51 had pretty well cured him of liberalism, he said:


    “When one examines, as I am doing at Tours, the archives of an
    ancient provincial government, one finds a thousand reasons for
    hating the _ancien régime_, but few for loving the Revolution; for
    one sees that the _ancien régime_ was rapidly sinking under the
    weight of years and a gradual change of ideas and manners, so
    that, with a little patience and good conduct, it might have been
    reformed without destroying indiscriminately all that was good in
    it with all that was bad. It is curious to see how different was
    the government of 1780 from that of 1750. One does not recognize
    the government or the governed. The Revolution broke out not when
    evils were at their worst, but when reform was beginning. Halfway
    down the staircase we threw ourselves out of the window, in order
    to get sooner to the bottom” (_Memoir and Remains_, vol. ii. pp.
    242, 243, Eng. ed.)


Burke had an invincible distrust of the crude theories and rash
speculations of the _doctrinaires_ of the Revolution. “Follow experience
and common sense,” he says in a hundred different ways; “these are the
arguments of statesmen! Leave the rest to the schools, where only they may
be debated with—safety.” “In politics,” he says, “the most fallacious of
all things is geometrical demonstration.” Again: “The majors make a
pompous figure in the battle, but the victory of truth depends upon the
little minors of circumstances.” He compares the socialist theorist ready
to plunge into the volcano of revolutionary experiment to the Sicilian
sophist—_ardentem frigidus Ætnam insiluit_. The atrocious principles of
the literary and philosophical guides of the Revolution seemed to him
almost more portentous than the brutalities of the mob. “Never before this
time,” he says, “was a set of literary men converted into a gang of
robbers and assassins. Never before did a den of bravoes and banditti
assume the garb and tone of an academy of philosophers.”

Remarkable sayings then, and true of experience anterior to his time. But
had Burke lived in our day, he would have witnessed with astonishment the
full development of the spirit he denounced, in the terrible spectacle of
an aggressive infidel philosophy, and an almost universal infidel press,
sometimes truculent, sometimes frivolous, but always shamelessly boastful
of its pagan principles. He would have seen a school of pseudo‐philosophy
professing its open design to destroy the foundations of revealed
religion; filled with the spirit of the apostate Julian; as audacious and
boastful as he, but destined to meet as shameful an end.

Let us compare, then, Burke’s theory of true liberty, and his opinion of
what France might have gained by a large and loyal measure of reform, with
the desperate counsels and futile outrages which followed the surrender of
the movement by the French conservatives into the hands of the Jacobins.
“You would,” he says, had such a course as he recommended been pursued,
“have rendered the cause of liberty venerable in the eyes of every worthy
mind in every nation. You would have shamed despotism from the earth by
showing that freedom was not only reconcilable, but, as when well
disciplined it is, auxiliary to law. You would have had a protected,
satisfied, laborious, and obedient people, taught to seek and recognize
that happiness is to be found by virtue in all conditions; in which
consists the true moral equality of mankind, and not in that monstrous
fiction which, by inspiring false ideas and vain expectations into men
destined to travel in the obscure walks of laborious life, serves only to
aggravate and embitter that real inequality which it never can remove.”

Burke’s frequent definitions of true liberty are as beautiful as they are
true. “You hope, sir,” he says, writing to De Menonville, “that I think
the French deserving of liberty. I certainly do. I certainly think all men
who desire it deserve it. It is not the reward of our merit or the
acquisition of our industry. It is our inheritance. It is the birthright
of our species. We cannot forfeit our right to it but by what forfeits our
title to the privileges of our kind. I mean the abuse or oblivion of our
natural faculties, and a ferocious indocility which is prompt to wrong or
violence, destroys our social nature, and transforms us into something a
little better than a description of wild beast. To men so degraded a state
of strong restraint is a sort of necessary substitute for freedom, since,
bad as it is, it may deliver them in some measure from the worst of all
slavery, that is, the despotism of their own blind and brutal passions.
You have kindly said that you began to love freedom from your intercourse
with me. Permit me, then, to continue our conversation, and to tell you
what that freedom is that I love. It is not solitary, unconnected,
individual, selfish liberty. It is social freedom. It is that state of
things in which the liberty of no man and no body of men is in a condition
to trespass on the liberty of any person or any description of persons in
society. The liberty, the only liberty, I mean, is a liberty connected
with order; that not only exists along with virtue and order, but which
cannot exist without them.”

“Am I,” he asks, in answer to the shibboleth of the “rights of man,”—“am I
to congratulate a highwayman and murderer, who has broke prison, upon the
recovery of his natural rights? This would be to act over again the case
of the criminals condemned to the galleys and their heroic deliverer, the
knight of the ’sorrowful countenance.’”

If we turn from Burke’s satire upon the revolutionary actors to his
opinions on its probable onward course and changing fortunes, we shall
find a series of the most remarkable political prophecies on record. At a
time when Fox and the opposition hailed the Revolution as already
accomplished, with nothing before it but a future of ideal progress and
happiness; when Pitt and the government seemed lulled into a still more
fatal inaction, Burke proclaimed in decisive tones that the contest
between socialism and all constituted governments had only begun. We group
together a few of these remarkable predictions, which time has so amply
verified: “He proposed to prove,” he said in his _Appeal from the New to
the Old Whigs_, “that the present state of things in France is not a
transient evil, productive, as some have too favorably supposed, of a
lasting good; but that the present evil is only the means of producing
future and, if that were possible, worse evils. That this is not an
undigested, imperfect, and crude scheme of liberty, which may be gradually
mellowed and ripened into an orderly and social freedom; but that it is so
fundamentally wrong as to be incapable of correcting itself by any length
of time.” Again: “We are not at the end of our struggle or near it. Let us
not deceive ourselves; we are at the beginning of great troubles.”
Predicting the changing features of the Revolution, he said: “In its
present form it can hardly remain; but before its final settlement it may
have to pass, as one of our poets says, ’through great varieties of
untried being,’ and in all its transmigrations to be purified by fire and
sword.” The very spirit of the Commune is thus foreshadowed in a letter to
M. de Menonville, 1790: “But if the same ends should hereafter require the
same course which had been already pursued, there is no doubt but the same
ferocious delight in murder and the same savage cruelty will be again
renewed.” _Tous les évêques a la lanterne_ was the watchword of both
outbreaks of the Revolution.

Compare with these sayings the remarks, fifty years later, of another
observer, of great acuteness, but moulded in less heroic proportions than
Burke. “This day fifty‐one years,” writes De Tocqueville, the author of
_Democracy in America_, “the French Revolution commenced, and, after the
destruction of so many men and institutions, we may say it is still going
on. Is not this reassuring to the nations that are only just beginning
theirs?”(202) De Tocqueville, it is well known, during the early part of
his career, was tainted with the prevalent liberal Catholicism of his day
in France. He wished to unite the church with the Revolution—chimerical
task, of which advancing years and experience convinced him of the sinful
folly! Happily for himself, he died a good Catholic in the bosom of the
church.


    “I scarcely dare hope,” he says, “to see a regular government,
    strong and at the same time liberal, established in our country.
    This ideal was, as you know, the dream of my youth, and likewise
    of the portion of my mature age that has passed. Is it possible
    still to believe in its realization? For a long time I thought
    (but long before February this belief had been much shaken) that
    we had been making our way over a stormy sea, on which we were
    still tossing, but that the port was at hand. Was I not wrong? Are
    we not on a rolling sea that has no shore? Or is not the land so
    distant, so unknown, that our lives and those of our children may
    pass away before it is reached, or, at least, before any
    settlement is made upon it?... I am indeed alarmed at the state of
    the public mind. It is far from betokening the close of a
    revolution. At the time it was said, and to this day it is
    commonly repeated, that the insurgents of June were the dregs of
    the populace; that they were all outcasts of the basest
    description, whose only motive was lust for plunder. Such, of
    course, were many of them. But it is not true that they were all
    of this kind; would to God that they had been! Such wretches are
    always a small minority; they never prevail; they are imprisoned
    or executed, and all is over. In the insurrection of June, besides
    bad passions, there were, what are far more dangerous, false
    opinions. Many of the men who attempted to overthrow the most
    sacred rights were carried away by an erroneous notion of right.
    They sincerely believed that society was based upon injustice, and
    they wished to give it another foundation. [Compare Gambetta’s
    _nouvelle couche sociale._] Our bayonets and our cannon will never
    destroy this revolutionary fanaticism. It will create for us
    dangers and embarrassments without end. Finally, I begin to ask
    myself whether anything solid or durable can be built on the
    shifting basis of our society? Whether it will support even a
    despotism, which many people, tired of storms, would, for want of
    a better, hail as a haven? We did not see this great revolution in
    human society begin; we shall not see it end. If I had children, I
    should always be repeating this to them, and should tell them that
    in this age and in this country one ought to be fit for
    everything, and prepared for everything, for no one can count on
    the future.”(203)


A conversation apropos of a Benedictine survivor of 1789, given from Mr.
Senior’s _Journal_ (_Memoir_, vol. ii. p. 1), illustrates the final
opinion of the author of _Democracy in America_ upon the Revolution. It
took place only one year before his death:


    “And what effect,” I asked, “has the contemplation of seventy
    years of revolution produced on him (the Benedictine)? Does he
    look back, like Talleyrand, to the _ancien régime_ as a golden
    age?” “He admits,” said Tocqueville, “the material superiority of
    our own age, but he believes that intellectually and morally we
    are far inferior to our grandfathers. And I agree with him. These
    seventy years of revolution have destroyed our courage, our
    hopefulness, our self‐reliance, our public spirit, and, as
    respects by far the majority of our higher classes, our passions,
    except the vulgarest and most selfish ones, vanity and
    covetousness. Even ambition seems extinct. The men who seek power
    seek it not for itself, not as a means of doing good to their
    country but as a means of getting money and flatterers.”(204)


What more remarkable testimony to Burke’s prophetic vision could be
offered?

If any were needed, it would be found in an opposite quarter, in the
revelations of Cluseret and his accomplices as to the premeditated burning
of Paris and the destruction of the Vendôme Column in 1871, viewed in
connection with Burke’s positive and reiterated assertions that the worst
excesses of 1789 were not the result of sudden passion, nor accidental,
“as some believed or pretended to believe, but were systematically
designed from the beginning.” It is known that among his correspondents in
1789‐90 were the notorious Tom Paine and the eccentric cosmopolite,
Anacharsis Baron de Clootz, both of whom strove to enlist Burke in the
defence of the revolutionary cause before he had decisively pronounced
himself. Paine and Clootz, congenial birds of prey, had both flown to
Paris (anticipating the course of their disciples in 1871), smelling the
approaching carnage afar off; and from them there is reason to believe
Burke gathered ample hints of the full measure of the revolutionary
programme. Striking also is Burke’s remark that the revolutionary
subdivision of France would induce a demand for communal or cantonal
independence. “These commonwealths,” he says, “will not long bear a state
of subjection to the republic of Paris”—a prediction wonderfully verified
by the attitude of Lyons and Marseilles during the late war and the period
of the Commune, as well as by the cantonal programme of the Spanish
revolutionists.

Burke’s theory of the true basis of government was as moderate and well
conceived as the revolutionary schemes were destructive and unsound. “We
know,” he says, “and, what is better, we feel, that religion is the basis
of society and the source of all good and all comfort. A man full of warm,
speculative benevolence may wish his society otherwise constituted than as
he finds it; but a good patriot and a true politician always considers how
he shall make the most of the existing constitution of his country. A
disposition to preserve and an ability to improve taken together, would be
my standard of a statesman. Everything else is vulgar in the conception,
perilous in the execution.” His defence of the cause of religion in
France, and his glowing tribute to the virtue and learning of the French
clergy, then, as now, the mark of the deadliest shafts of the Revolution,
are eloquent and inspiring, but too long to quote in this article.

Equally remarkable with Burke’s prophetic warnings of the successive
crimes and follies of the Revolution and its offspring, the Commune, are
his speculations on a supposed restoration of the monarchy. More than a
quarter of a century after his death their wisdom was illustrated in the
events of the inglorious reign of Charles X. His words are almost
startling in their applicability to the present posture of French affairs,
the Septennate, and the conflicting aspirations of the Comte de Chambord
and the Prince Imperial:


    “What difficulties,” he says, referring to a Restoration, in his
    letter on the policy of the allies, “will be met with in a
    country, exhausted by the taking of its capital, and among a
    people in a manner trained and actively disciplined to anarchy,
    rebellion, disorder, and impiety, may be conceived by those who
    know what Jacobin France is; who may have occupied themselves in
    revolving in their minds what they were to do if it fell to their
    lot to re‐establish the affairs of France. What support or what
    limitations the restored monarchy must have may be a doubt, or how
    it will settle or pitch at last; but one thing I conceive to be
    far beyond a doubt—that the settlement cannot be immediate, but
    that it must be preceded by some sort of power equal, at least in
    vigor, vigilance, promptness, and decision, to a military
    government. For such a preparatory government no slow‐paced,
    methodical, formal, lawyer‐like system; still less that of a
    showy, artificial, trifling, intriguing court, guided by cabals of
    ladies, or men like ladies; least of all a philosophic, theoretic,
    disputatious school of sophistry—none of these ever will, or ever
    can, lay the foundations of an order that will last.”


“A judicious, well‐tempered, and manly severity in the support of law and
order”—this was Burke’s advice to princes. He advocated freedom of the
press as understood in England; “but they indeed,” he said, “who seriously
write upon a principle of levelling, ought to be answered by the
magistrate, and not by the speculatist.” We conclude our quotations by the
following portrait of the “Legitimate Prince”:


    “Whoever,” says Burke, “claims a right by birth to govern there,
    must find in his breast, or conjure up in it, an energy not always
    to be expected, not always to be wished, in well‐ordered states.
    The lawful prince must have in everything but crime the character
    of an usurper. He is gone if he imagines himself the quiet
    possessor of a throne. He is to contend for it as much after an
    apparent conquest as before. His task is to win it. He must leave
    posterity to adorn and enjoy it. No velvet cushions for him. He is
    to be always—I speak nearly to the letter—on horseback. This
    opinion is the result of much patient thinking on the subject,
    which I conceive no event is likely to alter.”


Burke’s tremendous onslaught on the Revolution drew forth swarms of
opponents in his own day, most of whom are now forgotten. More than
emulating the besotted conceit of those early apologists of anarchy,
“liberal” writers are still to be found so infatuated with hostility to
the Catholic Church, so purblind to the experience of nearly a hundred
years—of the bloody chapters of 1793, of 1830, of 1848, of 1851, of
1871—so unawakened by the ruin the same accursed spirit has wrought in
Spain, as to be heard chanting the glories of the Revolution and bewailing
the possibility of “a priestly reaction” as the “destruction of all that
has been gained by the national agonies of the last century.” What has
been gained which would not have been gained in the gradual progress of
society? What rather has not been lost in national honor and domestic
virtue and happiness which would have been retained “if men had not been
quite shrunk,” as Burke said, “from their natural dimensions by a
degrading and sordid philosophy”? Let a witness like De Tocqueville
answer!

The great political philosopher’s warnings against the real spirit of the
Revolution are still worthy the attention of all governments. Time has
added to their value, not diminished it. “Against these, their ‘rights of
men,’ let no government,” he says, “look for security in the length of its
continuance or in the justice and lenity of its administration. They are
always at issue with governments, not on a question of abuse, but on a
question of competency and a question of title.”

His advice is vigorous and plain. “Never,” he says, “succumb to the enemy.
It is a struggle for your national existence. If you must die, die with
the sword in your hand! But I have no fear for the result!”




Robert Cavelier De La Salle. Concluded.


On the 6th of April La Salle discovered that the river was running through
three channels. The following day he divided his company into three
parties, of which he led the one that followed the western channel; the
Sieur de Tonty, accompanied by Father Membré, took the middle channel, and
the Sieur Dautray took the eastern channel. Father Membré relates that
these channels appeared to them “beautiful and deep.” The water began to
get brackish; then two leagues further down it became perfectly salt; and
now, O glorious sight!


    “The sea! the sea! the open sea,
    The blue, the fresh, the ever free,”


was spread out before the eager and enchanted eyes of those brave and
noble voyagers. Their first impulse was to return thanks to the King of
kings for the protecting arm of his providence, that had thus guided them
safely to this glorious consummation of their hopes; their second was to
honor the King of France for his favor and protection. For these purposes,
on the 9th of April, a cross and a column were erected with appropriate
ceremonies. The entire company, under arms, joined with the minister of
religion in chanting the hymn of the church, _Vexilla Regis_, and the _Te
Deum_, and then followed a discharge of their muskets and shouts of “Long
live the King!” The column bore the following inscription: “Louis the
Great, King of France and Navarre, reigns; the 9th of April, 1682.” At the
foot of a tree La Salle caused a leaden plate to be buried, bearing the
arms of France and a Latin inscription commemorative of the first
navigation of the Mississippi, from the Illinois to its mouth, by La
Salle, Tonty, Membré, and twenty Frenchmen. An authentic act, in the form
of a _procès verbal_, was drawn up by La Metairie, the notary of the
expedition, and signed by La Salle, Father Membré, Tonty, and the other
principal members of the company. La Salle took formal possession of the
country, which he was the first to call Louisiana, for the King of France;
also of the natives and people residing therein, the seas, harbors, and
all the streams flowing into the Mississippi. The great river itself he
called the St. Louis.

In the midst of their rejoicings they were suffering for food. They found
some dried meat prepared by the Indians, of which they partook with
relish, and, as the good missionary says, “It was very good and delicate.”
What must have been their feelings when they discovered that they had
partaken of human flesh! Scarcity of food compelled them to turn their
canoes up‐stream. La Salle paid a visit to the hostile Quinipissas, with
whom he resorted to his usual address to propitiate their friendship, and,
though invited to a banquet, his men partook of it with their guns at
their sides. A treacherous treaty of peace was entered into, but was used
as a cover for an attack next morning upon the Europeans. But the ever‐
watchful La Salle was prepared for them. The two parties were engaged in a
contest of two hours, in which the Quinipissas were worsted, and sustained
a loss of ten men killed and many wounded. This is the only occasion in
which the hostile dispositions of the natives did not yield to skill and
diplomacy. His men, exasperated at the conduct of the treacherous natives,
urged him to allow them to burn their village; but he adopted the wiser
and more humane policy of refraining from alienating still more by
unnecessary cruelty those whom he wished to make devout worshippers of the
King of heaven and loyal subjects of the King of France. During the
remainder of the return voyage, with the exception of the Koroas, who had
now become allies of the Quinipissas, he met with the same hospitable
treatment from the tribes on the banks of the river as he had received
while going down. They were now regaled on the fresh green corn of the
fields. La Salle with two canoes pushed forward from the Arkansas, in
advance of his party, as far as Fort Prudhomme. Here he became dangerously
ill, and could advance no further, and on the 2d of June was joined by the
entire company. His malady became so violent that he was compelled to send
Tonty forward to convey early information to the Comte de Frontenac of the
great discovery. Father Membré remained with La Salle, doing all in his
power to alleviate the sufferings of his cherished leader, whose illness
continued forty days. The expedition by slow advances reached the Miami
late in September, where they learned of several of Tonty’s military
expeditions undertaken after he left the main body. Intending to make the
voyage of the Mississippi again in the spring, and plant colonies along
its shores, La Salle appointed Father Membré his messenger to the king;
and this zealous man, accepting the commission with promptness, proceeded
to Quebec, and on the 2d of October sailed for France, to lay before the
French court accurate information of La Salle’s discoveries. During the
next ten or twelve months La Salle remained in the Illinois country,
cementing his friendly alliances with the Indians, and pushing forward his
trading interests. Having seen Fort St. Louis completed, he left Tonty in
command of it, and for his plan of colonization he substituted the project
of applying to the French government for co‐operation in a much more
extensive one. He reached Quebec early in November, and sailed for France
to render an account of his fulfilment of the royal orders, and to enlist
the good offices of the government in his future plans, and landed at
Rochelle on the 23d of December, 1683.

The following allusion to La Salle’s services to France in extending the
province of New France by the exploration of the Mississippi, by Gov.
Dongan, of the rival English province of New York, is interesting.
Alluding to a map of the country which he was sending home to his
superiors, Gov. Dongan writes: “Also, it points out where there’s a great
river discovered by one Lassal, a Frenchman from Canada, who thereupon
went into France, and, as it’s reported, brought two or three vessels with
people to settle there, which (if true) will prove very inconvenient to
us, but to the Spanish also (the river running all along from our lakes by
the back of Virginia and Carolina into the Bay of Mexico); and it’s
believed Nova Mexico cannot be far from the mountains adjoining it, that
place being in 36° North Latitude. If your lordships thought it fit, I
could send a sloop or two from this place to discover that river.”(205)

La Salle now conceived the plan of approaching the mouth of the
Mississippi by sea, exploring the country, and founding powerful colonies
therein. The evil reports of his enemies had preceded him to France, and
these were strengthened by the disparaging representations which De La
Barre, Frontenac’s successor as Governor of Canada, had been sending home.
But the Marquis de Seignelay, the son of the deceased minister Colbert,
again favored La Salle’s enterprises, and secured for them the favor of
the king. The government provided a fleet of four vessels for the
expedition: the _Joly_, a royal ship, a frigate of thirty‐six tons,
commanded by Capt. de Beaujeu, a Norman gentleman, who was also commander
of the squadron; the _Belle_, of six tons, a present from the king to La
Salle; the _Aimable_, a store‐ship of three hundred tons burden, on board
of which were the goods, implements, and effects of the expedition; and
the _St. Francis_, a ketch containing munitions and merchandise for San
Domingo. M. de Chevalier d’Aire was lieutenant to Capt. de Beaujeu, and
the Sieur de Hamel, a young gentleman full of fire and courage, his
ensign. Father Le Clercq, the narrator of the expedition, exclaims: “Would
to God the troops and rest of the crew had been as well chosen!”

A new commission was issued to La Salle, by which he was authorized to
found colonies in Louisiana, and to govern the vast country and its
inhabitants from Lake Michigan to the borders of Mexico. The commander of
the squadron was to be subject to his orders, except in navigating the
ships at sea—an arrangement which the jealous and sensitive mind of
Beaujeu permitted to embitter him against La Salle, and which led to
difficulties between them. Besides marines and one hundred soldiers, the
company to embark in the expedition amounted to about two hundred and
eighty persons, amongst whom were several persons of consideration. The
Sieur Moranget, and the Sieur Cavelier, nephews of La Salle, the latter
only fourteen years old; Planterose, Thibault, Ory, Joutel, Talon, a
Canadian gentleman with his family, and some other families, consisting of
men and young women, also joined the expedition as volunteers. One of La
Salle’s first cares was to provide for the spiritual wants of his
followers and colonists and the conversion of the heathen nations he
expected to visit. For ten years the zealous Recollect Fathers had
seconded and promoted the efforts of La Salle to Christianize the natives
of the New World, and he now made it an essential point to obtain some of
these holy men to accompany his great expedition. His application to their
superior, the Rev. Father Hyacinth le Febvre, was cordially complied with,
and accordingly Fathers Zenobe Membré, Anastace Donay, and Maxime Le
Clercq were selected from this order for the task. M. Tronçon, superior of
the Sulpitians, was not behind the Recollects in zeal for the good work,
and accordingly three secular priests, Cavelier, the brother of La Salle,
Chefdeville his relative, and Majulle, were chosen. These constituted the
ecclesiastical corps of the expedition. Nothing was left undone, either by
the superiors of the Recollects or of the Sulpitians, nor by the Holy See,
for carrying the faith of Christ to those remote and benighted regions.
Ample powers and privileges were conferred upon the good missionaries, so
as to relieve them from the necessity in emergencies of resorting to the
distant ordinary of Quebec.

But in selecting soldiers, artisans, and laborers, the most culpable
disregard of duty was chargeable to the agents of La Salle, who, while he
was engaged at Paris, filled up the ranks by receiving from the streets of
Rochelle worthless vagabonds and beggars, who were wholly ignorant of the
trades for which they were chosen. La Salle was only partially able to
remedy this evil before sailing. Bancroft thus describes the composition
of this part of the expedition: “But the mechanics were poor workmen, ill‐
versed in their art; the soldiers, though they had for commander Joutel, a
man of courage and truth, and afterwards the historian of the grand
enterprise, were themselves spiritless vagabonds, without discipline and
without experience; the volunteers were restless with indefinite
expectations; and, worst of all, the naval commander, Beaujeu, was
deficient in judgment, incapable of sympathy with the magnanimous heroism
of La Salle, envious, self‐willed, and foolishly proud.” La Salle arrived
at Rochelle on the 28th of May, 1684, and during his stay of some weeks
the unhappy misunderstanding between him and the commander of the
squadron, which proved so great a drawback on the enterprise, began to
manifest itself. The four vessels sailed from Rochelle on the 24th of
July, but the breaking of one of the masts of the _Joly_ in a storm caused
them to put in at Chef‐de‐Bois, and finally, on the 1st of August, they
set sail again, steering for San Domingo. During the voyage to San
Domingo, La Salle and Beaujeu could not proceed together with cordiality
or harmony, and the former was unfortunate in gaining the ill‐will of the
subordinate officers and sailors by interfering to protect his own men
from what he regarded as an absurd and unnecessary procedure. It was the
custom among sailors to require all who had not before crossed the tropic
to submit to the penalty of being plunged into a tub of water by their
veteran companions for the amusement of others, or pay liberally for a
commutation of the penalty. La Salle peremptorily forbade his men being
subjected to this alternative; hence the hostility of those who failed to
realize the usual fun or fine at their expense. After a prosperous voyage
a storm overtook the squadron as they approached San Domingo. It was
agreed that the _Joly_ should put in at Port de Paix in the north of the
island; but Beaujeu changed his course of his own will, and carried her to
Petit Gonave, far to the south. In four days the _Belle_ and _Aimable_,
which had been separated from her by the storm, joined her there. The _St.
Francis_ was surprised and captured by two Spanish pirogues, which was a
serious loss to the expedition and a sore affliction to La Salle.

At Petit Gonave La Salle did all in his power for the relief of the sick.
He was, however, stricken down himself by a violent illness that for a
while rendered his recovery hopeless. He recovered in time sufficiently to
attend to the prosecution of the voyage. He and Fathers Membré and Donay,
Cavelier, Chefdeville, and Joutel, were transferred to the _Aimable_, and
thus the two commanders were happily separated. In their misunderstanding
Beaujeu was greatly at fault in accepting a command inferior to that of La
Salle, as he well knew it to be, and in embarrassing by his petulant and
jealous course an undertaking which his instructions and his obvious duty
obliged him to promote. La Salle, too, would have acted more wisely and
discreetly in conciliating one whose good‐will and co‐operation were so
necessary to his success. The squadron, now reduced to three vessels,
sailed from Petit Gonave on the 25th of November.

After pursuing their course safely along the Cayman Isles, and anchoring
at the Isle of Peace (pines), where they stopped to take in water, and at
Port San Antonio, in the Island of Cuba, they entered the Gulf of Mexico
on the 12th of December. Sailing ten days longer, they descried land at
once from the _Belle_ and _Aimable_. So utterly unknown was the latitude
of the coasts, and so erroneous the sailing information given to them at
San Domingo, that no one could tell where they were; but it was
conjectured after much consultation that they must be in the Bay of
Appalachee, which is nearly three hundred miles east of the Mississippi.
On the contrary, they were near Atchafalaya Bay, about one hundred miles
west of the main mouth of the Mississippi. Guided by the general opinion
as to their locality, they now coasted to the westward, going still
further from the object of their search. No information could be obtained
from the natives on the shore, and finally, after twenty days’ sailing, it
was ascertained that they were approaching the borders of Mexico, near
Magdalen River and the Bay of Espiritu Santo. The _Joly_ now came up, and
the unfortunate misunderstanding between La Salle and Beaujeu was renewed,
in consequence of the latter charging that he had been designedly left
behind. The superior sailing capacity of the _Joly_, and Beaujeu’s evident
indifference about keeping company with the other vessels, flatly
contradicted this irritating charge. All now desired to return in the
direction of the Mississippi, except Beaujeu, who would not go without a
new supply of provisions. La Salle offered a supply of fifteen days, the
best he could do; but Beaujeu rejected the offer as insufficient. In the
meantime the vessels proceeded twenty miles along the coast, reaching the
outlet of the Bay of St. Bernard, to which La Salle gave the name of St.
Louis, now called Matagorda Bay. Joutel and Moranget were sent to explore
the bay, and afterwards La Salle joined them at a river they could not
cross without a boat. The pilots having reported insufficient depth of
water, the _Aimable_ was lightened and her captain ordered to run her into
the bay. The pilot of the _Belle_, knowing the harbor, was sent to his
assistance; but the captain of the _Aimable_ refused him admittance on
board, saying that he knew how to manage his own ship. The _Aimable_ was
soon upon a shoal. She bilged, and was a ruin. A portion of the cargo was
saved, Beaujeu himself sending his boats to assist, but most of the
implements and tools intended for the colony were lost. There was no
doubt, says Joutel, of the treachery of the captain of the _Aimable_ in
this affair. La Salle from the shore had the mortification of seeing all
his orders disobeyed, and witnessed this deplorable accident to the store‐
ship. He was embarking, in order to remedy the false movements of his
vessels, when over a hundred Indians made their appearance. First putting
them to flight, and then offering them the calumet, he made them his
friends. He also gave them presents, purchased some of their canoes, and
all seemed to promise a lasting friendship, from which great advantages
would have resulted to the expedition. But, alas! all upon whom La Salle
had to depend did not possess his prudence nor always follow his
injunctions. By the imprudence of some of his men a serious difficulty
sprang up with the Indians. A bale of blankets from the wreck of the
store‐ship was thrown ashore and seized by the Indians. La Salle ordered
his men to recover it by peaceable means; but they pursued just the
opposite course, by demanding its restoration with pointed muskets. They
became alarmed and fled, but returned at night, and, finding the sentinel
asleep, attacked the camp, killing the Sieurs Ory and Desloges, two of La
Salle’s most valued friends, two cadets, and dangerously wounding
Moranget. This and the numerous other disasters which they encountered
caused many a heart that started out full of hope and courage to falter or
despond, and many talked of abandoning the enterprise. But La Salle’s
example of calm determination and unflagging spirit sustained them under
the appalling gloom and ill‐luck that seemed to hang over the adventure.
But Beaujeu, whose hostility to La Salle and his enterprise increased with
the misfortunes of the latter, now resolved to return to France. All the
cannon‐balls were in his vessel, and he refused to deliver them, because
it would be necessary to remove a part of his cargo in order to get them
out. Thus the cannons were left with the colony, and the balls carried
back to France. He took on board the treacherous captain and crew of the
_Aimable_, and the 12th of March sailed for France. In the meantime the
company left at the fort sustained a severe loss in the death of the Sieur
de Gros from the bite of a rattle‐snake. Also, a conspiracy was set on
foot in the fort, with the design of murdering Joutel, and then escaping
with such effects as they could carry off. But the designs of these
traitors were discovered in time to be defeated. The colony now consisted
of about one hundred and eighty persons besides the crew of the _Belle_,
and their own faithful guns were their only means of obtaining food in
that vast and distant wild. A temporary fort was erected with the _débris_
of the _Aimable_ for their protection, and Moranget was left in command of
it. La Salle, accompanied by Fathers Membré and Le Clercq, started out
with fifty men to explore the shores of the bay, ordering the _Belle_ to
sail along to make soundings. Anchoring opposite a point—where a post was
established, to which Hurier gave his own name (being appointed to the
command of it), serving as an intermediate station between the naval camp
and that which La Salle intended to establish further on—in their course a
large river was discovered, to which La Salle gave the name of Vaches, or
Cow River, from the great number of cows he saw on its banks; and here the
intended station was erected. Holy Week and Easter intervening, were
celebrated with solemnity and fervor by these Christian colonists in the
wilderness, “each one,” as Father Membré remarks, “receiving his Creator.”
About the middle of July the entire colony, with their effects and
whatever could be of service, were transferred to this encampment from
those of Moranget and Hurier, which were destroyed. Here the men were
employed in cultivating the soil and in sowing seeds brought from France,
which, however, did not succeed, either because they had been injured by
the salt water or because the season was not suitable. They were next
engaged in erecting a habitation and fort, which was a work of huge labor
and hardship, as the trees for the timber had to be cut three miles off
and dragged to the spot, and many of the men sank under the toil. The
Sieur de Villeperdy and thirty others were carried off within a few days
by disease contracted at San Domingo, and among them was the master‐
carpenter, whose services could not well be spared. While under these
calamities the spirits of all around him were sinking, La Salle remained
firm and cheerful. Setting them the example himself, he kept all the
healthy men at work. He took the place of architect and chief carpenter
upon himself, marked out the beams, tenons, and mortises, and prepared the
timbers for the workmen. The fort occupied an advantageous position, was
soon finished, mounted with twelve pieces of cannon, and supplied with a
magazine under ground. It was called St. Louis, and placed under the
command of Joutel. The insolence of the Indians compelled La Salle to give
them a proof of his power. For this purpose he waged war upon them, but
only with sufficient rigor to make them respect him and his companions.
Among the captives was a very young girl, who was baptized, and died a few
days afterwards; of whom Father Le Clercq said: “The first‐fruits of this
mission, and a sure conquest sent to heaven.”

Detained some time by the sickness of his brother, La Salle did not resume
his exploration of the bay till towards the last of October, when, putting
his clothes, papers, and other effects on the _Belle_, he ordered the
captain to sail along the western shore in concert with his movements.
Wishing to ascertain how near the shore the _Belle_ could approach, he
sent the pilot and five men to make soundings, with instructions that all
should return on board at night. Attracted by the peaceful beauty of the
country, and proposing to cook and enjoy the supper on shore, the pilot
and five men, leaving their arms and canoe at low water, advanced a gun‐
shot on the upland. After their supper they fell asleep. La Salle,
becoming uneasy at their absence, went in search of them, and to his
horror found them all lying on the ground murdered, their bodies half
devoured by wild animals, and their arms and canoe destroyed. It was with
sad hearts that the survivors paid the last honors to their slaughtered
companions; for disasters followed in such quick succession that no one
could foresee the time or circumstances of his own fate. Of the colony now
described Bancroft remarks: “This is the settlement which made Texas a
part of Louisiana. In its sad condition it had yet saved from the wreck a
good supply of arms and bars of iron for the forge. Even now this colony
possessed from the bounty of Louis XIV., more than was contributed by all
the English monarchs together for the twelve English colonies on the
Atlantic. Its number still exceeded that of Smith in Virginia, or of those
who embarked in the _Mayflower_. France took possession of Texas; her arms
were carved on its stately forest‐trees; and by no treaty or public
document, except the general cessions of Louisiana, did she ever after
relinquish the right to the province as colonized under her banners, and
made still more surely a part of her territory because the colony found
there its grave.”

La Salle now determined to seek the mouth of the Mississippi by land
around the eastern part of the bay. Leaving provisions for six, he set out
with his brother, the Sieur Cavelier, and twenty men. He explored in
canoes every stream that might prove an outlet of the great river, and was
enchanted with the beautiful region which he traversed. But all was in
vain. After an absence of four months, and satisfying himself that none of
the outlets of the Mississippi emptied into the bay, and after losing
twelve or thirteen of his men, he returned in rags to Fort St. Louis. He
now sent out a party in search of the _Belle_, whose long absence caused
him great uneasiness; for in her were centred all his hopes of reaching
the mouth of the Mississippi by sea, of procuring assistance from San
Domingo, or of sending information of their forlorn condition to France,
or, perhaps, in his extremest necessity, of saving his colony from a
horrid death by famine or at the hands of the savages.

La Salle, with his characteristic courage and perseverance, now resolved
to undertake a journey to the distant Illinois, in order to obtain relief
from the faithful Tonty, whom he had stationed there on departing for
France. He selected as his companions on this dangerous and toilsome
journey his brother, Cavelier, Father Anastasius Donay, Father Le Clercq,
Moranget, Behorel, Hurier, Heins, a German surgeon who joined him at San
Domingo, and Nika, the Indian hunter, who was ever at his side, and
others, making in all twenty persons. The preparations for this great
journey consisted of four pounds of powder, four pounds of lead, two axes,
two dozen knives, as many awls, some beads, and two kettles. They first
repaired to the chapel, where the Divine Mysteries were celebrated and the
blessing of heaven invoked upon their undertaking. Committing the colony
left behind to the care of Joutel, La Salle and his companions set out on
the 22d of April, 1686, from Fort St. Louis. Their route lay in a
northeasterly direction and through a country of immense prairies and
mighty rivers, inhabited by various Indian tribes, who were exceedingly
friendly and hospitable; even the women, who were usually timid and
undemonstrative, coming forward to greet the wayworn, mysterious
travellers. In some instances they found that the Indians had had some
intercourse with the Spaniards. La Salle and the zealous Father Donay
endeavored on every occasion to instil into their minds some knowledge of
the one true God. It is supposed by some that La Salle was attracted in
this direction by the fame of the rich mines of Santa Barbara, the El
Dorado of Northern Mexico. They found large quantities of wild cattle,
which supplied them with meat. They crossed numerous rivers, such as the
Colorado, Brazos, and Trinity, which they knew by different titles, and
upon which they bestowed new names in honor of members of the party. They
endured incredible exposure, hardship, and toil, and many faltered and
gave out under their sufferings. In crossing the Brazos (which they called
the river Misfortune) on a raft of canoes, with one‐half of his party,
including his brother, La Salle and his companions were hurried violently
down the current, and almost immediately disappeared from sight. The
interval between this and evening was one of intense anxiety to those who
witnessed the accident; but at nightfall the raft and its occupants were
discovered safely disembarked on the opposite bank, their onward course
having been providentially arrested by the branches of a large tree in the
river. Those who remained on the other side had to cross over and join La
Salle on a raft of canes, the men having to wade into the water and draw
the raft ashore. Father Donay says: “I was obliged to put my Breviary in
my cowl, because it got wet in my sleeve.” He also says: “We had not eaten
all day, but Providence provided for us by letting two eaglets fall from a
cedar‐tree; we were ten at this meal.” The manner in which they crossed
these mighty rivers was to make one of the men swim to the other side and
fell trees across the stream, while those who remained did the same, so
that the trees from the opposite sides, meeting in the centre, formed a
bridge, upon which they crossed. This was done more than thirty times
during their journey. The Indians were in most instances friendly and
hospitable, and La Salle’s discernment and prudence always enabled him
either to conciliate their friendship in the first instance, or to
overcome by force of character and courage any hostile feeling they might
exhibit. Many of the tribes displayed evidences of civilization in their
dress, implements, and dwellings, and in the ease and cordiality with
which they received and entertained strangers. Horses were abundant among
them, and La Salle procured several, which proved of great service. Among
the Coenis Indians they found Spanish dollars and smaller coins, silver
spoons, lace, and clothes of European styles. One of the Indians became so
enamored with Father Donay’s cowl that he offered the father a horse in
exchange, but the good religious preferred to walk rather than to part
with the cherished habit of S. Francis. After crossing the Trinity River
La Salle and his nephew, the Sieur Moranget, were attacked by a violent
fever, which brought them very low and greatly retarded their march. Just
before this four of the party, unable to endure the fatigues and hardships
of the journey, deserted and retired to the Nassonis Indians; another was
swallowed by a crocodile while crossing a river; and Behorel was lost.
Their powder now began to give out; they had not advanced more than one
hundred and fifty leagues in a straight line, and one thousand miles of
travel lay before them; sickness, delay, and desertions had impaired their
ability to proceed; and they had no food except what the chase afforded.
Under these circumstances La Salle resolved to return to Fort St. Louis.
The extreme terminus of their travel is supposed to have been midway
between the Trinity and Red Rivers, near the head‐waters of the Sabine,
and fifty or sixty miles northwest of Nacogdoches. On the return the party
were greatly assisted by the horses procured from the Indians. After a
full month’s march they arrived on the 17th of October, the feast of S.
Bernard, and were welcomed by their friends at the fort with mingled
feelings of joy and sadness. Father Donay remarks: “It would be difficult
to find in history courage more intrepid or more invincible than that of
the Sieur de La Salle; in adversity he was never cast down, and always
hoped with the help of heaven to succeed in his enterprises, despite all
the obstacles that rose against him.”

Sad events awaited La Salle on his return. In a few days he saw to his
astonishment a canoe approaching in which were Chefdeville, Sablonnière,
and some others from the _Belle_. In this fact he read the sad story of
the vessel’s destruction, which was soon confirmed by their own lips. That
vessel, his last hope, had, by the negligence of the pilot, stranded on
the beach of the southern coast of the bay. The returning men,
providentially finding a canoe on the shore, were able to escape. In the
_Belle_ were lost thirty‐six barrels of flour, a quantity of wine, the
clothes, trunks, linens, and most of the tools. Among the few things saved
were the papers and clothes of La Salle. The good Father Le Clercq closes
his narrative of this sad accident, which completely disconcerted all of
La Salle’s plans, with the remark: “His great courage, even, could not
have borne up had not God aided him by the help of extraordinary grace.”
“Heaven and man,” says Bancroft, “seemed his enemies; and, with the giant
energy of an indomitable will, having lost his hopes of fortune, his hopes
of fame; with his colony reduced to about forty, among whom discontent had
given birth to plans of crime; with no Europeans nearer than the river
Panuco, no French nearer than Illinois, he resolved to travel on foot to
his countrymen at the north, and return from Canada to renew his colony in
Texas.”

During his absence Joutel had been under the necessity of guarding against
savage attacks upon his hunting parties from without, and against
disaffection from those within, the fort. The false Duhaut returned to the
fort, where he incited the men to mutiny—a task of no great difficulty
among men who had endured so many disappointments and hardships. And
though Joutel succeeded in suppressing the mutiny, disaffection lurked
behind. But the routine of the fort was occasionally relieved by gayety
and merriment, as was the case on the marriage of the Sieur Barbier to one
of the young women who came out with the expedition. The gentleness,
prudence, and experience of Father Membré went far to ameliorate the
condition of the company and make easy the duties of Joutel. Before
leaving them, La Salle provided for the greater comfort and accommodation
of those at the fort. As he was about to depart he was again stricken down
with illness, and was retarded ten weeks.

On his recovery La Salle selected from seventeen to twenty companions,
amongst whom were Father Donay, Cavelier the priest, young Cavelier the
nephew, Joutel, Moranget, Duhaut, Larcheveque, Heins, Liotel, Toten, De
Marle, Teissier, Saget, and the Indian hunter Nika. La Salle addressed
them in thrilling and encouraging words, and, as Father Donay says, “with
that engaging way which was so natural to him,” and on the 12th of
January, 1687, their simple preparations being made, it only remained for
them to turn their steps northward,


    “And, like some low and mournful spell,
    To whisper but one word—farewell.”


As they journeyed on they had to cross many large rivers—resorting to the
same means as in their trip towards New Mexico—and to traverse vast
prairies, to visit and be entertained by the Indian tribes on the route,
to conciliate their friendship, to secure most of their food by hunting,
and, in fine, encounter similar scenes and incidents as on their previous
excursions. On the 15th of March they arrived at a place where La Salle
had caused a quantity of Indian corn and beans to be buried, and he sent
Duhaut, Heins, Liotel, Larcheveque, Teissier, Nika, and his footman,
Saget, for it. The corn and beans had disappeared, discovered, probably,
by the unerring scent of the Indians; but the gun of Nika supplied their
place with two buffaloes. They sent Saget to request La Salle to allow
them horses to bring the meat, and he accordingly despatched Moranget, De
Marle, and Saget with two horses for that purpose. On arriving at the
scene Moranget found that the meat, though quite fresh, had been smoked,
and that the men had selected certain parts of it and set them aside for
their own enjoyment, as was usual with them. In a moment of anger Moranget
reproved them, took away both the smoked meat and reserved pieces, and
threatened to do as he pleased with it. Duhaut, in whose heart an old
grudge against Moranget still survived, became enraged, and adopted the
guilty resolve of ridding himself of his enemy. He enticed Liotel and
Heins into a conspiracy to murder not only Moranget, but also Saget and
Nika, whose faithful gun had so often saved them from famine. Liotel was
the willing instrument to do the horrid deed; at night, while they were
buried in sleep, he despatched his victims. A blow extinguished the life
of Nika; a second that of Saget; but Moranget lingered for two hours,
“giving every mark of a death precious in the sight of God, pardoning his
murderers, and embracing them,” till De Marle, who was not in the plot,
was compelled to complete the bloody tragedy.


                              “Come, thick night,
    And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell!
    That my keen knife see not the wound it makes;
    Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark
      To cry, Hold! hold!”


The bloodthirsty desperadoes did not, alas! stop at this triple murder;
adding treason to their horrid purposes, they resolved upon the death of
their commander, the great and good La Salle, who had ever been to them a
father no less than a leader. Three days elapsed, and the dark purpose was
only the more firmly fixed in their guilty souls. In the meantime La Salle
became alarmed for the safety of Moranget, and, as if anticipating what
had happened, he asked in the encampment if Duhaut and his associates had
not shown signs of disaffection. He resolved at once to go in search of
his faithful friend. The remainder of this bloody tragedy we will give in
the language of Father Donay, who was an eyewitness of it:


    “Asking me to accompany him, he took two Indians and set out. All
    the way he conversed with me of matters of piety, grace, and
    predestination; expatiating on all his obligations to God for
    having saved him from so many dangers during the last twenty years
    that he had traversed America. He seemed to me particularly
    penetrated with a sense of God’s benefits to him. Suddenly I saw
    him plunged into a deep melancholy, for which he himself could not
    account; he was so troubled that I did not know him any longer. As
    this state was far from being usual, I roused him from his
    lethargy. Two leagues after we found the bloody cravat of his
    lackey (Saget), he perceived two eagles flying over his head, and
    at the same time perceived some of his people on the edge of the
    river, which he approached, asking them what had become of his
    nephew. They answered us in broken words, showing us where we
    should find him. We proceeded some steps along the bank to the
    fatal spot where two of these murderers were hidden in the grass,
    one on each side, with guns cocked; one missed M. de La Salle, the
    other at the same time shot him in the head. He died an hour
    after, on the 19th of March, 1687.

    “I expected the same fate; but this danger did not occupy my
    thoughts, penetrated with grief at so cruel a spectacle. I saw him
    fall a step from me, with his face all full of blood; I watered it
    with my tears, exhorting him to the best of my power to die well.
    He had confessed and fulfilled his devotions just before we
    started; he had still time to recapitulate a part of his life, and
    I gave him absolution. During his last moments he elicited all the
    acts of a good Christian, grasping my hand at every word I
    suggested, and especially at that of pardoning his enemies.
    Meanwhile his murderers, as much alarmed as I, began to strike
    their breasts and detest their blindness. I could not leave the
    spot where he had expired without having buried him as well as I
    could, after which I raised a cross over his grave.

    “Thus died our wise commander; constant in adversity, intrepid,
    generous, engaging, dexterous, skilful, capable of everything. He
    who for twenty years had softened the fierce temper of countless
    savage tribes was massacred by the hands of his own domestics,
    whom he had loaded with caresses. He died in the prime of life, in
    the midst of his course and labors, without having seen their
    success.”


It has not been precisely ascertained where the place of La Salle’s death
is located; but it is supposed to have been on one of the streams flowing
into the Brazos, about forty or fifty miles north of the present town of
Washington, in the State of Texas.

As soon as Father Donay re‐entered the encampment, the good and
apostolical Cavelier, the brother of the deceased, read the sad tragedy in
his friend’s countenance, and exclaimed: “Oh! my poor brother is dead.”
The grief of Cavelier, Joutel, and the other faithful companions of La
Salle was uncontrollable. When the assassins entered the encampment to
plunder the effects of their murdered commander, they found these faithful
men on their knees, prepared for death. But the sight of the venerable
Cavelier, and perhaps some regret at the deed they had committed, stayed
their bloody work; and these were spared, on condition that they would not
return to France, though they several times afterwards heard the murderers
say among themselves that they must get rid of them, in order to save
themselves from the avenging arm of justice. The assassins seized upon the
effects of La Salle, elected Duhaut their leader, and resolved to return
to the Coenis Indians. During several days they travelled together, these
wretches treating the missionaries and friends of La Salle as servants,
imposing upon them every hardship in crossing the many rivers they
encountered. “Meanwhile,” says Father Donay, “the justice of God
accomplished the punishment of these men, in default of human punishment.”
A dispute arose between Duhaut and Heins over the stolen property of La
Salle, in which the various guilty members of their party took the one
side or the other. Heins, two days afterwards, seizing the opportunity,
shot Duhaut through the heart with a pistol in the presence of the whole
company. He died upon the spot. At the same moment Ruter shot Liotel, the
murderer of Moranget, who survived several hours; and, while thus
lingering, another fired a blank cartridge near his head, which set fire
to his hair and clothes, and he expired amidst the flames. Heins now
assumed command, and would have killed Larcheveque, a third member of the
band of assassins, but for the intercession of Joutel. On reaching the
Coenis camp they found these warriors about to start with a large army
against the Kanoatins, and Heins, dressed in the rich mantle of La Salle,
to the great disgust of his surviving relatives and friends, went with
them to join in fresh deeds of carnage and crime. Father Donay, Cavelier
the priest, Cavelier the nephew of La Salle, Joutel, De Marie, Teissier,
and a young Parisian named Barthelemy, now took their departure for the
Illinois, and, after journeying till the 24th of July, they were greatly
relieved at beholding on the opposite side of the river a large cross and
log hut, at the junction of the Illinois and Mississippi, and in a few
moments they were united with a small detachment stationed there by Tonty.
After remaining a few days for rest and refreshment, they started again on
the 1st of August, and on the 14th arrived at Fort Crevecœur, where they
were led immediately to the chapel, and chanted the _Te Deum_, in
thanksgiving for their safe deliverance from so many dangers, to which
others had fallen victims. Tonty was absent from the fort on their
arrival, on a visit to the Illinois; but on his return he received them
with great kindness, and supplied them with every assistance. They
concealed from the faithful and devoted Tonty the death of his beloved
friend and commander. In the spring of 1688 they left the fort for Quebec,
whence they sailed for France in August, arriving there in October.

The fort in St. Bernard’s Bay was, after the death of La Salle, attacked
by the Indians, and the whole company massacred except three sons and a
daughter of Talon and a young Frenchman named Eustace de Breman, who were
led into captivity. The Spaniards also, hearing of La Salle’s movements
and of the presence of Frenchmen among the Coenis Indians, sent out a
military force, who captured Larcheveque and Grollet, who were sent to
Spain, where for some time they were confined in prison, and afterwards
sent to Mexico to work in the mines. The Talons were rescued and sent to
Mexico. The two elder brothers entered the Spanish navy, but were
afterwards restored to their country by the capture of their vessel. The
younger brother and his sister were retained some time in the service of
the Viceroy of Mexico, and afterwards accompanied him to Spain. Nothing
further is known of Breman and the others who were taken captives by the
Indians.

The will of La Salle, bearing date the 11th of August, 1681, leaves his
property to his cousin, M. François Plet, in gratitude for his kindness
and the assistance he rendered to the great explorer in his expeditions.

The following notice of La Salle is given by a Catholic writer:


    “Robert Cavelier de La Salle, the first explorer who navigated
    Ontario, Erie, Michigan, and Huron, deserves to be enumerated
    among the great captains. A native of Rouen, early employed in the
    colonies, he had been instigated by the reports of missionaries to
    seek, through the northern lakes, a passage to the Gulf of Mexico.
    Building a schooner on the Cayuga Creek, he ascended the lakes in
    1679, chanting the _Te Deum Laudamus_. Carrying his boats over
    land from the Miami to a branch of the Illinois River, he forced
    or found his way into the upper Mississippi. For many years, with
    most heroic constancy, this soul of fire and frame of iron was
    devoted to the task of opening routes between the Gulfs of St.
    Lawrence and of Mexico, until he perished in his enterprise by the
    hands of two of his own unworthy followers, on an excursion into
    Texas, in 1687. The Catholic character of La Salle is marked in
    every act of his life. He undertook nothing without fortifying
    himself by religion; he completed nothing without giving the
    first‐fruits of the glory to God. He planted the cross wherever he
    landed, even for an hour; he made the western desert vocal with
    songs, hymns of thanksgiving and adoration. He is the worthy
    compeer of De Soto and Marquette; he stood, sword in hand, under
    the banner of the cross, the tutelary genius of those great States
    which stretch away from Lake Ontario to the Rio Grande. Every
    league of that region he trod on foot, and every league of its
    water he navigated in frail canoes or crazy schooners. Above his
    tomb the northern pine should tower; around it the Michigan rose
    and the southern myrtle should mingle their hues and unite their
    perfumes.”(206)


In reviewing the history of the last great enterprise of this remarkable
man, we can but recognize three principal reasons of its failure: first,
the inferior character of the men selected at Rochelle by his agents to
accompany the expedition—a cause of disaster which the virtues and
capacity of a Tonty, Joutel, and Moranget could not neutralize; second,
the hostility and narrow‐minded jealousy of Beaujeu, upon whose co‐
operation so much depended; and, third, the misinformation in regard to
the Gulf of Mexico which he received at San Domingo, and the prevailing
ignorance of the times of the bearings of the coast and of the latitudes,
which caused his expedition to miss the object of its search. Mr. Sparks,
while according to him the possession of the highest qualities of mind and
soul, considered him wanting in those qualities which are necessary in
order to secure the hearty co‐operation of men, to win their affections as
well as their obedience, and, by yielding a little to their weaknesses,
secure the benefit of their faithful services. It may be said, however,
that no man ever had more faithful, self‐sacrificing, and devoted
followers than he, and those who did not sympathize with him were too
ignorant and sordid to appreciate his noble character or his magnificent
plans. The learned historian at the same time remarks that La Salle labors
under the disadvantage of having to be judged from the accounts of others,
not all of whom were his friends, and knew little of his plans; for “not a
single paper from his own hand, not so much as a private letter or a
fragment of his official correspondence, has ever been published, or even
consulted by the writers on whose authority alone we must rely for the
history of the transactions in which he was concerned.”

Mr. Sparks then pays the following well‐merited and eloquent tribute to
the character and services of the illustrious commander:


    “On the other hand, his capacity for large designs and for
    devising the methods and procuring the resources to carry them
    forward, has few parallels among the most eminent discoverers. He
    has been called the Columbus of his age; and if his success had
    been equal to his ability and the compass of his plans this
    distinction might justly be awarded to him. As in great battles,
    so in enterprises, success crowns the commander with laurels,
    defeat covers him with disgrace, and perhaps draws upon him the
    obloquy of the world, although he might have fought as bravely and
    manœuvred as adroitly in one case as in the other. Fortune turns
    the scale and baffles the efforts of human skill and prowess. In
    some of the higher attributes of character, such as personal
    courage and endurance, undaunted resolution, patience under
    trials, and perseverance in contending with obstacles and
    struggling through embarrassments that might appall the stoutest
    heart, no man surpassed the Sieur de La Salle. Not a hint appears
    in any writer that has come under notice that casts a shade upon
    his integrity or honor. Cool and intrepid at all times, never
    yielding for a moment to despair, or even to despondency, he bore
    the heavy burden of his calamities manfully to the end and his
    hopes expired only with his last breath. To him must be mainly
    ascribed the discovery of the vast regions of the Mississippi
    Valley, and the subsequent occupation and settlement of them by
    the French; and his name justly holds a prominent place among
    those which adorn the history of civilization in the New World.”




The Log Chapel On The Rappahannock.


Erected A.D. 1570—The First Christian Shrine In The Old Dominion.

Virginia is proud of her antiquity. She assumes the title of Old Dominion;
she was long styled the Mother of Presidents. But really her antiquity is
greater than many know. Before the English settlers landed on the shores
of the James, Stephen Gomez and other Spanish navigators had entered the
waters of the Chesapeake and consecrated that noble sheet of water to the
Virgin daughter of David’s line, as the Bay of St. Mary, or the Bay of the
Mother of God.

The soldier of the cross followed hard on the steps of the explorer. As
early as in 1536 St. Mary’s Bay is laid down on Spanish maps. Oviedo
mentions it in 1537, and from that time pilots ranged the coast, David
Glavid, an Irishman, being recorded as one who knew it best. All agree as
to its latitude, its two capes, the direction of the bay, and the rivers
entering into it, identifying beyond all peradventure our modern
Chesapeake with the St. Mary’s Bay of the early Spanish explorers. Though
his attention was called to it, the latest historian of Virginia, misled
by a somewhat careless guide, robs his State of the glory which we claim
for her. The sons of S. Dominic first planted the cross on the shores of
the Chesapeake, and bore away to civilized shores the brother of the chief
of Axacan or Jacan, a district not far from the Potomac. Reaching Mexico,
this chief attracted the notice of Don Luis de Velasco, the just, upright,
disinterested Viceroy of New Spain—one of those model rulers who, amid a
population spurred on by a fierce craving for wealth, never bent the knee
to Mammon, but lived so poor that he died actually in debt. This good man
had the Virginian chief instructed in the Christian faith, and, when his
dispositions seemed to justify the belief in his sincerity and faith, the
chieftain of the Rappahannock was baptized, amid all the pomp and splendor
of Mexico, in the cathedral of that city, the viceroy being his god‐
father, and bestowing upon him his own name, Don Luis de Velasco, by which
the Virginia chief is always styled in Spanish annals.

Meanwhile, Coligny’s French Huguenots attempted to settle Florida, but
their colony, which was doomed to early extinction from its very material
and utter want of religious organization or any tie but a mere spirit of
adventure, was crushed with ruthless cruelty by Pedro Melendez, a brave
but stern Spanish navigator and warrior, in whose eyes every Frenchman on
the sea was a pirate. Soon after accomplishing his bloody work, which left
Spain in full possession of the southern Atlantic coast, Melendez, who had
sent out vessels to explore the coast, began his preparations for
occupying St. Mary’s Bay. The form of the northern continent was not then
known; much indeed of the eastern coast had been explored, but so little
was the line of the western coast understood that on maps and globes the
Pacific was shown as running nearly into the Atlantic coast, as may be
seen in a curious copper globe possessed by the New York Historical
Society, but which once belonged to Pope Marcellus II. Believing that the
Chesapeake, by the rivers running into it, would easily lead to the
western ocean, Melendez spent the winter of 1565 studying out the subject
with the aid of Don Luis de Velasco and Father Urdaneta, a missionary just
arrived from China by the overland route across Mexico. Combining all the
information, he was led to believe that, by ascending for eighty leagues a
river flowing into the bay, it was necessary only to cross a mountain
range to find two arms of the sea, one leading to the French at
Newfoundland, the other to the Pacific. To many this will seem wild; but
it is evident that Don Luis referred to the great trail leading from the
Huron country through the territory of the Five Nations to the land of the
Andastes on the Susquehanna, by which the last‐named tribe sold furs on
the upper lakes, which went down to the French at Brest on the Gulf of St.
Lawrence, while the upper lakes were the arm of the sea stretching
westward, as was supposed, to China. An adventurous Frenchman, Stephen
Brulé, some few years later followed this trail from the St. Lawrence to
the Susquehanna. Melendez, however, misinterpreted it. To his mind the
upper waters of the Chesapeake, the Potomac and Susquehanna, then known as
the Espiritu Santo and Salado, were to be the great carrying place of
eastern trade.

Anxious to secure for his own country so important a pass, Melendez, in
1566, despatched to St. Mary’s Bay a vessel bearing thirty soldiers and
two Dominican Fathers to begin a station in Axacan or Jacan, near the
Chesapeake. These pioneers of the faith were escorted or guided by Don
Luis de Velasco. Of these missionaries we seek in vain the names. Perhaps
their fellow‐religious now laboring on the banks of the Potomac will be
stimulated to trace up these early labors of the sons of S. Dominic;
though we must admit that Spanish chronicles do not speak of them with
praise. In fact, they assert that these missionaries, corrupted by an easy
life in Peru, had no taste for a laborious mission in Virginia, though
perhaps they learned the real state of affairs in that land, and, taught
by Father Cancer’s fate, felt that the attempt would be fatal to all.
Certain it is that the whole party took alarm. They forced the captain to
weigh anchor, and, leaving the capes on either hand, steer straight to
Spain. The Dominican missions in Spanish Florida, which began with the
glorious epic of Father Cancer’s devoted heroism, closed with this feeble
effort to plant the Gospel on the shores of the Chesapeake; yet they, too,
like the earlier discoverers, undoubtedly consecrated to Mary and the
Rosary the land which in its names, Virginia and Maryland, yet recalls the
Blessed Virgin Mary, to whom the bay was first consecrated.

Four years later saw Melendez himself in Spain, full of his projects, and
bent on carrying them out. The sons of S. Ignatius Loyola, full of the
early vigor of their institute, were in Florida. The new mission, begun in
1566, had already a martyr in Father Peter Martinez, of Celda, in the
Diocese of Saragossa, who was shipwrecked on the coast, and put to death
by the Indians not far from St. Augustine. It had its devoted laborers in
Father John Rogel, of Pamplona, Father Sedeño, and Brother Villareal, who
sought to win to Christ the Indians near St. Augustine and Port Royal, and
who had established an Indian school at Havana to help the great work,
Brother Baez being the first to compile a grammar. To extend these
missions as far as the Chesapeake was a subject which Melendez laid before
S. Francis Borgia, then recently made general of the order, after having
acted as commissary of the Spanish missions. A letter of S. Pius V.
encouraged Melendez, and with the co‐operation of these two saints the
projected mission to the Chesapeake took form at last. Perhaps some of the
clergy in Maryland and Virginia remember the personal interest of these
saints in the field where they are now laboring; but we fear that the fact
has been forgotten. Let us trust that more than one church of S. Pius V.
will be monuments of his interest in the land where the next pope that
bore his name established the first episcopal see on the coast—that of
Baltimore—and religion has taken such gigantic steps under the fostering
care of Popes Pius VII. and Pius IX.

When the founder of Florida was thus earnestly engaged in Spain in
promoting the spiritual welfare of the colony, Don Luis de Velasco, the
Virginian chief, was still beyond the Atlantic, a grave, intelligent man
of fifty, well versed in Spanish affairs, to all appearance a sincere and
correct Christian and a friend of the Spaniards. With every mark of joy he
offered to return to his native land of Axacan, and there do all in his
power to further the labors of the missionaries who should be sent to
instruct his brother’s tribe. So powerful a coadjutor was welcomed by all,
and ere long Don Luis stood on the deck of a staunch Spanish ship, with a
band of Jesuits destined to reinforce those already laboring on the
Florida mission. This pious party consisted of Father Luis de Quiros, a
native of Xerez de la Frontera, in Andalusia, with Brothers Gabriel Gomez,
of Granada, and Sancho de Zevallos, of Medina de Rio Seco, all selected
for the great work by S. Francis Borgia himself. In November the vessel
anchored before the Spanish fort Santa Elena, which stood on the island of
South Carolina’s famous Port Royal, that still bears the name of the
sainted mother of Constantine.

The Jesuit mission of Florida had been erected into a vice‐province under
Father John Baptist Segura. This estimable religious was a native of
Toledo, who had, while pursuing his theological course of study, entered
the Society of Jesus at Alcalà on the 9th of April, 1566. S. Francis, who
knew him well, entertained the highest esteem for Segura’s virtues and
personal merit, and took him from the rectorship of the College of
Vallisoleta in 1568 to assume the direction of the vice‐province of
Florida. For two years had he labored with sad discouragement in the
forbidding field among the Floridian tribes, cheered by letters of his
superiors rather than by any hope of success that as yet seemed to dawn on
his exertions.

He was at Santa Elena when Father Quiros arrived, bearing the instructions
for the establishment of the new mission on the shores of the Chesapeake.

That missionary had become discouraged and disheartened. All his labors
and those of his associate missionaries among the Calos Indians, on the
southern coast of Florida, had proved utterly unavailing. No impression
could be made on the flinty hearts of those treacherous and cruel tribes,
which, indeed, to the end resisted the calls of divine grace. The labors
of the Jesuit missionaries on the coast of South Carolina were scarcely
more encouraging. The attempts to civilize and convert found hearers only
as long as food and presents were given.

Father Segura resolved for a time to abandon the unpromising field, and
turn all their energies to an Indian school at Havana, where children from
the Florida tribes could be carefully instructed, so as to form a nucleus
for future Christian bands in their native tribes. But the voice of S.
Francis recalled him to sterner labors, and he resolved to go in person to
the new field opened to them in Axacan, where the influence of Don Luis
and the character of the tribes seemed to promise more consoling results.
He accordingly directed the experienced Father Rogel to remain at Santa
Elena in charge of the missions there, and selected eight associates for
his new mission. These were Father Luis de Quiros, Brothers Gabriel Gomez
and Sancho Zevallos, already mentioned, with Brother Peter de Linares and
John Baptist Mendez, Christopher Redondo, and Gabriel de Solis, who with
Alphonsus, destined to be the sole survivor, seem to have been four Indian
boys from their school at Havana, and regarded as novices, trained already
to mission work as catechists. Such was the missionary party that was to
plant the cross in Axacan and open the way for Christianity to China by a
new route.

With the influence and support of Don Luis they would need no Spanish aid;
and as experience had shown them that soldiers were sometimes a detriment
to the mission they were intended to protect, these devoted missionaries
determined to trust themselves entirely, alone and unprotected, in the
hands of the Indians.

On his side Don Luis made every promise as to the security of the persons
of the missionaries confided to his care by the adelantado of Florida.
“They shall lack nothing,” he declared. “I will always be at hand to aid
them.”

On the 5th of August, 1570, this little mission colony sailed from Santa
Elena, and in that enervating heat must have crept slowly enough along the
coast and up the Chesapeake; for it was not till the 10th of September
that they reached the country of Don Luis, which is styled in Spanish
accounts Axacan or Jacan.

Where was the spot termed “La Madre de Dios de Jacan”?—Our Lady of Axacan
(or, as we should write it, Ahacan or Hacan). Precisely where no map or
document has yet been found to show. It was evidently near the Susquehanna
(Salado) or the Potomac (Espiritu Santo), the two rivers at the head of
the bay known to Melendez, and by which he hoped to reach China. That it
could not have been the Susquehanna seems clear from the fact that, being
to the eastward, it would not naturally be the shortest route; and,
moreover, that river was in those days, and till far in the ensuing
century, held by a warlike tribe of Huron origin, living in palisaded
towns, while the tribe of Don Luis, who dwelt at Axacan, were evidently
nomads of the Algonquin race.

We are therefore led to look for it on the Potomac, the Espiritu Santo of
the early Spanish navigators. The vessel that bore the devoted Vice‐
Provincial Father Segura and two other Spanish vessels some time
afterwards ascended this river for a considerable distance to a point
whence they proceeded to the country of Don Luis, which, as letters show,
lay on a river six miles off, and which they might have reached directly
by ascending that river, though it was always passed by the pilots, being
regarded, apparently, as less navigable and safe. The Rappahannock at once
suggests itself as answering the conditions required to explain the
Spanish accounts.

On the Potomac there is to this day a spot called Occoquan, which is near
enough to the Spanish Axacan to raise a suspicion of their identity. Not
far below it the Potomac and Rappahannock, in their sinuous windings,
approach so closely as to increase the resemblance to the country
described.

The land that met the eyes of the missionary pioneers in the wilderness of
Virginia was not one to raise fond hopes or sustain delusions. A long
sterility had visited Florida and extended even to the Chesapeake. Its
effects were even more striking. Of all that the descriptions of Don Luis
had prepared them to find in Axacan there was absolutely nothing to be
seen. Just come from Florida and its vicinity, with its rich, luxuriant
vegetation, with fruits of spontaneous growth, they beheld a less favored
land, bare and parched with a six years’ sterility, with the starving
remnants of decimated and thrice decimated tribes. The wretched
inhabitants looked upon Don Luis, their countryman, as if sent from
heaven, and, seeing him treated with honor, they received the Spaniards
with every demonstration of goodwill, though they were so destitute that
they could not offer the newcomers any fruit or maize.

With the winter fast approaching, it seemed almost madness for Father
Segura and his companions to attempt to establish themselves in this
unpromising land; but the previous failure of the Dominican Fathers, the
almost chiding words of S. Francis Borgia, and the deep interest
manifested by Melendez in the success of the attempt, apparently decided
the question against all ideas of expediency or mere worldly prudence.

The researches of the late Buckingham Smith in the Spanish archives not
only brought to light many points tending to fix the position of Axacan,
but were also rewarded by finding two letters written at this point by
these early apostles of Virginia. The father provincial wrote to the king;
his associate, Father Quiros, addressed his letters to Melendez, and
Father Segura added a few words, urging prompt relief. These last have
fortunately thus reached us. Father Quiros wrote: “Seeing, then, the good‐
will which this people displayed—although, on the other hand, as I said,
they are so famished that all expected to perish of hunger and cold this
winter, as many did in preceding winters, because it is very hard for them
to find the roots on which they usually sustain themselves—the great snows
which fall in this land preventing their search—seeing also the great hope
there is of the conversion of this people and the service of our Lord and
his Majesty, and a way to the mountains and China, etc., it seemed to the
Provincial Father Segura that we should venture to remain with so few
ship‐stores and provisions, though we ate on the way two of the four
barrels of biscuit and the little flour they gave us for the voyage.”

They resolved to stay, seeing no danger except that of famine; for they
urged speedy relief. “It is very necessary that you should endeavor, if
possible, to supply us with all despatch; and if it be impossible to do so
in winter, at least it is necessary that in March, or, at the furthest,
early in April, a good supply be sent, so as to give all these people
wherewith to plant.”

The pilot of the vessel, short of provisions from the time lost on
reaching Axacan, put the missionaries hastily ashore on the 11th of
September, and the next day sailed, “leaving us in this depopulated land
with the discomforts already described,” say the missionaries.

It was arranged between the missionaries and this pilot that, about the
time of his expected return, they would have Indians on the lookout,
apparently at the mouth of the river, who were to build signal‐fires to
attract attention. On seeing these beacons he was to give them a letter
for the missionaries.

The little band of Christians beheld the vessel hoist her sail and glide
down the river. They stood alone in a wild land, far from aid and
sympathy. Two priests, three religious, Don Luis, and four other Indian
converts, formed the little Christendom. But their destination was not yet
reached. Guided by Don Luis, they took up their march for the river six
miles off, Indians bearing some of their scanty supplies, the missionaries
themselves carrying their chapel service, books, and other necessaries.
After this portage they embarked on the river—which they might have
ascended, and which seems evidently the Rappahannock—and thus penetrated
some two leagues or more further into the country to the villages of the
tribe.

Yet, even before they left the banks of the Potomac they were called upon
to commence their ministry. “The cacique, brother of Don Luis, having,”
says Father Quiros, “a son three years old very sick, who was seven or
eight leagues from here, as it seemed to him to be on the point of death,
he was instant that we should go to baptize it; wherefore it occurred to
the vice‐principal to send one of us by night to baptize it, as it was
very near death.”

The Indians on the Rappahannock did not dwell in palisaded towns, like the
Conestogas on the Susquehanna, and their kindred, the Five Nations, in New
York. From the Spanish accounts they dwelt in scattered bands, each
forming a little hamlet of a few cabins, each house in the midst of its
rude garden; for they cultivated little ground, depending on the
spontaneous productions of the earth: acorns, nuts, berries, and roots.
Such were they when Smith described them thirty years later, when
Powhatan, residing on the James, ruled over the scattered bands as far as
the Rappahannock. It was evidently among that tribe, so well known to us
by Smith’s descriptions, that Father Segura and his companions began their
labors, and Powhatan may well have been a son of the cacique, brother of
Don Luis.

The accounts of the subsequent proceedings of the little mission colony
are derived from Alphonsus, one of the Indian boys, and are somewhat
obscure. They make the journey to the hamlets of the tribe a weary one
through wood and desert and marsh, loaded with their baggage, and living
on roots, and not the short journey which Father Quiros anticipated. His
letter stated that the Indian canoes were all broken; it was probably
found impossible to attempt to repair them, and the whole party trudged on
by the riverside to their destination.

The hamlet first reached was a wretched one, tenanted only by gaunt and
naked savages, who bore the famine imprinted on their whole forms. Here
amid the tent‐like lodges of the Indians, made of poles bound together and
covered with mats and bark, Father Segura and his companions erected a
rude house of logs, the first white habitation in that part of
America—first church of the living God, first dwelling‐place of civilized
men; for one end was devoted to their chapel, while the other was their
simple dwelling. Here doubtless, before the close of September, 1570, the
little community recited their Office together, and, under the tuition of
Don Luis, began to study the language. Here, at this modest altar, the
Holy Sacrifice was for the first time offered by the two priests. Nowhere
on the continent to the northward were the sacred rites then heard,
unless, indeed, at Brest, in Canada. Greenland, with its bishop and clergy
and convents, was a thing of the past; Cartier’s colony, on the St.
Lawrence, had been abandoned. The Chapel of the Mother of God, at Jacan,
was the church of the frontier, the outpost of the faith.

As Father Segura had foreseen that he must winter there, and might not
receive any supplies before March or April, he doubtless began, like his
Indian neighbors, to lay up a store of provisions for the long winter.
Acorns, walnuts, chestnuts, and chinquapins were regularly gathered by the
natives, as well as persimmons and a root like a potato, growing in the
swampy lands. Game must have been scarce on that narrow peninsula between
two rivers, and they had no means of hunting. Though the rivers of
Virginia teemed with fish, we find no indication that the missionaries
were supplied with means of deriving any food from that source.

For a time Don Luis remained with them, showing all deference and respect
to Father Segura. In his letter to Melendez Father Quiros gives the
impression he had made upon them up to that time, and from which it is
evident that they had no suspicion of his treachery. “Don Luis,” says he,
“acts well, as was expected of him, and is very obedient to all that the
father enjoins on him, with much respect as well for the provincial as for
the rest of us that are here, and he commends himself earnestly to your
worship, to all his other friends and masters.”

This good disposition may have been sincere at first, but, as too often
happens in such cases, old habits returned; he became Indian with the
Indians, rather than Spanish with the Spaniards. Ere long he abandoned the
missionaries altogether, and went off to another hamlet, distant from it a
day’s journey and a half.

The mission party were not yet sufficiently versed in the language to
dispense with the aid of Don Luis as interpreter, and his influence was
constantly needed among the lawless natives. Feeling this, Father Segura
several times sent one of the young men to urge Don Luis to return, but he
put them off constantly with false statements or unmeaning promises. In
this way the winter wore away, with gloomy forebodings in the hearts of
the pioneer priests in the log chapel on the Rappahannock. The only hope
that cheered and sustained them was that the ship would speedily return
from Santa Elena with the supplies they needed for themselves and the
seed‐corn for the natives, whom they hoped to persuade to cultivate more,
and depend less on the precarious means of sustenance. Meanwhile, as
January, 1571, was drawing to a close, Father Segura resolved to make a
last effort to move the heart of the recreant Don Luis. He sent Father
Quiros, with Brothers de Solis and Mendez, to the hamlet where he resided,
to make a last appeal. The priest, who had so long known him, endeavored
to recall him to higher and better feelings. The unhappy man made many
excuses for his absence, and continued to beguile the missionary with
promises; but his heart was given up to deadly malice. He had renounced
Christianity, and doomed its envoys to death. As Father Quiros and his two
companions turned sadly away to depart from the place and rejoin their
suffering companions, a shower of arrows whizzed through the air. Quiros
and his companions fell, pierced by the sharp flinty arrows of the
apostate and his followers. Virginia had its first martyrs of Christ.
Their bodies were at once stripped and subjected to all the mutilations
that savage fancy inspired.

Father Segura, with the three brothers and two other Indian youths, had
spent the interval in prayer, anxiety deepening as no sign of Father
Quiros appeared. On the fourth day the yells and cries that were borne on
the chilly air announced the approach of a large party, and in a short
time Don Luis appeared, arrayed in the cassock of Father Quiros, attended
by his brother, the cacique, and a war party armed with clubs and bows. He
sternly demanded from the missionaries their knives and axes used for
chopping wood, knowing that with them alone could they make any defence.
These were surrendered without remonstrance. Father Segura saw that the
end was come. The long‐delayed ship would be too late. He prepared his
companions to die. They doubtless gathered around the altar where the Holy
Sacrifice had just been offered. Then the apostate gave a signal, and his
warriors rushed upon the defenceless and unresisting mission party, and
slaughtered all but Alphonsus, who was protected by a brother of Don Luis,
more humane than that fallen man.

The bodies of his victims, Father Segura, Brothers Gomez, Linares, and
Zevallos, and the Indian novice, Christopher Redondo, were then, we are
told, buried beneath their chapel‐house. The shrine of the Mother of God
was doubtless pillaged, perhaps demolished; the lamp of Christian light
was extinguished, and pagan darkness again prevailed in the land.

As nearly as could be ascertained, the martyrdom of Father Quiros occurred
on Sunday, the 4th of February, 1571; that of Father Segura a few days
later.

Why had their countrymen in Florida so cruelly neglected them, in spite of
the urgent letters taken back by the pilot? It was probably because,
Melendez being absent, the letters were sent to Spain, and the pilot did
not fully reveal the destitute condition in which he had left the mission
colony. Brother Vincent Gonzalez was urgent to bear relief to the vice‐
provincial, but he was put off with the pretext that no pilot could be
found to run along the coast from Port Royal to the Chesapeake. It was not
till spring that the good brother succeeded in getting a vessel and some
Spaniards to proceed to the relief of his superior, as to whose welfare
great anxiety was now felt. They ran up the Potomac, and reached the spot
where Segura had landed. Indian runners had descried the vessel when it
entered the river, and, when the Spanish craft came to anchor, Indians
were there to meet them, and the garb of the missionaries was seen in the
distance. But the treacherous red men failed to lure them ashore with this
device, although some came forward, crying, “See the fathers who came to
us. We have treated them well; come and see them, and we will treat you
likewise.”

On the contrary, suspecting treachery from the fact that the pretended
fathers did not hasten down to meet them, the Spaniards not only avoided
landing, but, seizing two of the treacherous natives, sailed back to Port
Royal.

Melendez, soon after returning from Spain, heard their report, and with
characteristic energy resolved to punish the crime. Taking a small but
staunch and fleet vessel, with a sufficient force, he sailed in person to
the Chesapeake in 1572, bearing with him Father Rogel and Brother
Villareal. He evidently ran up the Potomac, as the other vessel had done,
to the spot already familiar to the pilots. Here he landed the Spanish
soldiers, and unfurled the standard of Spain on the soil of Virginia.
Marching inland, this determined man soon captured several Indians. They
were interrogated, and at once confessed that the whole mission party had
been cruelly murdered, but they laid the blame of the terrible crime on
the apostate Don Luis. Apparently, by one of them Melendez sent word to
the tribe that he would not harm the innocent, but he insisted on their
delivering up Don Luis. But that false Christian, on seeing the Spanish
vessel, fled with his brother, the cacique, and all attempts to arrest
them failed. The brother who had saved the Indian boy Alphonsus, however,
came forward to meet Melendez, bringing to him the only survivor of Father
Segura’s pious band. The adelantado received him with every mark of
pleasure.

From this boy was obtained a detailed account of all that had happened
after the departure of the vessel which left the missionaries on the bank
of the Potomac. The statement is, of course, the basis of all the accounts
we possess of the fate of the log chapel on the Rappahannock and the
little Jesuit community gathered to serve it.

The Spanish commander arrested a number of Indians; and when Alphonsus had
pointed out those concerned in the tragedy, Melendez hung eight of them at
the yard‐arm of his vessel. Father Rogel prepared them all for death,
instructing them, we presume, by the aid of the young survivor, and had
the consolation of baptizing them.

After this summary act of retributive justice, the founder of St.
Augustine, with his mail‐clad force, embarked, and the Spanish flag
floated for the last time over the land of Axacan.

Father Rogel was loath to leave the country without bearing with him the
precious remains of his martyred brethren; but Melendez could not venture
so far from his ship, and his force was too small to divide. The Jesuit
Father could bear away, as a relic, only a crucifix which had been in the
log chapel. Divine vengeance is said to have overtaken those who profaned
the sacred vessels, and especially an attempt to injure this crucifix;
first one, then two others, having been struck dead. It was subsequently
placed by Father Rogel in the College of Guayala.

Some thirty‐five years later an English colony entered a river, to which
they gave the name of Mary Stuart’s son. The Indians from that river to
the Rappahannock were ruled by Powhatan; and it is worthy of remark that
Raphe Hamor, one of the earliest settlers, states that Powhatan’s tribe
were driven from their original abode by the Spaniards. They were
Algonquins, and did not come from Florida. They were, in all probability,
the very tribe among whom Father Segura laid down his life. Powhatan,
represented as then a man of sixty, might, at twenty‐five, have witnessed
or taken part in the martyrdom.

Such is the history of the first community of the Society of Jesus in the
Old Dominion, of which they were the first white occupants. Dominicans
began the work by converting Don Luis, Jesuits followed it up by actual
possession, by erecting a chapel, by instituting a regular community life,
by instructing, baptizing, and hallowing the land by the Holy Sacrifice of
the Mass.

The flag of Spain and the flag of England have alike passed away, but on
the banks of the Potomac Jesuit and Dominican are laboring side by side
three hundred years after the martyrdom of Segura, Quiros, and their
companions.

Fredericksburg, which cannot be far from the early Chapel of the Mother of
God, revives its name in her Church of St. Mary of the Immaculate
Conception; and other churches of the same invocation seem to declare
that, as of old, so now we may say, “This is indeed the Blessed Virgin’s
land.”




New Publications.


    A LETTER ADDRESSED TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF NORFOLK, ON THE
    OCCASION OF MR. GLADSTONE’S RECENT EXPOSTULATION. By John Henry
    Newman, D.D., of the Oratory. New York: The Catholic Publication
    Society, 9 Warren Street. 1875.


This _Letter_ has two aspects. It is a reply on behalf of the Catholics of
England to Mr. Gladstone’s charge. It is also a polemical pamphlet
respecting a domestic controversy with other leaders of the Catholic body
in England. In its first aspect it is not only masterly in style and
argument, and marked with the evidence of rare learning, as anything from
the author’s pen is sure to be, but, to a certain point, conclusive and
unanswerable. It proves that Mr. Gladstone’s appeal to English Catholics
to separate themselves from the doctrine and polity of their spiritual
sovereign, the Pope, is an arrow shot in the air. It proves that his
charge against the Catholic hierarchy of having changed in spirit and
principle, in dogma and in action, in attitude and in aims, is baseless
and absurd. It refutes the charge that Catholics are intellectually and
morally in a state of servile bondage. Several other minor and incidental
things are proved, and on the whole it makes an important point in the
controversy about the relation of the Catholic religion to civil
sovereignty, and the civil rights and duties of the temporal order, as
distinct from the spiritual. It does not, and could not be expected to,
establish the great fundamental truth opposed to Mr. Gladstone’s error,
viz., the positive Catholic doctrine of the relation of the church to the
state, _in se_, and the firm, immovable basis which that doctrine places
for just political sovereignty and corresponding subjection to rest on,
while securing the divine rights of the church and her members, and the
duties correlative to those rights.

It is Dr. Newman’s misfortune that a base and dishonest act of some one of
the pestilent set of detectives of the press, or the other sneak‐thieves
who prowled about the purlieus of the Vatican Council, filching secret
information in order to make eligible paragraphs in newspapers, placed him
in a position before the world embarrassing both to himself and to many of
his warmest friends. The embarrassment of which we speak did not imply any
falling away from the faith of a Catholic or the holiness of a religious
priest. Yet it left a sentiment of disappointment, which the present
pamphlet does not altogether remove, that Dr. Newman failed to add lustre
to his arms, instead of merely preserving unstained what he had already
acquired.

The fading impression of this disappointment would have been wholly
effaced if Dr. Newman had not, in his reply to Mr. Gladstone, renewed it
by a certain manner of vague and general expression of discontent with a
number of his fellow‐Catholics considered by him as extreme or injudicious
in their doctrine, or way of expressing it, or their measures for
promoting the growth of the Catholic Church. There may, very well, be
individuals deserving his severe language. We have occasion in this
country to lament at extravagant representations of Catholic doctrines,
harsh and unjust censure of persons or opinions, and other excesses on the
part of individuals professing to be specially orthodox and devoted to the
Holy See. We think, however, that Dr. Newman’s language will be understood
to apply generally to those persons and those writers for the press in
England and Europe who were active and zealous in promoting the definition
of infallibility by the Vatican Council. If it is true that it has this
extension, we feel bound to express our painful sense of the wrong done to
a body of the best and truest advocates of the Catholic cause who are to
be found among our ranks.

In respect to the infallibility and supreme authority of the Pope, we
consider that Dr. Newman, whose doctrinal soundness was always really
unquestionable, has given new and explicit evidence which must satisfy
every careful reader of the pamphlet who is competent to judge of
theological matters. We have carefully scrutinized every phrase and
proposition, and find nothing which in our judgment is contrary to
Catholic doctrine. In respect to the theological opinions and the tone of
argument and expression of the venerable and illustrious author, we think
he is sometimes open to criticism, as at least ambiguous, if not
inaccurate; and in respect to one point, which does not occur as a direct
statement of opinion, but as a record of a doubt in his mind expressed in
a letter to a friend written several years ago, viz., the famous question
of “moral unanimity,” that the position there taken is altogether
untenable.

Dr. Newman frankly assumes the _rôle_ of a “minimizer,” in which his
_confrère_, Father Ryder, figured with so much ability in his controversy
with Dr. Ward. We have always thought that Father Ryder proved fairly that
his own positions, essentially considered, are within the limits of that
liberty of opinion which the Catholic doctrine permits. To a certain
extent we approve of “minimizing.” That is, we approve of not exacting as
a test of orthodoxy, and as _per se_ obligatory under pain of sin, belief
in more than the law _certainly_ requires. But we are most cordially
hostile to the system of economy in teaching and practice, which
inculcates and recommends only the minimum in doctrine, pious opinion, or
devotion. We do not attribute the advocacy of such a system to Dr. Newman,
yet we think it important to caution the readers of his pamphlet against
drawing such an inference from his language.

In speaking of the Syllabus, in particular, we fear that he has spoken in
such a way that some readers will infer that they may disregard it
altogether. He says it has no dogmatic authority. That it has not, by
itself, the quality of a complete and independent dogmatic document, we
may concede. It is a supplement to a whole series of doctrinal
pronouncements, of the nature of a catalogue of the errors condemned in
them. Yet all the errors enumerated are really condemned by virtue of the
sentence pronounced against them in the whole series of pontifical acts.
It is not lawful for any Catholic to hold any one of them. Their
interpretation is to be sought, by those who are competent to do so, in
the original doctrinal pronouncements of the Holy Father, and by the rest
of the faithful in the explanation of their pastors, and others who
explain them under their sanction. So also, although a condemnation of
some particular system of mixed education—_e.g._, in Ireland—does not
involve infallibility, but only authority to which obedience is due, yet
an _ex cathedrâ_ judgment of the Pope defining as a general proposition
that mixed education is dangerous, is an infallible judgment on a question
of morals.

Moreover, although the condemnation of errors frequently leaves a margin
for discussion respecting the full import and extent of the condemned
error and the precise limits of the contradictory truth which is affirmed,
there is always something positively and certainly decreed, over and above
the fact that there is an error of some sort. Frequently, the meaning is
obvious; and, at least generally, it is soon settled by the agreement of
theologians, so far as its essence is concerned. We cannot criticise in
detail every particular statement or expression in this pamphlet which, in
our view, falls short of a clear and unmistakable and complete expression
of correct theological doctrine. Dr. Newman’s particular line has led
through so many caveats, exceptions, limitations, so much subtle balancing
of opposite weights, and of what he consents to call “minimizing,” with
which ordinary readers are not familiar, that he leaves the impression
that truth, infallible teaching, the authority of the church, even the
Catholic faith, is something to be afraid of, to be guarded against,
somewhat as Englishmen feel about a standing army. We would prefer that,
instead of being apparently so solicitous to assure weak brethren and
timid converts that they need not believe so much as they are afraid of
being made to, he would speak out with a more clear, ringing, and full
note of his own peculiar, unequalled melody, to persuade and encourage
them to believe and confide in the church of God and in their prelates,
joyously, fearlessly, enthusiastically, with the noble spirit worthy of
the children of God. We do not like to hear our enemies call Dr. Newman
the head of a party of liberal Catholics in England, and set him over
against his archbishop, and pervert his language into a weapon against the
Council of the Vatican. We do not like to have to vindicate him from the
praise of anti‐Catholic writers, and to qualify the approbation which we
would like to give to the productions of his subtile and erudite genius by
“minimizing” criticism. He once wrote of himself,


    “Time was, I shrank from what was right,
    For fear of what was wrong.”


Something of the same mood seems to have come over his sensitive heart in
his seclusion from active, ecclesiastical life, during the Council of the
Vatican, and to have not quite withdrawn its penumbra. We are reminded of
S. Gregory Nazianzen, complaining of councils and of S. Basil, as he went
away weary from Constantinople into retirement; and of S. Colman,
gathering up his relics to quit Lindisfarne and escape from S. Wilfrid.
These were weaknesses of saints, but still weaknesses, and it was their
heroism and not their weakness which made them worthy of our veneration.
We trust that Dr. Newman will remember that there are some others to be
thought of besides those who are weak in the faith and his own _petite
clientele_ in England; and that he will not close his career without one
more deed of prowess, which shall discomfit the enemies of the Holy See
and the Catholic faith, and show that his pennon still flutters beside
those of his fellow‐champions.


    FATHER EUDES, APOSTOLIC MISSIONARY, AND HIS FOUNDATIONS,
    1601‐1874. By the Chevalier De Montzey. With a brief of approval
    from his Holiness Pius IX. Boston: Patrick Donahoe. 1874.


We have read this book with pleasure, and have been glad to learn
something of the Congregation of Eudists—one which deserves especial honor
for its loyalty to the Holy See and the glorious death of some of its
members at the massacre of the _Carmes_ in Paris during the French
Revolution. The author, who is a grand‐nephew of Father Eudes and of the
famous historian Mezeray who was his brother, is a soldier by profession,
and his style has a freshness and novelty about it quite refreshing in
hagiography, and contrasting very favorably with some other specimens,
which reflect more credit on the piety than on the literary qualifications
of their writers. Father Eudes was originally an Oratorian; but after the
death of Father de Condren, when the Oratory became infected with
Jansenism, he left it to found a new congregation of priests, living in
community without religious vows, and devoted to missions and the
instruction of young ecclesiastics in seminaries. He was a truly apostolic
man, and his work was crowned with success. Dispersed by the French
Revolution, his congregation has been since revived, and appears to be at
present chiefly engaged in the work of secular education. The history of
the French Oratory is both singular and instructive. An institute formed
by Cardinal de Berulle, and including among its members such men as
Malebranche, Massillon, Mascaron, Father de Condren, and Father Eudes,
would seem to have promised a most complete success. Yet it perished
utterly and ignominiously through the deadly contamination of Jansenism.
It has been restored within a few years past, and is now as strongly
marked by fidelity to the Holy See and to the spirit of its saintly
founders as it was by faithlessness to both in the period of its
dissolution. Yet its past history will ever remain a grave and warning
lesson of the deadly effects of tampering or compromising with unsound
doctrines, and deviating into new and dangerous ways. Father Eudes
succeeded in accomplishing what the founders of the Oratory attempted but
did not carry out, though at the cost of much persecution, and in a way
comparatively obscure and humble. His character was an original and
admirable one, his institute seems to have been judiciously and solidly
organized, and we both trust and desire that his successors may carry out
the excellent work which he commenced to the most ample results. We
recommend this life particularly to all who are engaged in similar
undertakings.


    THE RELIGIOUS STATE ACCORDING TO THE DOCTRINE OF S. THOMAS. By
    Jules Didiot, D.D. Translated from the French. London: Burns &
    Oates. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

    THE PERFECT LAY‐BROTHER. By Felix Cumplido, S.J. Same publishers.

    THE MISTRESS OF NOVICES ENLIGHTENED UPON HER DUTIES. By M. L’Abbé
    Leguay. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1875.


The first of these three books, specially intended for religious, needs no
other recommendation than its title. The second is considered by the
Jesuits to be one of the best of its kind, and is equally useful for that
most excellent class of religious persons, the Lay‐Sisters, as for
brothers. The third will be welcome to the ladies in charge of the
numerous and crowded novitiates which are the most beautiful feature in
our American Catholic Church, and, from the recommendations it has
received, we have no doubt will prove satisfactory, though we have not had
time even to glance at its contents.


    MARGARET ROPER. By Agnes Stewart. London: Burns & Oates. 1874.
    (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)


Miss Stewart is one of our best female writers. The sketch she has given
of Margaret Roper, in her usual felicitous style, is in the main
historical, with a little fictitious coloring to give it life.


    CHARACTERISTICS FROM THE WRITINGS OF JOHN HENRY NEWMAN. Arranged
    by W. S. Lilly, with the author’s approval. New York: Scribner,
    Welford & Armstrong. 1875.


The American publishers have imported their edition at the retail price of
$2.50. It is a London‐printed book, which is all that need be said for its
typography. The selections are miscellaneous and made with taste and
discrimination. The volume must be welcome to thousands of admirers of the
matchless writings of a man who is one of the modern glories of English
literature, as well as one of the brightest ornaments of religion and the
church in the present century. One of the best portraits of Dr. Newman
which we have seen, an admirably‐executed engraving from a recent
photograph, is a welcome addition to the volume.


    THE COMPLETE OFFICE OF HOLY WEEK, according to the Roman Missal
    and Breviary, in Latin and English. New and revised edition. New
    York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1875.


This little book will be found very useful to those of the laity who have
an opportunity of attending the Holy Week services, and it will also be
interesting to those who may wish to know what those services are which so
occupy the church during the “Great Week,” as the work contains all the
devotions of Holy Week, with the day and night office. There is an
abundance of spiritual reading in the Scripture lessons and prophecies, so
that those whose duties prevent them from attending the services may reap
much profit by a perusal of the offices at home. Each day is preceded by
an Introduction, explaining the meaning of the principal ceremonies. There
is also added the ritual for the blessing of the holy oils, which is
performed by the bishop on Holy Thursday.


    PEACE THROUGH THE TRUTH. SECOND SERIES. PART I. By Rev. J. Harper,
    S.J. London: Burns, Oates & Co. 1875. (New York: Sold by The
    Catholic Publication Society.)


This ponderous volume is employed with the topic of the Levitical
impediments to matrimony, and its weight of learning and argument is in
proportion to its size.


    THE PHILOSOPHY OF SPIRITUALISM, AND THE PATHOLOGY AND TREATMENT OF
    MEDIOMANIA. Two Lectures. By Frederic R. Marvin, M.D., Professor
    of Psychological Medicine and Medical Jurisprudence in the New
    York Free Medical College for Women. Read before the New York
    Liberal Club, March 20 and 27, 1874. New York: Asa K. Butts & Co.,
    Publishers, No. 36 Dey St. 1874.


Asa K. Butts & Co. have published this small book with a long title in a
very cheap and economical manner, very well suited to its scientific and
literary value. It is decidedly the production of a medio‐monomaniac.


    ON THE WING: A SOUTHERN FLIGHT. By the Hon. Mrs. Alfred
    Montgomery, author of _The Bucklyn Shaig_, _Mine Own Familiar
    Friend_, _The Wrong Man_, etc. London: Hurst & Blackett. 1875.


Those of our readers who enjoyed this “flight” during the summer and
autumn in the pages of THE CATHOLIC WORLD will need no assurance from us
regarding the pleasure of the trip. To others we will simply say that the
volume contains some admirably‐told travelling experiences, graphic
descriptions of Italian life and scenery, together with romantic episodes
in which sundry characters, real or imaginary, pass through a variety of
piquant incidents.

ANNOUNCEMENT.—In addition to the new serial already commenced in THE
CATHOLIC WORLD, we shall begin in the April number the publication of
another story by the author of “Laughing Dick Cranstone,” “How George
Howard was Cured,” etc.





[Transcriber’s Note: Obvious printer’s errors have been corrected.]






FOOTNOTES


    1 We say “indefinite,” because this virtual sphere in its continuous
      expansion wanes away insensibly, and has no definite limiting
      surface.

    2 That the matter of a primitive element is mathematically unextended
      will be rigorously proved in the next following articles.

    3 “A Speculation touching Electric Conduction and the Nature of
      Matter.” _Philos. Magazine_, 1844, vol. xxiv. p. 136.

    4 THE CATHOLIC WORLD, August, 1874, p. 584.

    5 He says: “What do we know of the atom apart from its force? You
      imagine a nucleus which may be called _a_, and surround it by forces
      which may be called _m_: to my mind the _a_, or nucleus, vanishes,
      and the substance consists in the powers of _m_. And, indeed, what
      notion can we form of the nucleus independent of its powers? What
      thought remains on which to hang the imagination of an _a_
      independent of the acknowledged forces?”

      We answer that there remains the _inertia_, the _passivity_, and the
      _local position_, which are not the property of the _m_, but of the
      _a_. The _a_, even according to Faraday, is the real centre of a
      sphere, and therefore it cannot vanish while the sphere exists,
      except inasmuch as it must be conceived without bulk, according to
      the theory of simple elements which he adopts.

    6 Opusc. _De Principiis Naturæ._

    7 Aliquid esse semper et ubique potest intelligi dupliciter. Uno modo,
      quia habet in se unde se extendat ad omne tempus et ad omnem locum,
      sicut Deo competit esse ubique et semper. Alio modo, quia non habet
      in se quo determinetur ad aliquem locum vel tempus. _Summa Theol._,
      p. 1, q. 16, a. 7.

    8 Universale est ubique et semper; materia etiam prima, quum sit in
      omnibus corporibus, est ubique. Neutrum autem horum est Deus. Ergo
      esse ubique non est proprium Dei.—Ad primum dicendum, quod
      universale et materia prima sunt quidem ubique, sed non secundum
      idem esse. _Summa Theol._, p. 1, q. 8, a. 4.

    9 _Questi che mai da me non fia divizo._

   10 Formerly September was the 7th month.

   11 This is the title of a remarkable poem by the Rev. John Keble,
      unpublished until after his death.

   12 Dr. Irons, in his book entitled _New Legislation for the Church: Is
      it needed?_ says: “The most discreditable because the most insincere
      of all the pleas for new legislation is the cry that the ritualists
      are encouraging popery amongst us. To say that we are in danger of
      becoming papists is about as rational as to say that we are becoming
      ‘Plymouth Brethren,’ ” (one of the many new sects which have sprung
      up of late years in England).

   13 At a meeting of a High Church society, called the English Church
      Union, recently held, a member of this Low Church association who
      was present rose and informed the assembly that that body further
      existed “for the purpose of teaching the bishops the law”—a
      statement which must have been interesting to the Bishop of
      Lichfield and his two coadjutor‐bishops who were present.

   14 Upon this the _Times_ remarks: “There can be no department of
      administration ... without a large deposit of discretionary powers
      in the best hands that can be found. The Church of England has
      always had to submit to that law, for it sees its prelates appointed
      alternately by the opposite political and religious sides, and has
      had to see the ecclesiastical patronage of populous counties
      bestowed for a whole generation on men of one school, and then as
      long on men of the other.” Could any words more graphically depict
      the shuttlecock existence of Anglican ecclesiastical arrangements
      than these?

   15 See _Peace through the Truth_, by the Rev. F. Harper, S. J., whose
      words we occasionally venture to adopt, as expressing so much more
      completely the state of the case than could be done by any of our
      own: “In the authorized formularies of the Church of England there
      is only one single instance in which confession is distinctly
      alluded to, namely, in the Service for the Visitation of the Sick.”
      But let us hear what is said by the great Anglican authority,
      Archbishop Whately, with regard to the rubric to which we refer, his
      work being a text‐book which nearly every Anglican bishop recommends
      to his candidates for ordination. After quoting Marshall and Potter
      as authorities in his favor, he says: “No authority can be urged
      from thence for the applying of God’s pardon to the conscience of a
      sinner, or for absolving him from any otherwise than from the
      censures of the church,” (_Whately on the Common Prayer_, ch. XI.,
      sec. 5, p. 430, London, 1840). And the late Bishop of London, Dr.
      Blomfield, in one of his charges (1842) speaks of auricular
      confession as “a practice wholly unknown to the primitive church,
      one of the most fearful abuses of that of Rome, and the source of
      unspeakable abominations.” From all which it ought to be clear to
      Anglicans themselves that, if they would find authorized confession
      and valid absolution, they must seek it elsewhere than from the
      self‐authorized confessors of their own communion.

   16 F. Harper.

   17 See “Our Paris Letter” in the _Church Times_ for June 12, 1874,
      which might be fitly described as two closely printed columns of
      exasperating mendacity.

   18 We are told that “one striking feature of the evening as regards the
      tone pervading the assemblage was the manifest repudiation of the
      idea ... that, if the bill were pressed, the extreme men would
      secede and free the church from their annoying presence.” When Mr.
      Hillyard, of S. Lawrence’s, Norwich, who presented himself as one of
      the “extremest of the extreme,” told how a parishioner of his had
      said to him, “Sir, if fifteen years ago there had been such services
      and spiritual privileges at S. Lawrence as there are now, I should
      never have turned Roman Catholic,” he “fairly brought down the
      house.” The idea of “sorrowful departure,” ... when referred to by
      one of the speakers, was received with _shouts of derisive
      laughter_. Another clergyman stated that he had “reconciled a great
      number of Roman Catholics to the church” (!), which announcement was
      received with “great cheering.”

   19 And Mr. B., moreover, would be able for his part to appeal to the
      “Black rubric” (so named by the Tractarians), and which is appended
      to the Communion Service, and Art. XXVIII. The former, apologizing
      for the order contained in the office for communicants to receive
      _kneeling_, declares that “thereby no adoration is intended or ought
      to be done, either unto the sacramental bread or wine there bodily
      received, or unto any Corporal Presence of Christ’s natural Flesh
      and Blood. For the sacramental bread and wine remain still in their
      very natural substance, and therefore may not be adored (for that
      were idolatry to be abhorred of all faithful Christians).” Article
      XXVIII. declares that “Transubstantiation cannot be proved by Holy
      Writ; but it is repugnant to the plain words of Scripture,
      overthroweth the nature of a sacrament, and hath given occasion to
      many superstitions.... The Sacrament of the Lord’s Supper was not by
      Christ’s ordinance reserved, carried about, lifted up, or
      worshipped.”

   20 Mr. H. Wilberforce.

   21 “As the Church of Jerusalem, Alexandria, and Antioch have erred, so
      also the Church of Rome hath erred, not only in their living and
      manner of ceremonies, but also in matters of faith.”—Art. XIX.,
      _Book of Com. Prayer_.

   22 “Ludens in orbe terrarum,” Prov. viii. 31.

   23 Animorum nulla in terris origo inveniri potest, nihil enim est in
      animis mixtum atque concretum, aut quod ex terra natum atque fictum
      esse videatur nihil ne aut humidum quidem, aut flabile, aut igneum.
      His enim in naturis nihil inest, quod vim memoriæ, mentis,
      cogitationis habeat, quod et præterita teneat, et futura provideat,
      et complecti possit præsentia: quæ sola divina sunt; nec invenietur
      unquam unde ad hominem venire possint, nisi a Deo. Singularis est
      igitur quædam natura atque vis animi, sejuncta ab his usitatis
      notisque naturis.—_Tusc. Quæst_, lib. 1, c 27.

   24 Laguile, in his _History of Alsace_, regards these apostles as the
      real disciples of S. Peter. He finds a proof of it in the writings
      of S. Irenæus (who lived in the IIId century), which allude to the
      churches of Germany.

   25 An old tradition attributes the foundation of this château to the
      Emperor Maximin, and declares that the rotunda was formerly
      consecrated to the worship of the pagan divinities. This rotunda was
      destroyed in 1734. An inn now stands on the spot.

   26 This abbey, at a later day, adopted the rule of S. Benedict, and in
      the VIIIth century became of great importance, being rebuilt and
      endowed by Duke Garnier.

   27 The remains of St. Deodatus have been preserved in this church.
      Formerly they were borne in procession with great pomp around
      Ebersheim‐Münster on the 19th of May, the festival of this saint.

   28 S. Odile was particularly attached to Ebersheim‐Münster. After the
      foundation of the Convent of Hohenbourg she appointed the abbot
      director of her community, and made to it some donations on
      condition that some of the monks of Ebersheim‐Münster should
      celebrate divine service at Hohenbourg on certain festivals, and the
      abbot himself on the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Déobald,
      Abbot of Ebersheim‐Münster, had the particular confidence of
      Charlemagne. He travelled with him to Saxe in 810.

   29 The remains of Adalric were, long after his death, removed from
      Hohenbourg to Ebersheim‐Münster, and were for a long period
      venerated by the pilgrims.

   30 Chroniclers speak particularly of the wonderful beauty of Odile’s
      fair locks.

   31 “If Pilatus wears his hood
      The weather surely will be good;
      But if Pilatus dons his sword,
      Then rain will soon be the award.”

   32 “To the fidelity and courage of the Swiss.”

   33 See Spelman’s _History and Fate of Sacrilege_.

   34 _Les Premières Civilisations: Études d’Histoire et d’Archéologie._
      Par F. Lenormant. Paris.

   35 Cf. Isaias xxxix. 1.

   36 Renan, _Livre de Job_, Introd., p. lxiii., 1860.

   37 Lenormant, _Premières Civilisations_, tom. ii. p. 21.

   38 See Genesis. x. 10.

   39 Cf. Isaias xxxvii. 38.

   40 Is. xlvi. 1.

   41 This is the value of the ideographic sign by which the abode of the
      dead is designated. It also bears two other names, which are of
      great importance, as proving that the Semites, far from borrowing
      from the Greeks their belief in another life, have, on the contrary,
      furnished the latter with the names which they have bestowed on the
      regions of the departed. In the poem of the descent of Istar into
      hell this region is, in fact, denominated _Eribus_, probably meaning
      “the house of darkness,” from _Ereb_, “evening,” from whence the
      Erebus of the Greeks; and _bit edie_, “the house of the eternities,”
      from _ed_, “eternity,” from whence comes doubtless the Greek Hades.
      The etymology αίδης is not historical, and may easily be an
      arbitrary invention. Acheron, also, seems very probably derived from
      _Acharon_, the West, the place of darkness, the land of the dead.
      (See Talbot, _Transactions of the Society of Biblical Archæology_.)

   42 _Prem. Civ._ The original text of this poem is given in _Choix de
      Textes Cuneiformes_, pp. 100, 105.

   43 _Transactions of the Soc. of Bibl. Archæol._ vol. i., p. 107, and
      partially translated by Lenormant, _Prem. Civ._

   44 See the two articles by M. Renan upon, or rather _against_, the
      “Expédition en Mesopotame” of M. Oppert, in the _Journal des
      Savants_, 1859.

   45 “Let my mouth be filled with thy praise, alleluia, that I may sing,
      alleluia; my lips shall greatly rejoice when I shall sing to thee,
      alleluia, alleluia.”

   46 The Germans call a graveyard God’s acre.

   47 A street of that name.

   48 The old man.

   49 Tiberius’ leap.

   50 _New American Cyclopædia_, v. Spiritualism.

   51 The Strada di Toledo, where the maskers assemble, and the combats
      with _confetti_ take place during the Carnival.

   52 _Bals masqués._

   53 The name of the place where large public and private balls are given
      by the Neapolitan nobility, to whom one must belong to have the
      right to subscribe.

   54 Thursday before Lent.

   55 The girls.

   56 An enclosure planted with maize, vines, and orange‐trees.

   57 “That is, Dennis O’Flinn, with whom was this book during a year,
      namely, from the seventh month of the year 1815 to the eighth month
      of the year 1816, _i.e._, viz., D. O’F., of Shandon Street, in Cork,
      of Great Munster, and that put it carefully in this form, as say the
      stanzas above.”

   58 The writer acknowledges his indebtedness to Mr. James O’Farrell for
      this translation and other valuable assistance.

   59 Pronounced Karr.

   60 _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_, canto i. st. vi.

   61 _History of Westmoreland and Cumberland_, Introd.

   62 “In world is naught, nature has wrought, that shall stay.
      Therefore serve God, keep well the rod, thy fame shall not decay.”

   63 The chronicles do not say how she passed her time at Brisgau. They
      merely state that she lived there about a year as a hermitess and
      mendicant.

   64 S. Attale became the superior of the chapter of S. Etienne at
      Strasbourg, founded by her father and composed of thirty canonesses.
      She lived to a good old age, and died in the odor of sanctity, her
      soul wafted to heaven by a troop of angels and their Queen. Her
      feast is celebrated at Strasbourg on the 3d of December.

   65 S. Eugénie succeeded S. Odile as abbess of Hohenbourg, and died in
      735. She was buried in the Chapel of S. John, and her tomb remained
      entire till the Lutheran soldiers of Mansfeldt broke it open in
      1622. Her relics were collected by the clergy, and afterwards
      restored to the convent. Later, the Swedes cast them to the winds.
      Only a portion is preserved at Oberehnheim, and still exposed on her
      festival, Sept. 16.

      S. Gundeline became the second abbess of Niedermünster. Her remains
      were once in a shrine of silver beside the grand altar, but were
      mostly lost in the Thirty Years’ War. What remain are at Einsiedeln.

   66 Roswinde, who had renounced the world before the Monastery of
      Hohenbourg was erected, lived holily under the direction of her
      sister. She was buried in the chapel of SS. Peter and Paul. The name
      of S. Roswinde is found in an ancient litany formerly chanted in the
      Diocese of Strasbourg.

   67 To endow this monastery with relics, he made a pilgrimage to Rome.
      Pope Adrian I. gave him the bodies of S. Sophie and three other
      saints, which he solemnly enshrined at Eschau. He died March 20,
      783, and was buried at Eschau. He is revered as a saint.

   68 This chalice was still at Hohenbourg in 1546. All the chronicles
      declare that no one could ever tell of what it was composed. The
      Abbey of Hohenbourg had a chalice on its coat‐of‐arms.

   69 Probably about the year 720. The year is disputed. A popular legend
      says she lived to be one hundred and three years old, which would
      make the year of her death 760.

   70 This will is to be found in the _Histoire de l’Eglise de
      Strasbourg_, by Grandidier.

   71 This precious work was carefully preserved in the Library of
      Strasbourg until the late siege. It is greatly to be hoped that it
      was transferred to a place of safety, and did not share the fate of
      that noble library. The manuscript throughout is by the hand of
      Herrade. It is composed of three hundred and twenty‐four leaves of
      parchment. It is especially interesting because it shows the state
      of the sciences and literature, the manners, and the public and
      private usages of the XIIth century.

      This work is a systematic collection of extracts taken from
      ecclesiastical history and from the fathers, mingled with
      reflections and observations on astronomy, geography, philosophy,
      history, and mythology, naturally introduced by the subject the
      author is treating of. To these are joined the poems of Herrade. It
      is illuminated with naïve and charming miniatures.

      This work is dedicated by the illustrious abbess to her spiritual
      children. She explains in the preface, written in prose, the object
      she had in view in undertaking it. “Like a bee,” she says, “I have
      amassed in this book the honey drawn from the sacred and
      philosophical writings, that I may form a honey‐comb to delight you
      and lead you to honor our Lord and the church. Seek herein an
      agreeable food for the soul, refresh hereby your fatigued minds,
      that you may always be occupied with your heavenly Spouse,” etc.,
      etc.

      She then enters upon the work. After speaking of God and his
      attributes, the angels and their fall, she comes to the creation,
      discusses man before and after his fall, passes in review the Old
      Testament in its relations with the New, with the history of the
      human race, the development of the arts, sciences, and philosophy.

      She comes finally to the mystery of the Redemption, to which she
      joins the genealogy of our Saviour, traced upon a mysterious tree
      planted by the Divinity. She gives an account of the life, miracles,
      teachings, and parables of Christ. Then follow numerous extracts
      from the Acts of the Apostles, to which are annexed very curious
      paintings.

      The history of the Roman emperors is naturally connected with the
      development of the Christian Church, and there are ingenious
      miniatures representing allegorically the virtues of the faithful
      followers of Christ, the hideousness of sin, the vanities and
      temptations of the world, the assaults of hell, and the means we
      should use to oppose them.

      Finally, Herrade represents, in a series of considerations and
      paintings, the dignities, rights, and obligations of the
      ecclesiastical state.

      This work, by the Abbess of Hohenbourg, is the production of a
      thoughtful mind, and is one that required much time. She very
      carefully indicates the numerous and authentic sources whence she
      draws her materials.

      Herrade has also left a list of all the popes from S. Peter to
      Clement III., and several astronomical works, which also are, or
      were, in the Library of Strasbourg.

   72 The relics of S. Odile venerated in other places are not of our
      saint. There are three other saints of that name—one a companion of
      S. Ursula; a second, Abbess of Hohenbourg in the XIth century; and a
      third, who was a widow of Liege.

   73 See Silliman’s _Principles of Physics_, n. 20.

   74 The word “matter” ordinarily signifies “material substance”; but
      among philosophers material substance is that in which one of the
      constituents is _the_ matter, the other being the form. Physicists
      also take the word “matter” in the sense of one of the constituents
      of material substance, whenever they distinguish _the_ matter from
      the active power of matter. We are surprised to find that Father
      Tongiorgi denies in his _Cosmology_ (n. 102, 103) that the primitive
      atoms are constituted of matter and form. Of what, then, are they
      constituted? He replies that those atoms have no constituents.
      “Philosophers,” he says, “ask what are the constituents of the
      atoms; and we answer that constituents of the atoms there are none,
      whether with regard to their essence or to their
      quantity”—_Quæstionem proponunt philosophi quœnam sint constitutiva
      atomorum. Cui respondemus, constitutiva atomorum nulla esse, nec
      quoad essentiam, nec quoad quantitatem_ (n. 119). This is a curious
      doctrine indeed; for it admits that a thing may be constituted
      without constituents, and not only ignores the metaphysical analysis
      of the primitive being, but implicitly declares it to be absurd.
      That all created substance essentially consists of act and potency
      we have shown in THE CATHOLIC WORLD for March, 1874, p. 824.

   75 We propose to treat this question separately.

   76 THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

   77 Itaque ubi habetur distinctio unius ab altero, ibi habetur unitatum
      pluralitas, seu multitudo, etiamsi quæ distincta sunt, unita sint,
      atque adeo communi termino copulentur, ut in continui partibus
      contingit.—_Cosmol._, n. 174.

   78 _Cosmol._, n. 59.

   79 Mysterium philosophicum; est hæc difficultas in qua ratio plus
      probat, quam possit intelligere; plus objicit, quam possit
      solvere.—Goudin, _Philos._

   80 Quando dicitur continuum esse divisibile in partes in infinitum
      divisibiles, hoc intelligendum est mathematice, non physice; id est
      considerando, quantitatem præcise secundum se, ut eam sumit
      mathematicus, non vero ut est proprietas formæ corporeæ, sicut eam
      considerat physicus; nam perveniri tandem posset ad partem ita
      minimam, ut minorem nulla forma naturalis pati posset. Attamen,
      mathematice loquendo, in illa minima parte adhuc essent duæ
      medietates, et in illis duabus medietalibus aliæ medietates, et sic
      in infinitum.—_Ibid._

   81 A childish amusement resorted to the evening of the first Sunday in
      Lent, as a kind of supplement to the Carnival.

   82 Carey’s _Dante_.

   83 A prolongation of the Carnival peculiar to Milan, where it lasts
      four days longer than elsewhere.

   84 Claudio Monteverde, an Italian musician, born at Cremona in 1565;
      died at Venice in 1649. The age of modern music can easily be
      computed.

   85 _Résumé Philosophique de l’Hist. de la Musique._ Par M. Fétis.

   86 _Dictionnaire de Plain Chant_, art. Tonalité.

   87 We were surprised to find that we had written “_diminished_” seventh
      for the chord _Sol, Si, Re, Fa_, in our last article. The
      accompanying example, however, showed our meaning, and, for
      musicians, corrected the error.

   88 We would also like to know why “church music” introduced by
      composers into their operas is so unlike the music they have
      composed for the church.

   89 A marked characteristic of Gregorian chant, Rousseau, in his _Essai
      sur l’Origine des Langues_, examining the influence of music,
      observes: “Thus melody, beginning _to be less adherent to speech_,
      took, insensibly, a separate existence, and music became more
      independent of the words. As a consequence, little by little those
      prodigies which it had produced while it was only the accent and the
      harmony of poetry, and which gave to it that power to subdue the
      passions which it would in the future exercise only upon the reason,
      ceased.”

   90 “And when they had said a hymn, they went forth unto the Mount of
      Olives.” “Id est, hymno cantato,” says Estius; and also S.
      Augustine: “Ubi non est cantus, non est hymnus;” and S. Chrysostom:
      “Hymnum cecinit, ut et nos similiter faciamus.” Suppose the Passion
      to have taken place in our day, would our Lord and his disciples
      have sung their “Communio” _à la_ Mozart, _alla_ Palestrina, or in
      the style of Gregorian Chant? “_Et nos similiter faciamus._”

   91 Come to his assistance, all ye saints of God; meet him, all ye
      angels of God; receive his soul, and present it before the Lord. May
      Jesus Christ, who called thee, receive thee, and may the angels
      conduct thee to the bosom of Abraham.

   92 Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord! and let perpetual light shine
      upon them.

   93 May the angels conduct thee to paradise; in thy coming may the
      martyrs receive thee and lead thee into the holy city Jerusalem. May
      the chorus of angels receive thee, and with Lazarus, once poor,
      mayest thou obtain eternal rest.

   94 _Bothwell: A Tragedy._ By Algernon Charles Swinburne. London: Chatto
      & Windus. 1874.

   95 _Alexander the Great_: A Dramatic Poem. By Aubrey de Vere. London:
      H. S. King & Co. 1874. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.

   96 _Brownson’s Review_, July, 1874, pp. 301, 304.

   97 Some of Des Cartes’ works were, however, required to be corrected,
      and placed on the Index with that note.

   98 _Défense de l’Ontologisme_, p. 1.

   99 _De Orig. Idearum_, art. v. obj. 3.

  100 CATHOLIC WORLD, vol iii. p. 294.

  101 Meaning the _understanding_.

  102 Ib. p. 519.

  103 Ib. p. 520.

  104 Ib. vol. iv. p. 660.

  105 Carlyle, _French Revolution_, vol. i.

  106 Neapolitan for a nervous attack.

  107 _Catholic Orthodoxy._ By Rev. Dr. Overbeck.

  108 _The Elements of Molecular Mechanics._ By Joseph Bayma, S.J.,
      Professor of Philosophy, Stonyhurst College. London and Cambridge:
      Macmillan and Co. 1866.

  109 THE CATHOLIC WORLD, August, 1874, p. 581.

  110 _The Elements of Molecular Mechanics_, pp. 28, 29.

  111 Tongiorgi, _Cosmol._, n. 53.

  112 In olden times it was the custom to ring on the chimes the hymns of
      the church, not the worldly or vulgar airs now too often heard.

  113 _On the Manners and Customs of the Ancient Irish_: A series of
      Lectures delivered by the late Eugene O’Curry, M.R.I.A., Professor
      of Irish History and Archæology in the Catholic University of
      Ireland, etc., by W. K. Sullivan, Ph.D., Secretary of Ireland, etc.
      Edited, with an Introduction, Appendixes—the Royal Irish Academy,
      Professor of Chemistry to the Catholic University, etc. 3 vols.
      London: Williams & Norgate. (New York: Sold by The Catholic
      Publication Society.)

  114 Harps.

  115 Otherwise known as Finn McOoul, General of the Militia of Ireland
      A.D. 283.

  116 Oghams.

  117 Félempesi, _La Vérité toute Entière_, p. 173.

  118 Jourgniac, _Thirty‐eight Hours in the Abbaye_.

  119 Mme. de Montasson, second wife by a morganatic marriage of the late
      Duke of Orleans, Egalité’s father.

  120 “Until the day dawn and the day‐star arise in your hearts.”—2 S.
      Peter i. 19.

  121 The technical term for a scarlet coat (worn by fox hunters) when it
      has seen service, and the tails have become _pink_ through exposure
      to the weather.

  122 _Saturday Review_, Feb. 21, 1874, art. “Highland Constituencies.”

  123 “Welch eine höchst weise Einrichtung! Wie glücklich ist Russland vor
      vielen Römisch‐Katholischen Ländern!”—_Hupel_, “Die kirchliche
      Statistik von Russland,” in the _Nordische Miscellanien_, part XI.,
      Riga, 1786, p. 88.

  124 First Series, vols. iii‐vii.

  125 See Pékarski, _Learning and Literature in Russia under Peter the
      Great_. (In Russian) St. Petersburg, 1862. Vol. ii., pp. 469‐481.

  126 Amongst the various writings in which Prokopovitch develops this
      thought might be noticed one which has for its title _An Historical
      Disquisition on the quality of pontiffs or high‐priests of idol‐
      worship possessed by the Roman emperors, both pagan and Christian;
      for what reason, and in what sense they possessed it, and whether,
      in the Christian law, Christian sovereigns can be called Bishops and
      Pontiffs, and in what sense_. St. Petersburg, 1721. See _Pékarski_,
      _op. cit._, vol ii., p. 519.

  127 Mgr. Plato, _Orthodox Doctrine; or, Christian Theology Abridged_.
      (In Russian) St. Petersburg, 1st ed., 1765; 2d ed., 1780.

  128 See “The Act of Succession to the Throne of Russia,” April 5, 1797,
      _Compl. Coll._, Vol. xxiv. (17,910).

  129 See the Ukases of the 3d Nov., 1798 (18,734), and of the 11th Dec.,
      1800 (19,684). See also on this subject our book: _The Popes of Rome
      and the Popes of the Oriental Church_. London: Longmans, 1871, pp.
      78‐81.

  130 _La Russie sera‐t‐elle Catholique?_ Par le Père J. Gagarin, S.J.
      Paris: Douniol, 1856.

  131 See the _Ukases_, Nos. 18,734 and 19,684.

  132 In the eastern provinces of the Russian Empire the Mahometans carry
      on an active propagandism at the expense of orthodoxy.

  133 _Code of the Laws of the Russian Empire_, vol. xiv. “Statute for the
      Prevention and Extirpation of Offences against the Faith,” Arts. 92
      and 97. Ed. 1857, pp. 18, 19.

  134 To mention only the _Panslavists_, whose formula is well known:
      “Orthodoxy and nationality are synonymous.” If all Russians thought
      the same, the Catholics might spare themselves the trouble of any
      further controversy.

  135 _Réglement ecclésiastique de Pierre le Grand, etc._, part i., p 16.
      Paris: Library of the Bibliographical Society, 75 Rue de Bac, 1874.

  136 “The emperor, as a Christian sovereign, is the supreme defender and
      protector of the dogmas of the dominant faith, the guardian of
      orthodoxy and of all that concerns good order in the holy
      church.”—_Code of the Laws of the Russian Empire_; Fundam. Laws,
      art. 42, ed. 1857, p. 10.

  137 We have it from an authentic source that the emperor had had made
      for himself, for this purpose, a set of (sacerdotal) vestments of
      sky‐blue velvet, and was so bent upon carrying out his intention
      that his principal favorite, Count Rostoptchin, only succeeded in
      dissuading him by reminding him that he had been twice married, and
      was therefore, according to the canons of the church, disqualified
      for offering the Holy Sacrifice.

  138 Father Gruber, General of the Jesuits, who was in great favor with
      Paul, presented to the czar a project for reunion. By command of the
      czar the Archimandrite Eugenius (Volkhovichinoff), afterwards
      Metropolitan of Kieff, published in 1800 an answer to this project,
      in the form of a canonical dissertation, _On the Authority of the
      Pope_. See _The Russian Clergy_, by Père Gagarin, S.J., pp. 118,
      119.

      It appears that this affair was under consideration for several
      years, and even in the reign of Catherine II. And in fact Hupel, in
      a note of the manuscript in which we found the opening passage of
      this essay, mentions the rumors read by the newspapers that a
      complete (_pollige_) reunion of the Russian with the Catholic Church
      was about to be accomplished, and attributed these same rumors to
      the ex‐Jesuits. Hupel wrote in 1736. See _op. cit._ p. 88, note.

  139 Schnitzler (J. L.), _Histoire intime de la Russie sous les Empereurs
      Alexandre et Nicolas_, Paris, Renouard, 1847, vol. i., note xiii.;
      _Dispositions religieuses de l’Empereur Alexandre_, p. 463, note
      xi.; _La Sainte Alliance et Mme. de Krudener_. See also a writing by
      the Protestant pastor, Empaytaz, _Notice sur Alexandre, Empereur de
      Russie_. Geneva, 1828.

  140 We have endeavored to elucidate this point of history, without
      having arrived at any definite result; we have some reason to
      believe that all which was known of the last days of the Emperor
      Alexander has not been made public. The notes which we had collected
      upon this subject would here be out of place.

  141 It was in consequence of this event that, not long afterwards,
      appeared the two works, respectively entitled _Persécutions et
      souffrances de l’Eglise Catholique en Russie_. Par un ancien
      Conseiller d’Etat en Russie (le Comte Arsène d’Harrer) Paris: Gaume,
      1842; and _Vicissitudes de l’Eglise Catholique des deux rites en
      Pologne et en Russie_. Par le P. Theiner, prêtre de l’Oratoire. The
      French edition of this last work appeared in 1842, preceded by a
      remarkable introduction from the pen of Count de Montalembert.
      Paris: Sagnier and Bray.

  142 Statute for the prevention and extirpation of offences against the
      faith, _Code_, etc., vol. xiv., ed. 1857, art. 97, p. 19.

  143 See _Description of the Country Clergy in Russia_ (Paris, Franck,
      1858); _The Russian Clergy_ (in Russian), Berlin, 1859; _Of the
      Organization of the Ecclesiastical Schools in Russia_ (in Russian),
      Leipsic, Wagner, 1863; _Of the Orthodox Clergy, Black and White, in
      Russia_ (in Russian), Leipsic, Wagner, 1866; the Père Gagarin on
      _The Russian Clergy_ (London, Burns & Oates, 1872); Eckardt, _Modern
      Russia_ (London, 1870), etc., etc.

  144 Schédo‐Ferroti, _La Tolérance et le Schisme Religieux en Russie_.
      Berlin: Behr, 1863, pp. 292, 293.

  145 _Id._, _ib._, p. 293.

  146 The reader will find in the _Réglement Ecclésiastique_, just brought
      out in Paris, the passage to which we allude (p. 192, note).

  147 _Schédo‐Ferroti_ (_op. cit._, pp. 328 and 318).

  148 During the last few years endeavors have been made to raise the
      _status_ of the Russian clergy, and although it remains
      fundamentally the same, the government has given proof of no less
      good will than intelligence in its endeavors. In fact, terrible
      reprisals are in store for the upper classes whenever the people
      shall have lost all faith.

  149 NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR.

      CURRAGH CHASE, ADARE, IRELAND, Nov. 24, 1874.

      REV. AND DEAR SIR: The public has taken recently such deserved
      interest in the _Memoir and Letters of Sara Coleridge_ that it has
      struck me that the last of the letters which I wrote to her before
      making my submission to the Catholic Church, in which I stated fully
      my reasons for taking that step, might be of use to many enquirers.

      Readers of Sara Coleridge’s _Letters_ have often asked me, “But
      where is your part of the correspondence?” They may perhaps be glad
      to read at least one of those letters, to which many of hers were
      replies.

      That letter I send you, with some preliminary remarks, this day, by
      book‐post. It is quite at your service, if you think it worth
      publishing in THE CATHOLIC WORLD....

      I remain very truly yours,
      AUBREY DE VERE.

  150 This statement is ambiguous. There are doubtless many persons, who
      have been brought up Catholics, who have never formally renounced
      the Catholic profession, and who are ready to declare their belief
      of many Catholic doctrines, but who doubt or disbelieve some one or
      more articles of faith, and have ceased to give unreserved
      allegiance to the authority of the church. Such persons have lost
      faith, and are not really Catholics, though they may call themselves
      by the name, and still enjoy some of the rights of members of the
      church. But every baptized member of the church has, at least, the
      habit of faith, if he has not destroyed it by a contrary act,
      _i.e._, by a formal sin against faith.—ED. C. W.

  151 _Lehrbuch der Universalgeschichte_, von Dr H. Leo, 3d edit., vol. i.
      pp. 13, 14.

  152 As a case in point, we may cite the law of the Pontifical States,
      which leaves the regulation of marriage among Jews to their own
      synagogue.

  153 O Virgin Mother, daughter of thy Son!

  154 _Following of Christ_, book iii. chap. v.

  155 _The History of New South Wales._ With an account of Van Diemen’s
      Land, New Zealand, Port Phillip, Moreton Bay, and other Australasian
      settlements. By Roderick Flanagan. 2 vols. London: Sampson Low.
      1862.

      _Reminiscences of Thirty Years’ Residence in New South Wales and
      Victoria._ With a supplementary chapter on transportation and the
      ticket‐of‐leave system. By R. Therry, Esq., late one of the judges
      of the Supreme Court of New South Wales. London: Sampson Low. 1863.

  156 See THE CATHOLIC WORLD for March, 1874, p. 828.

  157 See THE CATHOLIC WORLD for March, 1874, p. 831.

  158 By a strange irony of fate the same grotesque coat he had worn on
      the feast of the _Etre Suprême_ exactly six weeks before!

  159 Shea.

  160 _Narrative of Father Memôré._

  161 With regard to the Anglican clergy, it may be observed that the
      state church of England is almost entirely for the benefit of the
      aristocracy, which sees its younger sons enter her “orders” all the
      more gladly because their subsistence is thus provided for without
      the patrimony of the head of the family being much diminished—the
      children of the aristocracy thus aiding to maintain an institution
      to which in a great measure its influence is owing. As to the German
      Protestant clergy, they are neither so influential nor so respected
      as the Anglican.

  162 “Sir Galahad.”

  163 Martinet, _L’Emmanuel, ou le remède à tous nos maux_. Paris;
      Lecoffre. 1850.

  164 _Schédo‐Ferroti, op. cit._ ch. xv. p. 293.

  165 It is not without reason that we insist upon this circumstance of
      being _in contact with the people_. If indeed the Russian Church
      were to unite herself to the Catholic Church, and the latter,
      following the toleration granted to the united Greeks, allowed the
      secular Russian clergy liberty to marry, the inconveniences we have
      noticed would be less felt, for the reason that, besides the fact
      that the Catholic Church would merely _permit_—never, either
      directly or indirectly, _compel_—priests to marry, there would
      always be a regular and celibate clergy side by side with the
      secular and married priests, and equally with them in contact with
      the people.

      However, the barrenness in apostolic labors, and the inferior
      condition of all the Christian communities of Oriental rite among
      whom a married priesthood is permitted, oblige us to recognize in
      this permission a simple concession to human frailty; and their
      condition is a powerful argument in favor of the immense advantages,
      if not of the moral necessity, of ecclesiastical celibacy.

  166 Tennyson, _Poetical Works_, “Sir Galahad.”

  167 _Schédo‐Ferroti, op. cit._ p. 293.

  168 _Schédo‐Ferroti_, _op. cit._ pp. 295, 296.

  169 There are times, in the history of nations, when the moral necessity
      of certain institutions in the Catholic Church makes itself felt,
      even by the most incredulous. It is in Germany, as is well known,
      that the ecclesiastical law of the celibacy of priests has been most
      eagerly attacked; and it is from Germany that has come to us the
      most splendid apology for the firmness displayed by the Catholic
      Church with regard to this point of discipline. Those priests who
      are at this moment so valiantly wrestling against persecution and
      braving the loss of income, braving fines, prison, exile, and death
      itself—can one suppose they would be equally intrepid, did the
      existence of a wife and family depend upon their own?

  170 We shall be excused from considering as an universal history of the
      Orthodox Church certain little manuals which we have found indicated
      in the catalogues of Russian bibliography. Besides, it is not only
      of Russia, but of all the countries of the Orthodox communion, that
      we ask for one single ecclesiastical history like those of Fleury,
      Rohrbacher, Henrion, the Abbé Darras, etc. (to quote French names
      only.) The Εκκλησιαστικὴ Ἱστορία (_Ecclesiastical History_) of Mgr.
      Mcletius, Metropolitan of Athens (Vienna, 1783‐95), cannot certainly
      be compared to them.

  171 Voltaire, _Histoire de Pierre le Grand_, part ii. ch. xiv.

  172 In the greater part of the country‐places the popes have not been in
      any seminary at all. They have been taught to read and write, to
      make themselves acquainted with the ceremonies of the church and the
      regulations of the czars, and then they have been ordained priests.

  173 Mgr. Eugenius, _Historical Dictionary of the Ecclesiastical Writers
      of the Græco‐Russian Church who have lived in Russia_. (In Russian)
      St. Petersburg, 2d. ed., 1827.

  174 We are so far from objecting to the exercise of censure upon
      writings which treat upon religious matters that, in a note to the
      _Réglement Ecclésiastique_ (p. 178), we in some sort express a
      desire for it, even with regard to what is uttered in the pulpit.
      Only we require as a condition that this censure should be exercised
      by a _competent authority_. Now, in Russia it is no longer the
      bishops, but the state, which, not as protector, but as lord and
      master of the church, rules and measures the manifestation of
      religious thought. It is against this illegitimate censure that we
      contend. Very far removed is the sentiment which bows its head
      before the religious autocracy of the czars from the submission of
      the Catholic, who bows before the church _because he owns in her a
      divine authority_. The submission of the Catholic is that which is
      due to the truth and to God. It elevates and ennobles.

  175 We could mention cases in which the pope who wishes to speak to his
      bishop must fall on his knees at the door, even, of the room, and
      drag himself along thus to the prelate, to whom he must only speak
      kneeling.

  176 _Statuti Generali ed altri documenti dei Framassoni pubblicati per
      la prima volta con note dichiarative._ Roma: 1874.

      _Rituali Massonici del primo e del trentesimo grado detti di
      Apprendista e di Cavaliere Kadosh, per la prima volta pubblicati e
      commentati._ Roma: 1874.

  177 The French Reformers were reproached for inserting this article, but
      it is found in the statutes of the Scottish Rite printed at Naples,
      the centre of Italian orthodoxy. Perhaps it was left an innocuous
      relic of bygone servitude, when royal Freemasons insisted on
      fettering the craft with this clause. But its value was as well
      understood then as now.

  178 It is also explained, but not at this stage, that the invocation of
      S. John as patron of the lodges is a deception, _Janus_ being the
      real protector.

  179 A living member of the French Academy, famous for his anti‐Christian
      writings, on his admission to this grade, struck the Pontifical mask
      with such violence that the poniard broke and wounded his hand,
      which he carried bandaged for some time after.

  180 Eugénie de la Ferronays.

  181 October, 1873, p. 707.

  182 See the _Elements of Molecular Mechanics_, p. 147.

  183 THE CATHOLIC WORLD, October, 1874, p. 1.

  184 THE CATHOLIC WORLD for September, 1874. p. 729. Mr. Stallo might
      also see the _Elements of Molecular Mechanics_, book vi., on the
      constitution of molecules.

  185 See THE CATHOLIC WORLD, March, 1874, p. 757. Also, August, 1874, p.
      644 et seq.

  186 See THE CATHOLIC WORLD, March, 1874, pp. 764, 765.

  187 _Leisure: Its Moral and Political Economy._ By Severn Teackle
      Wallis. Baltimore: Printed by John Murphy & Co.

  188 A fact.

  189 At the incorporation of the Uniates of Lithuania into the Orthodox
      Church, under the Emperor Nicholas, the Synod of St. Petersburg
      declared in its celebrated decree of March 5, 1839, as follows: “The
      solemn confession expressed in the synodal act (of the apostate
      bishops), that the Lord God our Saviour Jesus Christ is alone the
      true Head of the only and true church, and the promise of dwelling
      in unanimity with the most holy orthodox patriarchs of the East, and
      with the most holy Synod, _leaves nothing more to require of the
      united Greek Church for the veritable and essential union of the
      faith_, and, for this reason, there remains nothing which can oppose
      itself to the hierarchical reunion” (_Persécutions et Souffrances_,
      etc., p. 118). Now, if there existed between the Catholic Church and
      the Russian Church a veritable doctrinal disagreement with regard to
      the Procession of the Holy Ghost, the Synod of St. Petersburg, in
      not requiring of the apostate bishops any retractation on this
      point, would have been guilty of an inconceivable compromise of the
      faith. We leave to orthodox Russians the task of defending it.

      It has been stated also that there is a disagreement between us and
      the Russians on the subject of purgatory. We here give what we find
      in the catechism of the late Mgr. Philarete, in use in the schools.
      We make use of the French translation, which appeared in Paris, with
      the concurrence of the Russian government and the Synod.

      Q. “What remark remains to be made respecting the souls of those who
      have died in the faith, but whose repentance has not had time to
      bear fruit?

      A. “That, to obtain for them a happy resurrection, the prayers of
      those who are yet on this earth may be to them a great assistance,
      especially when joined to the unbloody sacrifice of the Mass and to
      the works of mercy, done in faith and in memory of the departed”
      (_Catéchisme détaille de l’Eglise Catholique orthodoxe d’Orient,
      examiné et approuvé par le Saint Synode de Russie._ Paris:
      Klinsiock, 1851. On the eleventh article [of the Nicene Creed], p.
      89).

  190 Ανατολικὴ Ομολογία τῆς χριστιανικῆς πίστεως. The first edition
      appeared in Latin, at Geneva, in 1629; the second, four years later,
      in Greek and Latin. The _Confession_ of Cyril‐Lucar was inserted by
      Kimmel in his work _Libri Symbolici Ecclesiæ Orientalis_. Jenæ,
      1843. (Second ed. under the title of _Monumenta Fidei Ecclesiæ
      Orientalis_. Jenæ, 1850.)

  191 The title of this tract is, _Protestantism and Churches in the
      East_. The cause of its appearance was the pretension of the Church
      of England—which, not without analogy with the Russian Church,
      recognized the sovereign of the country as its head, after Jesus
      Christ—in giving to the East a bishop invested by a mandate of Queen
      Victoria, with a jurisdiction embracing the whole of Syria, Chaldæa,
      Egypt, and Abyssinia. Finally, its object is to examine the formula,
      “No peace with Rome, but union and agreement _at any price_ with the
      Syrians, the Abyssinians, and the _Greeks_,” and to prove the
      absolute impossibility of the Anglican and the Orthodox Churches
      being able honestly to agree together in point of doctrine.

      If it be true that, in consequence of the marriage of the Duke of
      Edinburgh, a great sympathy with the Anglican Church has taken
      possession of the aristocracy of St. Petersburg, No. 42 of the
      _Tracts for the Times_ ought to be reprinted in English, translated
      and printed in Russian, and widely disseminated in the two
      languages. It is the honesty itself of the two churches which is at
      stake.

  192 The reader will not take it amiss if he should find here several
      points already developed in our former essay, _The Pope of Rome and
      the Popes of the Oriental Orthodox Church._ (London: Longmans,
      1871.) It is almost impossible, in touching upon the same subject,
      entirely to avoid repetition; and, besides, there are certain ideas
      which require to be put forward pretty frequently, if they are
      sufficiently to arrest public attention.

      Well, then, there is one idea, which we would willingly call the
      “providential idea” of the times, of so decisive a tendency does it
      appear to us for hastening the end of the schism and the return of
      the Græco‐Russian Church to Catholic unity. It is the idea to which
      we now return, and which forms the subject of the entire third
      chapter of the essay just mentioned. We live in a century of
      revolutions; now, whilst the Catholic Church, in presence of the
      general overturning of thrones, dynasties and political
      constitutions, only strengthens, with her marvellous unity, the
      powers of her government, the Orthodox Eastern Church is given up
      defenceless to all the chances of political revolutions, and
      condemned, in her various branches, to submit to the form of
      government which these revolutions impose upon her. This fact alone
      is of a nature to lead back a goodly number of our separated
      brethren. We have not here to discuss lofty and abstract matters; we
      have to reflect whether Jesus Christ could thus have given up his
      church to the mercy of political revolutions. The man of the people,
      the illiterate, the workman, whose every moment is precious because
      he must live by the labor of his hands, can decide this question as
      easily as the theologian, the philosopher, and the statesman. It is
      a reflection which requires neither study nor any form of reasoning,
      nor even time; it is an argument self‐evident to all—the “popular
      argument,” which must decide between the Catholic Church and the
      Orthodox Eastern Communion.

      After this our repetitions will be treated with indulgence, as will
      also our inability to make any promise not to recur, even more than
      once, to this same subject—in short, our desire will be found
      legitimate that the _religious press of every country_ should make
      the idea which we have just expressed its own; that it should
      develop and popularize it, and make it really “the providential idea
      of the times.”

  193 This patriarch was afterwards deposed _on account of his refusal to
      sign the declaration of the council_, and the Sublime Porte was
      obliged to nominate a successor.

  194 Scarcely was the Patriarch of Jerusalem, Cyril, arrested and
      imprisoned, before Russia began to take reprisals against the Greek
      Church.

  195 Expression of the manifesto of the Synod of St. Petersburg, _On the
      Reunion of the Uniates with the Orthodox Church in the Russian
      Empire, printed by order of the Most Holy Synod of St. Petersburg_.
      Synodal Press, 1839. See _Persécutions et Souffrances_, etc., pp.
      157‐166.

  196 From what we have been able to ascertain, the conduct of the Russian
      Church upon this point is not so invariably uniform as to make it
      impossible to quote some exceptions to what we have just mentioned.
      It is very certain, however, that these exceptions do not regard
      great personages, who are always dispensed from submitting to
      baptism by immersion. To mention a recent example: the Princess
      Dagmar was admitted into the Russian Church without being required
      to receive a second baptism. The same thing was done in the last
      century. Voltaire having shown himself persuaded that the Russian
      Church baptized Protestants, baptized by infusion, was reproved by
      Catherine II. in the following terms: “As head of the Greek Church,
      I cannot honestly leave you unrebuked in your error. The Greek
      Church does not rebaptize at all. The Grand Duchess, etc.” (Vide
      _Kegl. Eccles._, p. 86, _note_.) What Catherine here calls the Greek
      Church is the Russian. Besides, Catherine herself had been received
      into the Russian Church without being rebaptized, and it was of this
      example that William Frederick Lütiens, the Lutheran author of the
      _Dissertatio de Religione Ruthenorum Hodierna_, did not fail to
      avail himself, in maintaining that upon this point also the Russians
      were in agreement with the Lutherans. “If the Russians of former
      days” (_Rutheni veteres_), writes Lütiens, “did not recognize as
      valid the baptism (by infusion) of our church, it cannot be
      attributed solely to their belief in the necessity of their
      ceremonies, but also to the hatred which, from the calumnies of the
      Romanists, they nourished against our Lutheran Church ...”
      (_Dissert._, etc., pp. 86, 7).

      Besides, we find the following in the _Russian Clergy_ of Father
      Gagarin: “The _Ecclesiastical Talk_ (Doukhovnaia Beseda) of Sept.
      17, 1866, was seeking for a means of reconciling on this point the
      Greek and Russian Churches. Nothing is stranger than the idea it has
      entertained. If we are to believe the _Ecclesiastical Talk_, the
      Greek Church fully admits the validity of baptism otherwise than by
      immersion, but has been obliged to exact a new baptism from those
      Latins seeking admission into her bosom, _in order to draw a deeper
      line of demarcation between Greeks and Latins, from fear of a
      reconciliation_, and to this end has attempted nothing less than _to
      make the Greeks believe_ that the Latins were not Christians. We
      should never dare to attribute to the Greek Church such a
      proceeding. Lying, calumny, profanation of a sacrament that cannot
      be repeated—all this, according to the _Ecclesiastical Talk_, the
      Greek Church would knowingly and willingly do! Reading this, we
      cannot believe our eyes. And this journal is published by the
      Ecclesiastical Academy of St. Petersburg, under the eye and with the
      approbation of the Synod!” (_The Russian Clergy, translated from the
      French of Father Gagarin, S.J._, by Ch. Du Gard Makepeace, M.A.
      London: Burns and Oates, 1872; p. 272.)

  197 The Council of Constantinople of 1872 has been acknowledged by one
      portion of the Orthodox Church, and rejected by the other. The
      church of the Hellenic kingdom maintains the authority of the
      council; a portion of the Russian Church rejects it. The Orthodox
      Church is thus divided into two camps; and, according to the tenor
      of the acts of the Council of 1872, all that portion of the Russian
      Church which does not admit the authority of the council is,
      therefore, at this present time excommunicate.

  198 _Confessio Orthodoxa Fidei, Catholicæ et Apostolicæ Ecclesiæ
      Orientalis._ Quæst. lxxxiii. in Kimmel’s work, _Libri Symbolici
      Ecclesiæ Orientalis_, p. 153.

  199 _Catéchisme Détaillé._ On the ninth article, p. 95.

  200 It is thus that Anthimus, the Patriarch of Constantinople, expressed
      himself in a document concerning the independence of the Orthodox
      Church of the Hellenic kingdom. See _The Pope of Rome_, etc., p.
      142. French ed., p. 227.

  201 Message of Marshal MacMahon to the French Assembly.

  202 Letter to M. Stoffels, Nov. 30, 1841 (_Memoir and Remains of Alexis
      de Tocqueville_).

  203 Letter to Stoffels, July 21, 1848.

  204 Mr. Senior’s _Journal_, April 26, 1858.

  205 _Doc. Hist. N. Y._, v. i. p. 158.

  206 McGee’s _Cath. Hist. America_.





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