  VOL. XXIV., No. 140.—NOVEMBER, 1876. Copyright: Rev. I. T. Hecker. 1877. THOUGHTS ON MYSTICAL THEOLOGY.St. John of the Cross, in commenting on these two lines of the thirty-ninth stanza of his Spiritual Canticle: “The grove and its beauty In the serene night,” gives us a definition of mystical theology. “‘In the serene night’—that is, contemplation, in which the soul desires to behold the grove (God as the Creator and Giver of life to all creatures). It is called night because contemplation is obscure, and that is the reason why it is also called mystical theology—that is, the secret or hidden wisdom of God, wherein God, without the sound of words or the intervention of any bodily or spiritual sense, as it were in silence and repose, in the darkness of sense and nature, teaches the soul—and the soul knows not how—in a most secret and hidden way. Some spiritual writers call this ‘understanding without understanding,’ because it does not take place in what philosophers call the active intellect (intellectus agens), which is conversant with the forms, fancies, and apprehensions of the physical faculties, but in the intellect as it is passive (intellectus possibilis), which, without receiving such forms, receives passively only the substantial intelligence of them, free from all imagery.” Father Baker explains mystic contemplation as follows: “In the second place, there is a mystic contemplation which is, indeed, truly and properly such, by which a soul, without discoursings and curious speculations, without any perceptible use of the internal senses or sensible images, by a pure, simple, and reposeful operation of the mind, in the obscurity of faith, simply regards God as infinite and incomprehensible verity, and with the whole bent of the will rests in him as (her) infinite, universal, and incomprehensible good.… This is properly the exercise of angels, for their knowledge is not by discourse (discursive), but by one That kind of contemplation which is treated of in mystical theology is, therefore, a state or an act of the mind in which the intellectual operation approaches to that of separate spirits—that is, of human souls separated from their bodies, and of pure spirits or angels who are, by their essence unembodied, simply intellectual beings. Its direct and chief object is God, other objects There are two fundamental errors underlying all these false systems of mystical theology—or more properly theosophy—and philosophy. One is distinctively anti-theistic, the other distinctively anti-Christian; but we may class both under one logical species with the common differentia of denial of the real essence and personality, and the real operation ad extra, of the Incarnate Word. The first error denies his divine nature and creative act, the second his human nature and theandric operation. By the first error identity of substance in respect to the divine nature and all nature is asserted; by the second, identity of the human nature and its operation with that nature which is purely spiritual. The first error manifests itself as a perversion of the revealed and Catholic doctrine of the deification of the creature in and through the Word, by teaching that it becomes one with God in its mode of being by absorption into the essence whose emanation it is, in substantial unity. The second manifests itself by teaching that the instrumentality and the From the mystery of the Incarnation necessarily follows the substantial reality of human nature as a composite of spirit and body, the Some of the German mystics, especially Eckhardt and the author of the Theologia Germanica, undoubtedly prepared the way for the errors of Luther and the pantheists who followed him. But the doctors of mystic theology, the canonized saints of the church and their disciples, have invariably taught that as the human nature of Christ is for ever essentially and substantially distinct from the divine nature in the personal union, so much more the beatified, in their separate personalities, remain for ever distinct in essence and substance from God. So, also, as they teach that the body of Christ is immortal and to be adored for ever with the worship of latria, they maintain that the union of the soul with the body and the existence of corporeal things is for the advantage of the soul, and perpetual. It is only by comparison with supernatural life in God that natural life is depreciated by the Catholic mystics, and by comparison with the spiritual world that the corporeal world is undervalued. In a word, all things which are created and visible, even the humanity of the Word, are only mediums and instruments of the Holy Spirit; all nature is only a pedestal for grace; and the gifts and operations of grace are only for the sake of the beatific union with Christ in the Holy Spirit, in whom he is one with the Father. All things, therefore, are to be valued and employed for their utility as means to the final end, but not as ends in themselves; and, consequently, the lower are to give place to the higher, the more remote to the proximate, and that which is The psychological doctrine of the doctors and other canonized authors who have treated scientifically of the nature of mystic contemplation, is not, however, placed above all critical discussion. A few important questions excepted, upon which the supreme authority of the Holy See has pronounced a judgment, the theory of cognition is an open area of discussion, and therefore explanations of the phenomena of the spiritual life, given by any author in accordance with his own philosophical system, may be criticised by those who differ from him in opinion. Those who follow strictly the psychology of St. Thomas, as contained in modern writers of the later Thomistic school, may easily be led by their philosophical opinions to suspect and qualify as scientifically untenable the common language of mystical writers. The passage quoted from Father Baker at the head of this article will furnish an illustration of our meaning. Those who are familiar with metaphysics will understand at once where the apparent opposition between scholastic psychology and mystical theology is found. For others it may suffice to explain that, in the metaphysics of the Thomists, no origin of ideas is recognized except that which is called abstraction from the sensible object, and that the precise difference of the human mind in respect to the angelic intellect is that the former is naturally turned to the intelligible in a sensible phantasm or image, whereas the latter is turned to the purely intelligible itself. Now, as soon as one begins to speak of a mode of contemplation similar to that of the angels—a contemplation of God and divine things without the intervention of images—he passes beyond the known domain of metaphysics, and appears to be waving his wings for a flight in the air, instead of quietly pacing the ground with the peripatetics. Now, assuming the Thomistic doctrine of the origin of ideas and the specific nature of human cognition to be true, it is worthy of careful inquiry how the statements of mystical authors respecting infused contemplation are to be explained in accordance with this system. We cannot prudently assume that there is a repugnance between them. Practically, St. Thomas was one of those saints who have made the highest attainments in mystic contemplation. He is the “Angelical,” and the history of his life shows that he was frequently, and towards the close of his life almost habitually, rapt out of the common sphere of the senses, so as to take no notice of what went on before his eyes or was uttered in his hearing. His last act as an instructor in divine wisdom was an exposition of the Canticle of Solomon to the monks of Fossa Nuova, and he could no doubt have explained according to his own philosophical doctrine all the facts and phenomena of mystic contemplation, so far as these can be represented in human language. There cannot be any sufficient reason, In respect to the purely passive and supernatural contemplation, there seems, indeed, to be no difficulty whatsoever in the way. There is no question of an immediate intuition of the divine essence in this ecstatic state, so that, even if the soul is supposed to be raised for a time to an equality with angels in its intellectual acts, the errors of false mysticism and ontologism are excluded from the hypothesis. For even the angels have no such natural intuition. That the human intellect should receive immediately from angels or from God infused species or ideas by which it becomes cognizant of realities behind the veil of the sensible, and contemplates God through a more perfect glass than that of discursive reason, does not in any way interfere with the psychology of scholastic metaphysics. For the cause and mode are professedly supernatural. In the human intellect of our Lord, the perfection of infused and acquired knowledge, the beatific vision and the natural sensitive life common to all men co-existed in perfect harmony. It is even probable that Moses, the Blessed Virgin, and St. Paul enjoyed temporary glimpses of the beatific vision. Therefore, although it is true that, without a miracle, no mere man “can see God and live,” and that the ecstasies of the saints, in which there is no intuitive vision of the divine essence, but only a manifestation of divine things, naturally tend to extinguish bodily life, yet, by the power of God, the operations of the natural life can be sustained in conjunction with those which are supernatural, because they are not essentially incongruous. The only question is one of fact and evidence. Whatever may be proved to take place in souls so highly elevated, philosophy has no objection to offer; for these things are above the sphere of merely human and rational science. The real matter of difficult and perplexing investigation relates to certain abnormal or preternatural phenomena, which seem to indicate a partial liberation of the soul from the conditions of organic life and union with the body, and to that state of mystic contemplation which is called active or acquired. In these cases there is no liberty allowed us by sound theology or philosophy of resorting to the supernatural in its strict and proper sense. We are restricted to the sphere of the nature of man and the operations which can proceed from it or be terminated to it according to the natural laws of its being. There is one hypothesis, very intelligible and perfectly in accordance with psychology, which will remove all difficulty out of the way, if only it is found adequate to explain all the certain and probable facts and phenomena which have to be considered. Father Baker furnishes this explanation as a probable one, and it no doubt amply suffices for the greatest number of instances. That is to say, we may suppose that whenever the mind seems to act without any species, image, or idea, originally presented through the medium of the senses, and by a pure, spiritual intuition, it is really by a subtile and imperceptible image which it has elaborated by an abstractive and discursive process, and which exists in the imagination, that the intellect receives the object which it contemplates. But let us suppose that this hypothesis is found insufficient to explain We must briefly consider what is the mode of knowing proper to separate spirits before we can find any data for answering this question. Here we avail ourselves of the explication of the doctrine of St. Thomas given by Liberatore in his interesting treatise on the nature of man entitled Dell’Uomo. St. Thomas, following St. Augustine, teaches that in the creation, the divine idea in the Word was communicated in a twofold way, spiritual and corporeal. In the latter mode this light was made to reverberate from the visible universe. In the former it was made to shine in the superior and intellectual beings—that is, the angels—producing in them ideally all that which exists in the universe really. As they approximate in intelligence to God, these ideas or intelligible species by which they know all things have a nearer resemblance to the Idea in the Divine Word—that is, approach to its unity and simplicity of intuition—are fewer and more general. As their grade of intelligence is more remote from its source, they depart to a greater and greater distance from this unity by the increasing multiplicity of their intelligible species. Moreover, the inferior orders are illuminated by those which are superior; that is, these higher beings present to them a higher ideal universe than their own, and are as if reflectors or mirrors of the divine ideas, by which they see God mediately in his works. The human soul, being the lowest in the order of intelligent spirits, is not capable of seeing objects distinctly, even in the light of the lowest order of angels. It is made with a view to its informing an organized body, and it is aided by the bodily senses and organic operations to come out of the state of a mere capacity of intelligence, in which it has no innate or infused ideas, into actual intelligence. It is naturally turned, as an embodied spirit, to inferior objects, to single, visible things, for the material term of its operation, and from these abstracts the universal ideas which are the principles of knowledge. The necessity of turning to these sensible phantasms is therefore partly the inchoate state of the intelligence of man at the beginning of his existence, partly its essential inferiority, and, in addition, the actual union of the soul with the body. There is, however, in the soul, a power, albeit inferior to that of angels, of direct, intellectual vision and cognition, without the instrumentality of sensation. When the soul leaves the body and goes into the state of a separate spirit, it has the intuition of its own essence, it retains all its acquired ideas, and it has a certain dim and confused perception of higher spiritual beings and the ideas which are in them. It is therefore, in a certain sense, more free and more perfect in its intellectual operation in the separate state than it was while united with the body. All this proceeds without We see from the foregoing that the necessity for using sensible images in operations of the intellect does not arise from an intrinsic, essential incapacity of the human mind to act without them. As Father Baker says, and as Liberatore distinctly asserts after St. Thomas, it is “the state of a soul joined to a mortal body” which impedes the exercise of a power inherent and latent in the very nature of the soul, as a form which is in and by itself substantial and capable of self-subsistence and action in a separate state. Remove the impediment of the body, and the spirit starts, like a spring that has been weighted down, into a new and immortal life and activity. The curtain has dropped, and it is at once in the world of spirits. The earth, carrying with it the earthly body, drops down from the ascending soul, as it does from an aeronaut going up in a balloon. “AnimÆ, secundum illum modum essendi, quo corpori est unita, competit modus intelligendi per conversionem ad phantasmata corporum, quÆ in corporeis organis sunt. Cum autem fuerit a corpore separata, competit ei modus intelligendi per conversionem ad ea, quÆ sunt intelligibilia simpliciter, sicut et aliis substantiis separatis”—“To the soul, in respect to the mode of being by union with a body, belongs a mode of understanding by turning toward the phantasms of bodies which are in the bodily organs. But when it is separated from the body, a mode of understanding belongs to it in common with other separate substances, by turning toward things simply intelligible.” There are many facts reported on more or less probable evidence, and extraordinary phenomena, belonging to diabolical and natural mysticism, which receive at least a plausible explanation on the same hypothesis. To refer all these to subjective affections of the external or internal senses and the imagination does not seem to be quite sufficient for their full explanation. It appears like bending and straining the facts of experience too violently, for the sake of a theory which, perhaps, is conceived in too exclusive and literal a sense. At all events it is worth investigation and discussion whether the dictum of St. Thomas, intelligere absque phantasmate modo non potest, does not admit of and require some modification, by which it is restricted to those intellectual perceptions which belong to the normal, ordinary condition of man within the limits of the purely natural order. —Ariz grandezas de Avila. It was on the 31st of January, 1876, we left the Escorial to visit the muy leal, muy magnifica, y muy noble city of Avila—Avila de los Caballeros, once famed for its valiant knights, and their daring exploits against the Moors, but whose chief glory now is that it is the birthplace of St. Teresa, whom all Christendom admires for her genius and venerates for her sanctity. Keeping along the southern base of the Guadarrama Mountains, whose snowy summits and gray, rock-strewn sides wore a wild, lonely aspect that was inexpressibly melancholy, we came at length to a lower plateau that advances like a promontory between two broad valleys opening to the north and south. On this eminence stands the picturesque city of Avila, the Pearl of Old Castile, very much as it was in the twelfth century. It is full of historic mansions and interesting old churches that have a solemn architectural grandeur. One is astonished to find so small a place inland, inactive, and with no apparent source of wealth, with so many imposing and interesting monuments. They are all massive and severe, because built in an heroic age that disdained all that was light and unsubstantial. It is a city of granite—not of the softer hues that take a polish like marble, but of cold blue granite, severe and invincible as the steel-clad knights who built it. The granite houses are built with a solidity that would withstand many a hard assault; the granite churches, with their frowning battlements, have the aspect of fortresses; and the granite convents with their high granite walls look indeed like “citadels of prayer.” Everything speaks of a bygone age, an age of conflict and chivalrous deeds, when the city must have been far more wealthy and powerful than now, to have erected such solid edifices. We are not in the least surprised to hear it was originally founded by Hercules himself, or one of the forty of that name to whom so many of the cities of Spain are attributed. Avila is worthy of being counted among his labors. But whoever founded Avila, it afterwards became the seat of a Roman colony which is mentioned by Ptolemy. It has always been of strategic importance, being at the entrance to the Guadarrama Mountains and the Castiles. When Roderick, the last of the Goths, brought destruction on the land by his folly, Avila was one of the first places seized by the Moors. This was in 714. After being repeatedly taken and lost, Don Sancho of Castile finally took it in 992, and the Moors never regained possession of it. But there were not Christians Alonso VI. had already taken the city of Toledo and made peace with the Moors, but the latter, intent on ruling over the whole of the Peninsula, soon became unmindful of the treaty. In this new crisis many foreign knights hastened to acquire fresh renown in this land of a perpetual crusade. Among the most renowned were Henry of Lorraine; Raymond de St. Gilles, Count of Toulouse; and Raymond, son of Guillaume TÊte-Hardie of Burgundy, and brother of Pope Calixtus II. They contributed so much to the triumph of the cross that Alonso gave them his three daughters in marriage. Urraca (the name of a delicious pear in Spain) fell to the lot of Raymond of Burgundy, with Galicia for her portion, and to him was entrusted the task of rebuilding Avila, the more formidable because it required numerous outposts and a continual struggle with the Moors. The flower of Spanish knighthood came to his aid, and the king granted great privileges to all who would establish themselves in the city. Hewers of wood, stone-cutters, masons, and artificers of all kinds came from Biscay, Galicia, and Leon. The king sent the Moors taken in battle to aid in the work. The bishop in pontificals, accompanied by a long train of clergy, blessed the outlines traced for the walls, stopping to make special exorcisms at the spaces for the ten gates, that the great enemy of the human race might never obtain entrance into the city. The walls were built out of the ruins left successively behind by the Moors, the Goths, and the Romans, to say nothing of Hercules. As an old chronicler remarks, had they been obliged to hew out and bring hither all the materials, no king would have been able to build such walls. They are forty-two feet high and twelve feet thick. The so-called towers are rather solid circular buttresses that add to their strength. These walls were begun May 3, 1090. Eight hundred men were employed in the work, which was completed in nine years. They proved an effectual barrier against the Saracen; the crescent never floated from those towers. How proud the people are of them is shown by the lines at the head of this sketch: “Behold the superb walls that surround and crown thee, victorious in so many assaults! Each battlement deserves a crown in reward for thy glorious triumphs!” It was thus this daughter of Hercules rose from the grave where she had lain seemingly dead so many years. Houses sprang up as by enchantment, and were peopled so rapidly that in 1093 there were about thirty thousand inhabitants. The city thus rebuilt and defended by its incomparable knights merited the name often given it from that time by the old chroniclers, Avila de los Caballeros. One of these cavaliers, Zurraquin Sancho, the honor and glory of knighthood, was captain of the country forces around Avila. One day, while riding over his estate with a single attendant to examine his herds, he spied a band of Moors returning from a foray into Christian lands, dragging several Spanish peasants after them in chains. As A few days after, these peasants came to Avila in search of their benefactor, bringing with them twelve fat swine and a large flock of hens. Regardless of his parting admonition, they stopped on the Square of San Pedro, and related how he had delivered them single-handed against threescore infidels. The whole city soon resounded with so brave a deed, and Zurraquin was declared a peerless knight. The women also took up his praises and sang songs in his honor to the sound of the tambourine: “Cantan de Oliveros, e cantan de Roldan, E non de Zurraquin, ca fue buen barragan.” A second band would take up the strain: “Cantan de Roldan, e cantan de Olivero, E non de Zurraquin, ca fue buen caballero.” After rebuilding Avila Count Raymond of Burgundy retired to his province of Galicia, and, dying March 26, 1107, he was buried in the celebrated church of Santiago at Compostella. It was his son who became King of Castile under the name of Alonso VIII., and Avila, because of its loyalty to him and his successors, acquired a new name—Avila del Rey—among the chroniclers of the time. But the city bears a title still more glorious than those already mentioned—that of Avila de los Santos. It was in the sixteenth century especially that it became worthy of this name, when there gathered about St. Teresa a constellation of holy souls, making the place a very Carmel, filled with the “sons of the prophets.” Avila cantos y santos—Avila has as many saints as stones—says an old Spanish proverb, and that is saying not a little. The city has always been noted for dignity of character and its attachment to the church. The piety of its ancient inhabitants is attested by the number and grave beauty of the churches, with their lamp-lit shrines of the saints and their dusky aisles filled with tombs of the old knights who fought under the banner of the cross. In St. Teresa’s time it was honored with the presence of several saints who have been canonized: St. Thomas of Villanueva, St. Peter of Alcantara, St. John of the Cross, and that holy Spanish grandee, St. Francis Borgia, besides many other individuals noted for their sanctity. But St. Teresa is the best type of Avila. Her piety was as sweetly “You mustn’t say anything against St. Teresa at Avila,” said the inevitable Englishmen we met an hour after our arrival. “We are by no means disposed to, here or anywhere else,” was our reply. On the contrary, we regarded her, with Mrs. Jameson, as “the most extraordinary woman of her age and country”; nay, “who would have been a remarkable woman in any age or country.” We had seen her statue among the fathers of the church in the first Christian temple in the world, with the inscription: Sancta Teresa, Mater spiritualis. We had read her works, written in the pure Castilian for which Avila is noted, breathing the imagination of a poet and the austerity of a saint, till we were ready to exclaim with Crashawe: “Oh! ’tis not Spanish, but ’tis Heaven she speaks!” and we had come to Avila expressly to offer her the tribute of our admiration. Here she reigns, to quote Miss Martineau’s words, “as true a queen on this mountain throne as any empress who ever wore a crown!” At this very moment we were on our way to visit the places associated with her memory. A few turns more through the narrow, tortuous streets, and we came to the ponderous gateway of San Vicente on the north side of the city, so named from the venerable church just without the walls, beloved of archÆologists. But for the moment it had no attraction for us; for below, in the broad, sunny valley, we could see the monastery of the Incarnation, a place of great interest to the Catholic heart. There it was that St. Teresa, young and beautiful, took the veil and spent more than thirty years of her life. The first glimpse of it one can never forget; and, apart from the associations, the ancient towers of San Vicente on the edge of the hill, the fair valley below with its winding stream and the convent embosomed among trees, and the mountains that girt the horizon, made up a picture none the less lovely for being framed in that antique gateway. We went winding down to the convent, perhaps half a mile distant, by the Calle de la Encarnacion. No sweeter, quieter spot could be desired in which to end one’s days. It is charmingly situated on the farther side of the Adaja, and commands a fine view of Avila, which, indeed, is picturesque in every direction. We could count thirty towers in the city walls as we turned at the convent gate to look back. St. Teresa stopped in this same archway, Nov. 2, 1533, to bid farewell to her brother Antonio, who, on leaving her, went to the Dominican convent, where he took the monastic habit. She was then only eighteen and a half years old. The inward agony she experienced on entering the convent she relates with great sincerity, but there was no faltering in her determination to embrace the higher life. The house had been founded only about twenty years before, and the first Mass was said in it the very day she was baptized. That was more than three centuries ago. Its stout walls may be somewhat grayer, and the alleys of its large garden more umbrageous, but its general aspect must be very much the same; for in that dry climate nature does not take so kindly to man’s handiwork as in the misty north, where the old convents are all draped with moss There is a series of little parlors, low and dim, with unpainted beams, and queer old chairs, and two black grates with nearly a yard between, through which you can converse, as through a tunnel, with the nuns. They have not been changed since St. Teresa’s time. In one of these our Lord reproved her for her conversations, which still savored too much of the world. Here, later in life, St. Francis Borgia came to see her on his way from the convent of Yuste, where he had been to visit his kinsman, Charles V. Here she saw St. Peter of Alcantara in ecstasy. In one of these parlors, now regarded as a sacred spot, she held her interviews with St. John of the Cross when he was director of the house. It is related that one day, while he was discoursing here on the mystery of the Holy Trinity, she was so impressed by his words that she fell on her knees to listen. In a short time he entered the ecstatic state, leaving St. Teresa lost in divine contemplation; and when one of the nuns came with a message, she found them both suspended in the air! For a moment they ceased to belong to earth, and its laws did not control them. A picture of this scene hangs on the wall. In a larger and more cheerful parlor some nuns of very pleasing manners of the true Spanish type showed us several objects that belonged to St. Teresa, and some of her embroidery of curious Spanish work, very nicely done, as we were glad to see; likewise, a Christ covered with bleeding wounds as he appeared to St. John of the Cross, and many other touching memorials of the past. We next visited the church, which is large, with buttressed walls, low, square towers, and a gabled belfry. The interior is spacious and lofty, but severe in style. There is a nave, and two short transepts with a dome rising between them. It is paved with flag-stones, and plain wooden benches stand against the stone walls. The high altar, at which St. John of the Cross used to say Mass, has its gilt retable, with colonnettes and niches filled with the saints of the order, among whom we remember the prophets who dwelt on Mt. Carmel, and St. Albert, patriarch of Jerusalem. The nuns’ choir is at the opposite end of the church. We should say choirs; for they have two, one above the other, with double black grates, which are generally curtained. It was at the grate of the lower choir, dim and mystic as his Obscure Night of the Soul, that St. John of the Cross used to preach to the nuns. What sermons there must have been from him who wrote, as never man wrote, on the upward way from night to light! The grating of this lower choir has two divisions, between which is a small square shutter, like the door of a tabernacle, on which is represented a chalice and Host. It was here St. Teresa received the Holy Communion for more than thirty years. Here one morning, after receiving it from the hand of St. John of the Cross, she was mysteriously affianced to the heavenly Bridegroom, who called her, in the language of the Canticles, by the sweet name of Spouse, and placed on her finger the nuptial ring. She was then fifty-seven years of age. A painting over the communion table represents this supernatural event. This choir is also associated with the memory of Eleonora de Cepeda, In the upper choir there is a statue of St. Teresa, dressed as a Carmelite, in the stall she occupied when prioress of the house. The nuns often go to kiss the hand as a mark of homage to her memory. The actual prioress occupies the next stall below. It will be remembered that St. Teresa passed twenty-nine years in this convent before she left to found that of San JosÉ. She afterwards returned three years as prioress, when, at her request, St. John of the Cross (who was born in a small town near Avila) was appointed spiritual director. Under the direction of these two saints the house became a paradise filled with souls of such fervor that the heavenly spirits themselves came down to join in their holy psalmody, according to the testimony of St. Teresa herself, who saw the stalls occupied by them. “The air of Paradise did fan the house, And angels office all.” One of St. Teresa’s first acts, on taking charge of the house, was to place a large statue of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel in the upper choir, and present her with the keys of the monastery, to indicate that this womanly type of all that is sweet and heavenly was to be the true ruler of the house. This statue still retains its place in the choir, and in its hand are the keys presented by the saint. The convent garden is surrounded by high walls. It wears the same smiling aspect as in the saint’s time, but it is larger. The neighboring house occupied by St. John of the Cross, with the land around it, has been bought and added to the enclosure. The house has been converted into an octagon chapel, called the Ermita de San Juan de la Cruz. The unpainted wooden altar was made from a part of St. Teresa’s cell. In this garden are the flowers and shrubbery she loved, the almond-trees she planted, the paths she trod. Here are the oratories where she prayed, the dark cypresses that witnessed her penitential tears, the limpid water she was never weary of contemplating—symbol of divine grace and regeneration. St. Teresa’s love of nature is evident on every page of her writings. She said the sight of the fields and flowers raised her soul towards God, and was like a book in which she read his grandeur and benefits. And she often compared her soul to a garden which she prayed the divine Husbandman to fill with the sweet perfume of the lowly virtues. The sun was descending behind the proud walls of Avila when we regained the steep hillside, lighting up the grim towers and crowning them with splendor. We stopped on the brow, before the lofty portal of San Vicente, to look at its wreaths of stone and mutilated saints, and read the story of the rich man and Lazarus so beautifully told in the arch. Angels are bearing away the soul of the latter on a mantle to Abraham’s bosom. On the south side of the church is a sunny portico with light, clustered pillars, filled with tombs, some in niches covered with emblazonry, others like plain chests of stone set against the wall. We went down the steps into the church, cold, and dim, and gray, all of granite and cave-like. The pavement is composed of granite tombstones covered with inscriptions and coats of arms. There are granite fonts for the holy water. Old statues, old paintings, and old inscriptions in Gothic text line the narrow aisles. The windows are high up in the arches, which were still light, though shadows were gathering around the tombs below. There was not a soul in the church. We looked through the reja that divides the nave at the beautiful Gothic shrine of San Vicente and his two sisters, Sabina and Chrysteta, standing on pillars under a richly-painted canopy, with curious old lamps burning within, and then went down a long, narrow, stone staircase into the crypt—of the third century—and kept along beneath the low, round arches till we came to a chapel where, by the light of a torch, we saw the bare rock on which the above-mentioned saints were martyred, and the Bujo out of which the legendary serpent came to defend their remains when thrown out for the beasts to devour. This Bujo was long used as a place of solemn adjuration, a kind of Bocca de la VeritÀ, into which the perjurer shrank from thrusting his hand, but the custom has been discontinued. The following morning we went to visit the place where St. Teresa was born. On the way we passed through the Plaza de San Juan, like an immense cloister with its arcades, which takes its name from the church on one side, where St. Teresa was baptized. The very font is at the left on entering—a granite basin fluted diagonally, surrounded by an iron railing. Over it is her portrait and the following inscription: Vigesimo octavo Martii One of the most popular traditions of Avila is connected with the Square of San Juan: the defence of the city in 1109 by the heroic Ximena Blasquez, whose husband, father, and brothers were all valiant knights. The old governor of the city, Ximenes Blasquez, was dead, and Ximena’s husband and sons were away fighting on the frontier. The people, left without rulers and means of defence, came together on the public square and proclaimed her governor of the place. She accepted the charge, and proved herself equal to the emergency. Spain at this time was overrun by the Moors who had come from Africa to the aid of their brethren. They pillaged and ravaged the country as they went. Learning the defenceless state of Avila, and supposing it to contain great riches and many Moorish captives, they resolved to lay siege to it. Ximena was warned of the danger, and, instantly mounting her horse, she took two squires and rode forth to the country place of Sancho de Estrada to summon him to her aid. Sancho, though enfeebled by illness, was too gallant a knight to turn a deaf ear to the behest of ladye fair. He did not make his entrance into the city in a very knightly fashion, however. Instead of coming on his war-horse, all booted and spurred, and clad in bright armor, he was brought in a cart on two feather-beds, on the principle of Butler’s couplet, which we vary to suit the occasion: “And feather-bed ’twixt knight urbane And heavy brunt of springless wain.” In descending at the door of his palace at Avila he unfortunately fell and was mortally injured, and the vassals he had brought with him basely fled when they found they had no chastisement to fear. But the dauntless Ximena was not discouraged. Determined to save the city, she went from house to house, and street to street, to distribute provisions, count the men, furnish them with darts and arrows, and assign their posts. It is mentioned that she took all the flour she could find at the bishop’s; and Tamara, the Jewess, made her a present of all the salt meat she had on hand. On the 3d of July Ximena, hearing the Moors were within two miles of the city, sent a knight with twenty squires to reconnoitre their camp and cut off some of the outposts, promising to keep open a postern gate to admit them at their return. Then she despatched several trumpeters in different directions to sound their trumpets, that The Moorish captain, approaching the city, saw it apparently defended by armed men, and, deceived by the trumpets in the night, supposed the place had been reinforced. He therefore decided to retreat. As soon as Ximena found the enemy really gone she descended from the walls with her daughters and daughters-in-law, distributed provisions to her troops on the Square of St. John, and, after the necessary repose, they all went in procession to the church of the glorious martyrs San Vicente and his sisters, and, returning by the churches of St. Jago and San Salvador, led Ximena in triumph to the Alcazar. The fame of her bravery and presence of mind extended all over the land, and has become the subject of legend and song. A street near the church of San Juan still bears the name of Ximena Blasquez. A convent for Carmelite friars was built in the seventeenth century on the site of St. Teresa’s family mansion, in the western part of Avila. The church, in the style of the Renaissance, faces a large, sunny square, on one side of which is a fine old palace with sculptured doors and windows and emblazoned shields. Near by is the Posada de Santa Teresa. The whole convent is embalmed with her memory. Her statue is over the door of the church. All through the corridors you meet her image. The cloisters are covered with frescoes of her life and that of St. John of the Cross. Over the main altar of the church, framed in the columns of the gilt retable, is an alto-relievo of St. Teresa, supported by Joseph and Mary, gazing up with suppliant hands at our Saviour, who appears with his cross amid a multitude of angels. The church is not sumptuous, but there is an atmosphere of piety about it that is very touching. The eight side-chapels are like deep alcoves, each with some scene of the Passion or the life of the Virgin. The transept, on the gospel side, constitutes the chapel of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel, from which you enter a little oratory hung with lamps and entirely covered with paintings, reliquaries, and gilding, as if art and piety had vied in adorning it. It was on this spot St. Teresa first saw the light in the year 1515, during the pontificate of In a little closet of the oratory we were shown some relics of the saint, among which were her sandals and a staff—the latter too long to walk with, and with a small crook at the end. It might have been the emblem of her monastic authority. Beneath the church are brick vaults full of the bones of the old friars, into which we could have thrust our hands. Their cells above are less fortunate. They are tenantless, or without their rightful inmates; for since the suppression of the monasteries in Spain only the nuns in Avila have been left unmolested. Here, at St. Teresa’s, a part of the convent has been appropriated for a normal school. We went through one of the corridors still in possession of the church. Ave Maria, sin peccado concebida was on the door of every cell. We entered one to obtain some souvenir of the place, and found a studious young priest surrounded by his books and pictures, in a narrow room, quiet and monastic, with one small window to admit the light. Then there is the garden full of roses and vines, also sequestered, where St. Teresa and her brother Rodriguez, in their childhood, built hermitages, and talked of heaven, and encouraged each other for martyrdom. “Scarce has she learned to lisp the name Of martyr, yet she thinks it shame Life should so long play with the breath Which, spent, could buy so brave a death.” Avila was full of the traditions of the incomparable old knights who had delivered Spain from the Moor. The chains of the Christian captives they had freed were suspended on the walls of one of the most beautiful churches in the land, and those who had fallen victims to the hate of the infidel were regarded as martyrs. The precocious imagination of the young Teresa was fired with these tales of chivalry and Christian endurance. She was barely seven years of age when she and her brother escaped from home, and took the road to Salamanca to seek martyrdom among the Moors. We took the same path when we left the convent. Leaving the city walls, and descending into the valley, we came to the Adaja, which flows along a narrow defile at the foot of Avila, over a rocky bed bordered by old mills that have been here from time immemorial, this faubourg in the middle ages having The next morning we were awakened at an early hour by the sound of drum and bugle, and the measured tramp of soldiers over the pebbled streets. We hurried to the window. It was not a company of phantom knights fleeing away at the dawn, but the flesh-and-blood soldiers of Alfonso XII. going to early Mass at the cathedral of San Salvador on the opposite side of the small square. We hastened to follow their example. San Salvador, half church, half fortress, seems expressly built to honor the God of Battles. Chained granite lions guard the entrance. Stone knights keep watch and ward at the sculptured doorway. Happily, on looking up we see the blessed saints in long lines above the yawning arch, and we enter. The church is of the early pointed style, though nearly every age has left its impress. All is gray, severe, and majestic. Its cold aisles are sombre and mysterious, with tombs of bishops and knights in niches along the wall, where they lie with folded hands and something of everlasting peace on their still faces. The heart that shuts its secrets from the glare of sunlight, in these shadowy aisles unfolds them one by one, as in some mystic Presence, with vague, dreamy thoughts of something higher, more satisfying, than the outer world has yet given, or can give. The distant murmur of the priests at the altars, the twinkling lights, the tinkling bells, the bowed forms grouped here and there, the holy sculptures on the walls, all speak to the heart. The painted windows of the nave are high up in the arches, which are now empurpled with the morning sun. Below, all dimness and groping for light; above, all clearness and the radiance of heaven! Sursum corda! The coro, as in most Spanish cathedrals, is in the body of the church, and connected with the Capilla Mayor by a railed passage. These mysteries are continued in the magnificent retable of the time of Ferdinand and Isabella in the Capilla Mayor, where they are richly painted on a gold ground by Berruguete and other famous artists of the day, and now glorious under the descending morning light. It is the same sweet Rosary of Love that seems to have caught new lights, more heavenly hues. The interesting chapels around the apsis are lighted by small windows like mere loop-holes cut through walls of enormous thickness. In the ambulatory we come to the beautiful alabaster tomb of Alfonso de Madrigal, surnamed El Tostado, the tawny, from his complexion, and El Abulense, Abula being the Latin for Avila. He was a writer of such astonishing productiveness that he left behind him forty-eight volumes in folio, amounting to sixty thousand pages. It is to be feared we shall never get time to read them, at least in this world. He became so proverbial that Don Quixote mentions some book as large as all the works of El Tostado combined, as if human imagination could go no farther. Leigh Hunt speaks of some Spanish bishop as probably writing his homilies in a room ninety feet long! He must have referred to El Tostado. He is represented on his tomb sitting in a chair, pen in hand, and eyes half closed, as if collecting his thoughts or listening to the divine inspiration. His jewelled cope, embroidered with scenes of the Passion, is beautifully carved. Below him are the Virtues in attendance, as in life, and above are scenes of Our Lord’s infancy, which he loved. This tomb is one of the finest works of Berruguete. Further along we opened a door at a venture, and found ourselves in the chapel of San Segundo, the first apostle of Avila, covered with frescoes of his life. His crystal-covered shrine is in the centre, with an altar on each of the four sides, behind open-work doors of wrought brass. The chapel was quiet and dim and solemn, with burning lamps and people at prayer. Then, by another happy turn, we came into a large cloister with chapels and tombs, where the altar-boys were at play in their red cassocks and short white tunics. The church bells now began to ring, and they hurried away, leaving us alone to enjoy the cloistral shades. When we went into the church again the service had been commenced, the Capilla Mayor was hung with crimson and gold, candles were distributed to the canons, who, in their purple robes, made the round of the church, the wax dripping on the tombstones that paved the aisles, and the arches resonant with the dying strains of the aged Simeon: Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine! For it was Candlemas-day. The cathedral of San Salvador was begun in 1091, on the site of a After breakfast we left the city walls and came out on the Square of San Pedro, where women were filling their jars at the well in true Oriental fashion, the air vocal with their gossip and laughter. Groups of peasant women had come up from the plains for a holiday, and were sauntering around the square or along the arcades in their gay stuff dresses, the skirts of which were generally drawn over their heads, as if to show the bright facings of another color. Yellow skirts were faced with red peaked with green; red ones faced with green and trimmed with yellow. When let down, they stood out, in their fulness, like a farthingale, short enough to show their blue stockings. Their hair, in flat basket-braids, was looped up behind with gay pins. We saw several just such glossy black plaits among the votive offerings in the oratory of St. Teresa’s Nativity. We stopped awhile in the church of San Pedro, of the thirteenth century—like all of the churches of Avila, well worth visiting—and then kept on to the Dominican convent of St. Thomas, a mile distant, and quite in the country. This vast convent is still one of the finest monuments about Avila, though deserted, half ruined, and covered with the garment of sadness. It was here St. Teresa’s brother Antonio retired from the world and died while in the novitiate. We visited several grass-grown cloisters with fine, broad arches; the lonely cells once inhabited by the friars, commanding a fine view over the rock-strewn moor and the Guadarrama Mountains beyond; the infirmary, with a sunny gallery for invalids to walk in, and windows in the cells so arranged opposite each other that all the sick could from their beds attend Mass said in the oratory at the end; the refectory, with stone tables and seats, and defaced paintings on the walls; the royal apartments, looking into a cloister with sculptured arches, and everywhere the arrows and yoke, emblems of Ferdinand and Isabella; and the broad stone staircase leading to the church where lies their only son Juan in his beautifully-sculptured Florentine tomb of alabaster, now sadly mutilated. On one side of this fine church is a chapel with the confessional once used by St. Teresa. It was here, on Assumption day, 1561, while attending Mass, and secretly deploring the offences she had confessed here, she was ravished in spirit and received a supernatural assurance that her sins were forgiven her. She was herself clothed in a garment of dazzling whiteness, and, as a pledge of the divine favor, a necklace of gold, to which was attached a jewelled cross of unearthly brilliancy, was placed on her neck. There is a painting of this vision on one side of the chapel, as well as in several of the churches of Avila. Mary Most Pure, in all the freshness of youth, appears with St. Joseph, bearing the garment of purity and the collar of wrought gold—a sweet yoke of love she received just before she founded the convent of San JosÉ. We were glad to learn that this convent has been purchased by the bishop of Avila, and is about to be restored to the Dominican Order. The Jesuit college of San GinÈs, likewise among the things of the past, has some interesting associations. It was founded by St. Francis Borgia, and in it lived for a time the saintly Balthazar Alvarez, the confessor par excellence of St. Teresa, who said her soul owed more to him than to any one else in the world. She saw him one day at the altar crowned with light, symbolic of the fervor of his devotion. He was a consummate master of the spiritual life, and the guide of several persons at Avila noted for their sanctity. One day we walked entirely around the walls of Avila, and came about sunset to a terrace at the west, overlooking a vast plain towards Estramadura. The fertile Vega below, with the stream winding in long, silvery links; the purple mist on the mountains that stood against the golden sky; the snowy range farther to the left, rose-flushed in the sunset light, made the view truly enchanting. We could picture to ourselves this plain when it was filled with contending hosts—the Moslem with the floating crescent, the glittering ranks of Christian knights with the proudly streaming cross and the ensigns of Castile, the peal of bugle and clash of arms, and perchance the bishop descending with the clergy from his palacio just above us to encourage and bless the defenders of the land. Now only a few mules were slowly moving across the plain with the produce of peaceful labor, and the soft tinkle of the convent bells, calling one to another at the hour of prayer, the only sounds to break the melancholy silence. Near by is the church of Santiago, where the caballeros of Avila used to make their veillÉe des armes before they were armed knights, and with what Christian sentiments may be seen from an address, as related by an old chronicle, made by Don Pelayo, Bishop of Oviedo, to two young candidates in this very church, after administering the Holy Eucharist. It must be remembered this was at the end of the eleventh or beginning of the twelfth century, being in the reign of Alonso VI., to whom the rebuilding of Avila was due: “My young lords, who are this day to be armed knights, do you comprehend thoroughly what knighthood is? Knighthood means nobility, and he who is truly noble will not for anything in the world do the least thing that is low or vile. Wherefore you are about to promise, in order to fulfil your obligations unfalteringly, to love God above all things; for he has created you and redeemed you at the price of his Blood and Passion. In the second place, you promise to live and die subject to his holy law, without denying it, either now or in time to come; and, moreover, to serve in all loyalty Don Alonso, your liege lord, and all other kings who may legitimately succeed him; to receive no reward from rich or noble, Moor or Christian, without the license of Don Alonso, your rightful sovereign. You promise, likewise, in whatever battles or engagements you take part, to suffer death rather than flee; that on your tongue truth shall always be found, for the lying man is an abomination to the Lord; that you will always be ready to fly to the assistance of the poor man who implores your aid and seeks protection, even to encounter Which the two young lords, who were the bishop’s nephews, solemnly swore to perform. Whereupon they were dubbed knights by Count Raymond of Burgundy, after which they departed for Toledo to kiss the king’s hand. Not far from the church of Santiago is the convent of Nuestra SeÑora de la Gracia on the very edge of the hill, inhabited by Augustinian nuns. The church stands on the site of an ancient mosque. The entrance is shaded by a portico with granite pillars. Our guide rang the bell at the convent door, saying: “Ave Maria Purissima!” “Sin peccado concebida,” responded a mysterious voice within, as from an oracle. St. Teresa attended school here, and several memorials of her are shown by the nuns. St. Thomas of Villanueva, the Almsgiver, who is said to have made his vows as an Augustinian friar the very day Luther publicly threw off the habit of the order, was for a time the director of the house, and often preached in the church, which we visited. It consists of a single aisle, narrow and lofty, with the gilt retable over the altar, as in all the Spanish churches, and a tomb or two of some Castilian noblemen at the side. The pulpit, in which saints have preached, is a mere circular rail against the wall, ascended by steps. When used it is hung with drapery. On the same side of the church is a picture of the young Teresa beside her teacher, Maria BriceÑo, a nun of fervent piety, to whom the saint said she was indebted for her first spiritual light. This nun, who, it appears, conversed admirably on religious subjects, told her pupil one day how in her youth she was so struck on reading the words of the Gospel, “Many are called, but few are chosen,” that she resolved to embrace the monastic life; and she dwelt on the rewards reserved for those who abandon all things for the love of Christ—a lesson not lost on the eager listener. At the end of the church is a large grating, through which we looked into the choir of the nuns, quiet and prayerful, with its books and pictures and stalls. Two nuns, with sweet, contemplative faces, were at prayer, dressed in queer pointed hoods and white mantles over black habits. At the sides of the communion wicket stood the angel of the Annunciation and Raphael with his fish—gilded statues of symbolic import. One of the most interesting places in Avila is the convent of San JosÉ, on the little Plaza de las Madres, the first house of the reform established by St. Teresa. The convent and high walls are all of granite and prison-like in their severity of aspect, but we were received with a kindness by the inmates that convinced us there was nothing severe in the spirit within. It is true we found the doors most inhospitably closed and locked, even those of the outer courts generally left open, and The church of this convent is said to be the first church ever erected in honor of St. Joseph. There were several chapels before, which bore his name, in different parts of Europe—for example, one at Santa Maria ad Martyres at Rome—but no distinct church. St. Teresa was the great propagator of the devotion to St. Joseph, now so popular throughout the world. Of the first eighteen monasteries of her reform, thirteen were placed under his invocation; and in all she inculcated this devotion, and had his statue placed over one of the doors. She left the devotion as a legacy to the order, which has never ceased to extend it. At the end of the eighteenth century there were one hundred and fifty churches of St. Joseph in the Carmelite Order alone. His statue is over the door of the church at Avila, and beside him stands the Child Jesus with a saw in his hand. “For is not this the carpenter’s son?” The church consists of a nave with round arches and six side chapels, the severity of which is relieved by the paintings and inevitable gilt retables. A statue of St. Joseph stands over the altar. The grating of the nuns’ choir is on the gospel side, opposite which is a painting of St. Teresa with pen in hand and the symbolic white dove at her ear. Jesus, Maria, JosÉ are successively carved on the key-stones of the arches of the nave. The first chapel next the epistle side of the altar contains the tomb of Lorenzo de Cepeda, St. Teresa’s brother, who entered the army and went to South America about the year 1540, where he became chief treasurer of the province of Quito. Having lost his wife, a woman of rare merit (it is related she died in the habit of Nuestra SeÑora de la Merced), he returned to Spain with his children, after an absence of thirty four years, and established himself at a country-seat near Avila. He had a great veneration for his sister, and placed himself under her spiritual direction. Not to be separated from her, even in death, he founded this chapel at San JosÉ’s, which he dedicated to his patron, San Lorenzo, as his burial-place. His tomb is at the left as you enter, with the following inscription: “On the 26th of June, in the year 1580, fell asleep in the Lord Lorenzo de Cepeda, brother of the holy foundress of this house and all the barefooted Carmelites. He reposes in this chapel, which he erected.” In the same tomb lies his daughter Teresita, who entered a novice Another chapel was founded by Gaspar Daza, a holy priest of Avila, who gathered about him a circle of zealous clergymen devoted to works of charity and the salvation of souls. His reverence for St. Teresa induced him to build this chapel, which he dedicated to the Nativity of the Virgin, with a tomb in which he lies buried with his mother and sister. It was he who said the first Mass in the church, Aug. 24, 1562, and placed the Blessed Sacrament in the tabernacle, after which he gave the veil to four novices, among whom was Antonia de Hanao, a relative of St. Teresa’s, who attained to eminent piety under the guidance of St. Peter of Alcantara, and died prioress of the Carmelites of Malaga, where her memory is still held in great veneration. At the close of this ceremony St. Peter of Alcantara, of the Order of St. Francis; Pedro YbaÑez, the holy Dominican, and the celebrated Balthazar Alvarez, of the Society of Jesus, offered Masses of thanksgiving. What a reunion of saints! On that day—the birthday of the discalced Carmelites—St. Teresa laid aside her family name, and took that of Teresa de JÉsus, by which she is now known throughout the Christian world. Among the early novices at San JosÉ was a niece of St. Teresa’s, Maria de Ocampo, beautiful in person and gifted in mind, who, from the age of seventeen, resolved to be the bride of none but Christ. She became one of the pillars of the order, and died prioress of the convent at Valladolid, so venerated for her sanctity that Philip III. went to see her on her death-bed, and recommended himself and the kingdom of Spain to her prayers. Her remains are in a tomb over the grating of the choir in the Carmelite convent at Valladolid, suspended, as it were, in the air, among other holy virgins who sleep in the Lord. Another niece of St. Teresa’s, Another chapel at San JosÉ, that of St. Paul, at the right as you go in, was founded by Don Francisco de Salcedo, a gentleman of Avila, who was a great friend of St. Teresa’s, as well as his wife, a devout servant of God and given to good works. St. Teresa says he lived a life of prayer, and in all the perfection of which his state admitted, for forty years. For twenty years he regularly attended the theological course at the convent of St. Thomas, then in great repute, and after his wife’s death took holy orders. He greatly aided St. Teresa in her foundations, and accompanied her in her journeys. He lies buried in his chapel of St. Paul. Not far from St. Joseph’s is the church of St. Emilian, in the tribune of which Maria Diaz, also a friend of St. Teresa’s, spent the last forty years of her life in perpetual We have mentioned, too briefly for our satisfaction, some of the persons, noted for their eminent piety, who made Avila, at least in the sixteenth century, a city de los Santos. It is a disappointment not to find here the tomb of her who is the crowning glory of the place. The expectations of Lorenzo de Cepeda were not realized. He does not sleep in death beside his sainted sister. The remains of St. Teresa are at Alba de Tormes, where she died, in a shrine of jasper and silver given by Ferdinand VII. It stands over the high altar of the Carmelite church, thirty feet above the pavement, where it can be seen from the choir of the nuns, and approached by means of an oratory behind, where they go to pray. Her heart, pierced by the angel, is in a reliquary below. We left Avila with regret. Few places take such hold on the heart. For those to whom life has nothing left to offer but long sufferance it seems the very place to live in. The last thing we did was to go to the brow of the hill by San Vicente, and take a farewell look at the convent of the Incarnation, where still so many “Willing hearts wear quite away their earthly stains” in one of the fairest, happiest of valleys. How long we might have lingered there we cannot say, had not the carriage come to hurry us to the station. And so, taking up life’s burden once more, which we seemed to have laid down in this City of the Saints, we went on our pilgrim way, repeating the lines St. Teresa wrote in her breviary:
“Some sing of Oliver, and some of Roldan: We sing of Zurraquin, the brave partisan.” “Some sing of Roland, and others Oliver: We sing of Zurraquin, the brave cavalier.” “To suffer or to die.” The air came laden with the balmy scent Of citron grove and orange; far beyond The cloister wall, like towering battlement, Sierra’s frowning range rich colors donned From ling’ring Day-Star’s robe; and brilliant hues Floated like banners on palatial clouds. Light floods the river, parts its mist-like shrouds; Each ripple soft, prismatic gleams transfuse. Below Avila lay; its cross-lit spires Blended their even-chime with seraph lyres; O’er mount and vale pealed out their call to prayer, And stole with joy upon the list’ning air. Within the cloister’s fragrant, bowery shade, Gemmed with EspaÑa’s blooms ’mid velvet lawns, Gemmed with EspaÑa’s blooms ’mid velvet lawns, Soft carols stirring leafy bough and glade, Teresa muses; on her chaste brow dawns A light celestial—peace and hope and love. The wasted form, than bending flower more frail, Is draped in Carmel’s saintly robe and veil. The pale, ethereal face is bowed; those eyes Whose gaze has revelled in the courts above, Now pearled with tears, are bent in mournful guise On image of the Crucified within Her fingers’ slender clasp; in sacred trance Now rapt, its mysteries are revealed; dark sin In ghastly horror rises; now her glance On bleeding form, pierced brow, is fixed; once more Upon those wounded shoulders, drenched in gore, The cross hangs trembling; o’er her soul, Transpierced with love, deep floods of anguish roll; And burning words her holy passion tell, Like fountain gushing from her heart’s deep cell: “O earth! break forth in groans; ease thou my pain! Ye rivers, ocean, weep! My Love is slain! My Jesus dies, and I— I cannot die, but through this exile moan A stranger, midst of multitudes alone, And vainly seek to fly Where harps ten thousand wake the echoing sky; My solace here, to suffer or to die! “O Jesus! long and wildly have I striven, By fast and penance this vile body driven To thy sweet yoke to yield; And agonies of death have seized this frame, Dark devils made of me their mock and shame, Thou, thou alone my shield. A bower of roses!—looms so steep and high The path I strain, to suffer or to die! “Thou walk’st before! O thorn-lined path and cross! A sceptred queen I walk, on beds of moss, Nor fear the dark, dark night. Love strains my sorrows to my heart with grasp Stronger than aught on earth, save God’s dear clasp Of soul beloved. The height Will soon appear; the glory I descry: Strength, Lord, with thee I suffer or I die! “Augment my woes! Let flesh and spirit share Each separate pang thou, Crucified, didst bear, Nor drop of comfort blend. Let death’s stern anguish be my daily bread, Thy lance transfix my heart, thorns crown my head— Pain, torture to the end; And while death’s angel seals my glazing eye, Heart, soul shall yearn to suffer or to die!” Great soul! be comforted: thy prayer is heard More huge and terrible than human word May utter, mortal heart conceive, the throng Of woes that haste from Calvary to greet Thy every step. Like Jesus, hate and wrong Shall make of thee their jest; as purest wheat Thou shalt be crushed, yet newer life shalt claim; Slander, the hydra-tongued, shall cloud thy name; Treason with thee break bread; toil, hunger, cold, Thy daily ’tendants far from these sweet bowers. A score of years thy sorrows still enfold, But myriad souls shall feast on thy dark hours Through centuries to come, and learn of thee The path to peace, and prayer’s sweet mystery. The seraph waits with flaming lance to dart The fires of heaven within thy yearning heart, And up, far up the Mount of God will lead Thee face to face, as patriarch of old, With God; unveiled the Trinity shalt read, And its resplendent mysteries unfold To future doctors of the sacred lore. Then mount thy blood-stained path, heroic saint! While brave men stand aghast, strong hearts grow faint, Teresa’s seraph-soul its plaint shall pour Unsated yet: “More suffering, Lord, yet more!” M. S. P. BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE HOUSE OF YORKE,” “GRAPES AND THORNS,” ETC. CHAPTER VI.BIANCA’S FESTA. Bianca’s birthday coming, they celebrated it by a little trip into the country. It was getting late for excursions, the weather being hot even for the last of May. But on the day before the proposed journey a few ragged clouds, scudding now and then across the sky, promised refreshment. Clouds never come to Rome for nothing; even the smallest fugitive mist is a herald; and the family, therefore, looked anxiously to see if they were to be kept at home the next day—if the herald announced a royal progress, short and splendid, or a long siege of rainy days. They were sauntering, late in the afternoon, through a street of the Suburra, on one of those aimless walks that hit the mark of pleasure far oftener than planned pleasure-seeking does, and, seeing at their left a steep grade that ended in a stair climbing through light and shadow up the hillside, and going out under a dark arch into the light again, they followed it without asking questions, and presently found themselves in a quiet piazza surrounded by churches and convents as silent and, apparently, uninhabited as a desert. The most living thing was a single lofty palm-tree that leaned out against the sky. A wall hid the base of it, where one would not have been surprised to have found a lion sleeping. Entering the portico of the nearest church, they saw what might have been taken for two ancient, mossy statues, seated one at either side of the door, one representing a man as ragged and gray as Rip Van Winkle after his nap, the other a woman well fitted to be his companion. The statues stirred, however, at the sound of steps, extended their withered hands, and commenced a sort of gabbling appeal, in which nothing was distinguishable but the inevitable qualche cosa. Inside the church, beside the beautiful Presence indicated by the ever-burning lamp, there was but one person, a gigantic man, all white, who sat leaning forward a little, with the fingers of his right hand tangled in his beard. They saw him gazing, almost glaring, at them across the church as they seated themselves near the door after a short adoration. The painted roof invited their eyes to glimpses of heaven, the tribune walls shone with the story of St. Peter liberated by an angel, and the antique columns told of pagan emperors whom they had served before they were raised to hold a canopy over the head of the King of kings; but through them all, becoming every moment more importunate and terrible, the stare of those motionless, stony eyes drew theirs with an uncomfortable fascination, and the figure seemed to lean more forward, as if about to stride toward them, “He appears to resent our not saluting him,” Mr. Vane said. “I do not need an introduction. Suppose we go to him before he comes clattering down the nave to us!” They rose, and, with a diffidence amounting almost to fear, went up the aisle to pay their respects to Michael Angelo’s Moses. “O Mr. Vane!” the Signora whispered, suddenly touching his arm, “does he look as if he went up the mountain to bring down Protestantism?” She said it impulsively, and was ashamed of herself the next moment. He was not offended, however, but smiled slightly, and, feeling the touch, drew her hand into his arm. “He doesn’t look like a man who would carry any sort of ism about long.” He was looking at the Moses as he spoke; but he felt the dissatisfaction which the lady at his side did not indicate by word or motion, and added after a moment: “It must be owned that Protestantism has reduced the stone tables to dust, and that your church is the only one that has graven laws.” She did not venture to press him any farther. The question with him, then, was evidently whether graven laws were necessary. He was not at all likely to write his faith in the dust of the sects. “It is the most uncomfortable marble person in Rome,” she said of the Moses. “I always have a feeling that it is never quite still; that he has turned his face on being interrupted in something, as if he had been talking with God here alone, and were waiting for people to go and leave him to continue the conversation. He will watch us out the door, though. I wonder if he can see through the leathern curtain? Come, little girls, we are going.” Bianca had a rose in her belt, and, as the others walked slowly away, she slipped across the church and threw it inside the railing before the Blessed Sacrament, repeating from the Canticle of St. Francis of Assisi, which they had been reading with their Italian teacher the evening before: “Laudate sia il mio Signor per la nostra Madre terra, la quale Ci sostenta, e nudrisce col produrre Tanta diversitÀ D’erba, di fiori e frutti.” “They speak of the Blessed Sacrament here as Il Santissimo,” she heard the Signora say when she joined them at the door. “It is beautiful; but I prefer the Spanish title of ‘His Majesty.’ One would like to be able to ask, on entering a church, ‘At which altar is His Majesty?’ It sounds like a live faith. Isn’t that palm beautiful? And do you see the ghost of Lucretia Borgia up in her balcony there? That is, or was, her balcony. Dear me! what an uncanny afternoon it is. I quite long to get among common people.” In fact, a solid post of snow-white cloud showed like a motionless figure over the balcony, changing neither shape nor position while they looked at it. There was, evidently, something behind worth seeing, and they took a carriage to the Janiculum for a better view. When they reached the parapet of San Pietro in Montorio, they saw the horizon beyond the city bound by a wonderful mountain-range—not the accustomed Sabine Apennines and Monte Cimino; these had disappeared, and over their places rose a solid magnificence of cloud that They leaned on the parapet, and took a new lesson in shape and color from the inexhaustible skies, and the Signora told them one of the many legends of the Janiculum. “It is said that after the Flood Noe came here to live, held in high honor, as we may well imagine, by his descendants. As time passed, after his death, the truth became mixed with error, and the patriarch Noe became the god Janus, with two faces, because he had seen the old world and the new. So all antique truth, left to human care, became corrupted little by little. It was only when the Holy Spirit came down to stay on earth that truth could be preserved unadulterated. ‘Teaching you all truth.’ Am I preaching? Excuse me!” Turning her face, as she spoke slowly and dreamily, she had found Mr. Vane looking at her with a steady and grave regard which did not evade, but lingered an instant, when it met hers. She recollected that he had not her faith, and thought he might be displeased a little at having alien doctrines so constantly held up before him. On the contrary, he was admiring her fair, pale face, which the glowing west and a glowing thought were tinting with soft rose, and was thinking he had never known a woman who so habitually lived in a high atmosphere, who so easily gathered about her the beauties of the past and the present, and who had so little gossip to talk. When she descended to trifling things, it was to invest them with a charm that made them worthy of notice as pretty and interesting trifles, but never to elevate them to places they were not made for. Besides, he liked her way of talking—a certain cool sweetness of manner, like the sweetness of a rose, that touched those who came near, but was not awakened by their presence, and would be as sweet were no one by to know. He glanced at her again when she was again looking off thoughtfully into the west, and marked the light touch with gold the strands of a braid that crowned her head under the violet wreath. She was certainly a very lovely woman, he thought. Why had she never married? For, though we call her Signora, the Vanes’ padrona was, in fact, a signorina. “Well, what is it?” she asked smilingly, turning again, aware of his eyes. She was one of those persons who always feel the stress of another mind brought to bear on them. “You should tell me what it is.” The two girls had gone to a little distance, and he ventured to put the question. “It is an impertinence,” he said hastily, “but I was wondering why you never married. You are thirty-five years old, and have had time and opportunities. If you command me to ask no more, I shall not blame you.” “It is not an impertinence,” she replied quite easily. “There is no tragedy hidden behind my ‘maiden “Perfectly,” he replied, but seemed not altogether pleased. Perhaps he would have found a less self-sufficing woman more interesting and amiable. “Still, I beg your pardon for a question which, after all, no one should ask. One never knows what may have happened in a life.” “That is true,” she replied. “And it is true that the question might be to some an embarrassing one to answer. It does not hurt me, however.” “Papa does not allow us to ask questions,” Isabel said a little complainingly, having caught a few words of their talk. “You have no idea how sharply he will speak to us, or, at least, look at us, if he hears us asking the simplest question that can be at all personal. And yet people question us unmercifully. I think one might retort in self-defence.” “How I wish you could have a larger number of pupils than these two, Mr. Vane!” the Signora sighed. “I would like to send some of my lady friends to school to you. The questions that some ladies, who consider themselves well bred, will ask, are astonishing. Indeed, there is, I think, more vulgarity in fine society than among any other class of people in the world. Delicacy and refinement are flowers that need a little shade to keep their freshness. I have more than once been shocked to see, in a momentary revelation, how slight was the difference of character between a bold, unscrupulous virago of the streets, and some fine lady when an unpleasant excitement had disturbed the thin polish of manner with which she was coated. Madame de Montespan—not a model by any means, though—relates that, when she came to Paris to be trained for polite life, among the admonitions and prohibitions, one of the strongest was that she must not ask questions. Not long ago, on thinking over a conversation I had with a lady whom I had known just three weeks, I found that these questions had been propounded to me in the course of it: How old are you? Who visits you? What is your income? Have you any money laid up? Have you sold your last story? To whom have you sold it? How much do they pay you? Is it paid for? Of course the lady was fitting herself to speak with authority of my affairs.” The Signora made an impatient motion of the shoulders, as if throwing off a disagreeable burden. “How did we fall into this miserable subject? Let us walk about awhile and shake it off. We might go into the church and say a little prayer for poor Beatrice Cenci, who is buried here. One glance at Piombo’s Scourging of Christ, one thought of that girl’s terrible tragedy, will scorch out these petty thoughts, if one breath of the Lord’s presence should not blow them away.” She hurried up the steps and ran into the church, as one soiled and Looking awhile, they turned silently back into the garden. The two girls wandered among the flowers; Mr. Vane and the Signora walked silently side by side. Now and then they stopped to admire a campanile of lilies growing around a stem higher than their heads, springing from the midst of a sheaf of leaves like swords. One of these leaves, five feet long, perhaps, thrown aside by the gardener, lay in the path. It was milk-white and waxy, like a dead body, through its thickness of an inch or two. Long, purple thorns were set along its sides and at the point, and a faint tinge of gold color ran along the centre of its blade. It was not a withered leaf, but a dead one, and strong and beautiful in death. Mr. Vane glanced over the bristling green point of the plant, and up the airy stem where its white bells drooped tenderly. “So God guards his saints,” he said. Isabel came to them in some trepidation with her fingers full of small thorns. She had been stealing, she confessed. Seeing that, in all the crowds of great, ugly cacti about, one only had blossomed, she had been smitten by a desire to possess that unique flower. “I called up my reasoning powers, as people do when they want to justify themselves,” she said, “and I reasoned the matter out, till it became not only excusable but a virtue in me to take the flower. I spare you the process. If only you would pick the needles out of my fingers, papa! Isn’t it a pretty blossom? It is a bell of golden crystal with a diamond heart.” When the tiny thorns were extracted and the young culprit properly reproved for her larceny, the clouds of the west had lost all their color but one lingering blush, and were beginning to catch the light of the moon, that was sailing through mid-air, as round as a bubble. They went down the winding avenue on foot, sending the carriage to wait for them in the street below. The trees over their heads were full of blossoms like little flies with black bodies and wide-spread, whitish wings, and through the heaps of these blossoms that had fallen they could see a green lizard slip now and then; the fountains plashed softly, lulling the day to sleep. Near the foot of the hill all the lower wall of one of the houses was hidden by skeins of brilliant, gold-colored silk, hung out to dry, perhaps, making a sort of sunshine in the shady street. It was a lovely drive home through the Ave Marias ringing all “How good is our life—the mere living!” Not only the beauty they had seen and their own personal contentment pleased them; the richness and variety of the human element through which they passed gave them a sense of freedom, a fuller breath than they were accustomed to draw in a crowd. It was not a throng of people ground and smoothed into nearly the same habits and manners, but a going and coming and elbowing of individuals, many of whom retained the angles of their characters and manners in all their original sharpness. “The moon will be full to-morrow in honor of your festa,” Isabel said as they went into the house; “and there is a prospect that the roads may be sprinkled.” The roads were sprinkled with a vengeance; for the delectable mountains of sunset came up in the small hours and broke over the city in a torrent. There had not been such a tempest in Rome for years. It was impossible to sleep through it, and soon became impossible to lie in bed. Not all their closing of blinds and shutters could keep out the ceaseless flashes, and the windows rattled with the loud bursts of thunder. The three ladies dressed and went into the little sala, where the Signora lighted two blessed candles and sprinkled holy water, like the old-fashioned Catholic she was; and presently Mr. Vane joined them. “I should have expected to hear more cultivated thunders here,” he said. “These are Goths and Vandals.” “Speak respectfully of those honest barbarians,” exclaimed the Signora. “They were strong and brave, and some things they would not do for gain. Do you recollect that Alaric’s men, when they were sacking Rome, being told that certain vessels of silver and gold were sacred, belonging to the service of the church, took the treasure on their heads and carried it to St. Peter’s, the Romans falling into the procession, hymns mingling with their war-cries? Fancy Victor Emanuel’s people making restitution! Fancy Signor Bonghi and his associates marching in procession through the streets of Rome, bearing on their heads the libraries they have stolen from religious houses to make their grand library at the Roman College, which they have also stolen. Honor to the barbarians! There were things they respected. Ugh! what a flash. And what about cultivated thunders, Mr. Vane?” “Do you not know that there are thunders and thunders?” he replied. “Some roll like chariot-wheels from horizon to horizon, rattling and crashing, to be sure, but following a track. Others go clumsily tumbling about, without rhyme or reason, and you feel they may break through the roof any minute.” The rain fell in torrents, and came running in through chinks of the windows. The storm seemed to increase every moment. Bianca drew a footstool to the Signora’s side, and, seating herself on it, hid her face in her friend’s lap. Isabel sought refuge with her father, holding his arm closely, and they all became silent. Talk seems trivial in face of such a manifestation While they waited, suddenly through the storm broke loudly three clear strokes of a bell. “Oh!” cried Bianca, starting up. “Fulgura frango,” exclaimed the Signora triumphantly. Four strokes, five, and one followed with the sweet and deliberate strength of the great bell, then the others joined and sang through the night like a band of angels. “Brava, Maria Assunta!” exclaimed the Signora. “Where is the storm, Mr. Vane?” He did not answer. In fact, with the ceasing of the fifteen minutes’ ringing the storm ceased, and there was left only a low growling of spent thunders about the horizon, and a flutter of pallid light now and then. It was only the next morning at the breakfast-table that Mr. Vane thought to remark that the bell-ringer of the basilica must be a pretty good meteorologist, for he knew just when to strike in after the last great clap. “It was a most beautiful incident,” Bianca said seriously. “Please do not turn it into ridicule, papa!” They were just rising from the table, and, in speaking, the daughter put her arm around her father’s shoulder and kissed him, as if she would assure him of her loving respect in all that was human, even while reproving him from the height of a superior spiritual wisdom. The father had been wont to receive these soft admonitions affectionately, indeed, but somewhat lightly. Lately, however, he had taken them in a more serious manner. Perhaps the presence of the Signora, whose sentiments in such matters he could not regard as childish, and whose displeasure he could not look upon with the natural superiority of a father, put him a little more on his guard. He glanced at her now, biting his lip; but she did not seem to have heard. “May not the effect bell-ringing has on tempests be accounted for on natural principles?” Isabel asked, with the air of one making a philosophical discovery. “My dear Isabel, it is said that the miracles of Christ may be so accounted for,” the Signora replied. “But who is to account for the natural principles? We have no time to spare,” she added brightly. “The train starts in fifteen minutes. Hurry, children!” But, brightly as she spoke, a slight cloud settled over her feelings after this little incident. She was not displeased with Mr. Vane; for she had learned that no real irreverence underlay these occasional gibes, and had observed that they grew more rare, and were rather the effect of habit than of intention. She was grateful to him, indeed, for the delicacy and consideration he showed, and for the patience with which he submitted himself to a Catholic atmosphere and mode of life which did not touch his convictions, though it might not have been foreign to his tastes. “We are frequently as unjust to Protestants as they are to us,” she constantly said to her over-zealous friends. “If they are sincere in their disbelief, it would show a lack of principle in them to be over-indulgent and complacent to us. You must recollect that many a Protestant cannot help believing us guilty of something like, at least, The Signora had sometimes displeased some of her friends by talking in this manner and pricking their vainglorious bubbles; and she consistently felt that, according to his light, Mr. Vane was forbearing with his daughters and with her, and that they should show some forbearance with him. She was, therefore, not displeased with him for his unintentional mocking. Her cloud came from another direction. She found herself changing a little, growing less evenly contented with her life, alternating unpleasantly between moods of happiness and depression. While she lived alone, receiving her friends for a few hours at a time, she had found her life tranquil and satisfying. Sympathy and kind services were always at hand, and there was always the equal or greater pleasure of sympathy and kind services demanded to make of friendship a double benefit. But the question had begun to glance now and then across her mind whether she had been altogether wise in taking this family into her house, having before her eyes the constant spectacle of an affection and intimacy such as she had left outside her own experience, and had no desire to invite or admit, even while she felt its charm. She, quite deprived of all family ties, felt sometimes a loneliness which she had never before experienced, in witnessing the affection of the father and his daughters; and, at the same time that she saw them as enclosed in a magic circle from which she was excluded, she looked forward with dread to the time when they should leave her, with a new void in her life, and a serenity permanently disturbed, perhaps. There But these moments and moods were short and disconnected. She was scarcely aware of them, scarcely remembered that each, as it came, was not the first, and her life flowed between them always pleasantly, sometimes joyfully. She was quite gay and happy when they ran down to the carriage and hurried to the station. The morning was delicious, everything washed clean and fresh by the plentiful shower. A light, pearly cloud covered the sky, veiling all with a delicate softness that was to sunshine as contentment is to joy. Here and there a deep shadow slept on the landscape. Our little party took possession of a first-class car, and seated, each at a corner of it, were every moment calling attention to some new beauty. Isabel glanced with delight along the great aqueduct lines and the pictures they framed, all blurred and swimming with the birds with which the stone arches were alive; Bianca watched the mountain, her eyes full of poetical fancies; and Mr. Vane presently fell in love with a square of solid green he espied in the midst of the bare Campagna, a little paradise, where the trees and flowers seemed to be bursting with luxuriance over the walls, and regarding with astonishment the dead country about them, that stretched off its low waves and undulations in strong and stubborn contrast with that redundant spot. “Aladdin’s lamp must have done it,” he said; and after a moment added, having followed the subject a little in his own mind: “I am inclined to think that one element of the picturesque must be inconsistency. Ah! here are your white Campagna cattle we have heard so much about. Aren’t they of rather a bluish color?” “But look and see what they are eating, papa,” Bianca said. “No wonder it turns them blue.” The ground all about was deeply colored with blue flowers, in the midst of which these large, white cattle wandered, feeding lazily, as if eating were a pleasure, not a necessity. They were like people reading poetry. “We do not often have such a day here,” the Signora said, “and to me the clouds are a luxury. I own that I have sometimes grown weary of seeing that spotless blue overhead week after week, month after month, even. Clouds are tender, and give infinite lights and shades. The first winter I spent in Rome there were a hundred days in succession of windless, cloudless, golden weather, beginning in October, and lasting till after New Year’s day. Then came a sweet three days’ rain, which enchanted me. I went out twice a day in it.” “This reminds me,” Isabel said, “of our first visit to the White Mountains. We went there under the ‘rainy Hyades,’ apparently; for we hadn’t seen sunshine for a week. When we reached Lancaster, at evening, the fog touched our faces like a wet flannel, and there was a fine, thick rain in the morning when I awoke. About nine o’clock there was a brightening, and I looked up and saw a blue spot. The clouds melted away from it, still raining, and sunbeams shot across, but none came through. First I saw a green plain with a river winding through it, and countless little pools of water, everything a brilliant green As if in answer to her criticism, a slim, swift sunbeam pierced suddenly the soft flecks of mist overhead, shot across the shadowed world, and dropped into Rome. Out blazed the marvellous dome, all golden in that light, the faint line of its distant colonnades started into vivid clearness with all their fine-wrought arches, and for a moment the city shone like a picture of a city seen by a magic-lantern in a dark room. “Very true!” the young woman replied quite coolly, as if she had been spoken to. “We have no such city, no such towns and villages and villas set on the mountainside; but we are young and fresh and strong, and we are brave, which you are not. Your past, and the ruins left of it, are all you can boast of. We have a present and a future. And after all,” she said, turning to her audience, who were smilingly listening to this perfectly serious address, “it is ungrateful of the sun to take the part of Italy so, when we welcome him into our houses, and they shut him out. Why, the windows of the Holy Father’s rooms at the Vatican are half walled up.” “Maybe the sun doesn’t consider it such a privilege to come into our houses,” her father suggested. “And as for Rome,” the young woman went on, “to me it seems only the skull of a dead Italy, and the Romans the worms crawling in and out. But there! I won’t scold to-day. How lovely everything is!” The yellow-green vineyards and the blue-green canebrakes came in sight, the olive-orchards rolled their smoke-like verdure up the hills, and at length the cars slid between the rose-trees of the Frascati station, and the crowd of passengers poured out and hurried up the stairs to secure carriages to take them to the town. The family Ottant’-Otto, finding themselves in a garden, did not make haste to leave it, but stayed to gather each a nosegay, nobody interfering. More than one, indeed, of the passengers paused long enough to snatch a rosebud in passing. Going up then to the station-yard, they found it quite deserted, except for the carriage that had been sent for them, and another drawn by a tandem of beautiful white horses, in whose ears their owner, one of the young princes living near the town, was fastening the roses he had just gathered below. The creatures seemed as vain of themselves as he evidently was proud of them, and held their heads quite still to be adorned, tossing their tails instead, which had been cut short, and tied round with a gay scarlet band. Every traveller knows that Frascati is built up the sides of the Tusculan hills, looking toward Rome, the railway station on a level with the Campagna, the town rising above with its countless street-stairs, and, still above, the magnificent villas over which look the ruins of ancient Tusculum. On one of the lower streets of the town, in Palazzo Simonetti, lived a friend of the Signora, and there rooms had been “It is frugal, dainty, and irresistible,” Mr. Vane said. “Let us accept by all means.” They were going up to Tusculum, and, as the day was advancing, set off after a few minutes, going on foot. They had preferred that way, being good walkers, and having, moreover, a unanimous disinclination to see themselves on donkeys. “A gentleman on a donkey is less a gentleman than the donkey,” Mr. Vane said. “I would walk a hundred miles sooner than ride one mile on a beast which has such short legs and such long ears. The atmosphere of the ridiculous which they carry with them is of a circumference to include the tallest sort of man. Besides, they have an uncomfortable way of sitting down suddenly, if they only feel a fly, and that hurts the self-love of the rider, if it doesn’t break his bones.” “Poor little patient wretches! how they have to suffer,” said the Signora. “Even their outcry, while the most pitiful sound in the world, a very sob of despairing pain, is the height of the ridiculous. If you don’t cry hearing it, you must laugh, unless, indeed, you should be angry. For they sometimes make a ‘situation’ by an inopportune bray, as a few weeks ago at the Arcadia. The Academy was holding an adunanza at Palazzo Altemps, and, as the day was quite warm and the audience large, the windows into the back court were opened. The prose had been read, and a pretty, graceful poetess, the Countess G——, had recited one of her best poems, when a fine-looking monsignore rose to favor us with a sonnet. He writes and recites enthusiastically, and we prepared to listen with pleasure. He began, and, after the first line, a donkey in the court struck in with the loudest bray I ever heard. Monsignore continued, perfectly inaudible, and the donkey continued, obstreperously audible. A faint ripple of a smile touched the faces least able to control themselves. Monsignore went on with admirable perseverance, but with a somewhat heightened color. A sonnet has but fourteen lines, and the bray had thirteen. They closed simultaneously. Monsignore sat down; I don’t know what the donkey did. One only had been visible, as the other only had been audible. The audience applauded with great warmth and politeness. ‘Who are they applauding,’ asked “Here we are at the great piazza, and here is the cathedral. See how the people in the shops and fruit-stands water their flowers!” In fact, all the rim of the great fountain-basin was set round with a row of flower-pots containing plants that were dripping in the spray of the falling cascades. Just out of reach of the spray were two fruit shops large enough to contain the day’s store and the chair of the person who sold it. Temporary pipes from the fountain conducted water to the counters, where a tiny fountain tossed its borrowed jet, constantly renewed from the cool cascade, and constantly returning to the basin. “We must take excelsior for our motto,” the Signora said to the two girls, who wanted to stop and admire everything they saw. “We are for the mountain-height now. When we return, you may like to dress up with flowers two shrines on the road. I always do it when I come this way.” They climbed the steep and rocky lane between high walls, passed on the one side the house where Cardinal Baronius wrote his famous Annals, which had an interest too dry to fascinate the two young ladies; passed the wide iron gate of a villa to left, and another to right, giving only a glance at the paradises within; passed the large painting of the Madonna embowered in trees at the foot of the Cappucini Avenue; passed under the stone portal, and the rod of verdant shadow almost as solid, that formed the entrance to Villa Tuscolana, ravished now and then by glimpses of the magnificent distance; on into the lovely wood-road, the ancient Via Tusculana; and presently there they were at last in the birthplace of Cato, the air-hung city that broke the pride of Rome, and that, conquered at last, died in its defeat, and remained for ever a ruin. Not a word was spoken when they reached the summit, and stood gazing on what is, probably, the most magnificent view in the world. Only after a while, when the three new-comers began to move and come out of their first trance of admiration, the Signora named some of the chief points in the landscape and in the ruins. The old historical scenes started up, the old marvellous stories rushed back to their memories, the mountains crowded up as witnesses, and the towns, with all their teeming life and countless voices of the present hushed by distance, became voluble with voices and startling with life of the past. After a while they seated themselves in the shade of a tree, facing the west, and silently thought, or dreamed, or merely looked, as their mood might be. Their glances shot across the bosky heights that climbed to their feet, and across the wide Campagna, to where Rome lay like a heap of lilies thrown on a green carpet, and the glittering sickle of the distant sea curved round the world. Day deepened about them in waves. They could almost feel each wave flow over them as the sun mounted, touching degree after degree of the burning blue, as a hand touches octaves up an organ. The birds sang less, and the cicali more, and the plants sighed forth all their perfume. “The first time I came here,” the Signora said after a while, “was on the festa of SS. Roch and Sebastian, in the heat of late summertime. That is a great day for Frascati, for these two saints are their protectors against pestilence, which has never visited the city. When, in ’69, the cholera dropped one night on Albano, just round the mountain there a few miles, and struck people dead almost like lightning, and killed them on the road as they fled to other towns, so that many died, perhaps, from fear and horror, having no other illness, none who reached Frascati in health died. The nobility died as well as the low, and the cardinal bishop died at his post taking care of his people. Whole families came to Frascati, the people told me, flying by night along the dark, lonely road, some half-starving; for all the bakers were dead, and there was no bread except what was sent from Rome. The saints they trusted did not refuse to help them. In Frascati they found safety. If any died there, certainly none sickened there. So, of course, the saints were more honored than ever. I sat here and heard the bells all ringing at noon, and the guns firing salutes, and saw the lovely blue wreaths of smoke curl away over the roofs after each salvo. In Italy they do not praise God solely with the organ, but with the timbrel and the lute. Anything that expresses joy and triumph expresses religious joy and triumph, and the artillery and military bands come out with the candles and the crucifix to honor the saint as well as the warrior. Then in the evening there was the grand procession, clergy, church choirs, military bands, crucifixes, banners, women dressed in the ancient costume of the town, and the bells all ringing, the guns all booming, and the route of the procession strewn with fragrant green. The evening deepened as they marched, and their candles, scarcely visible at first, grew brighter as they wound about the steep streets and the illuminated piazzas. All the houses had colored lamps out of their windows, and there were fireworks. But my noon up here impressed me most. My two guides, trusty men, and my only companions, sat contentedly in the shade playing Morra after their frugal bread and wine. Sitting with my back to them, only faintly hearing their voices as they called the numbers, I could imagine that they were Achilles and Ajax, whom you can see on an ancient Etruscan vase in the Vatican playing the same game. The present was quite withdrawn from me. I felt like Annus Mundi looking down on Annus Domini, and seeing the whole of it, too. I could have stayed all day, but that hunger admonished me; for I had not been so provident as my guides, nor as I have been to-day. Going down, however, just below the Capuchin convent, I saw a man on a donkey coming up, with a large basket slung at each side of the saddle in front of him. No one could doubt what was under those cool vine-leaves. He was carrying fresh figs up to the Villa Tuscolana, where some college was making their villigiatura. I showed him a few soldi, and he stopped and let me lift the leaves Miss Vane displayed immediately the luncheon she had been detailed to prepare, a bottle of Orvieto, only less delicate because richer than champagne, a basket of cianbelli, and lastly a box. “In the name of the prophet, figs!” she said, opening it. “They are dried, it is true; but then they are from Smyrna.” They drank felicissima festa to Bianca, drank to the past and the present, to all the world; and Mr. Vane, when their little feast was ended, slipped a beautiful ring on his younger daughter’s finger. “To remember Tusculum by, my dear,” he said; and, looking at her wistfully, seeming to miss some light-heartedness even in her smiles, he added: “Is there anything you lack, child?” She dropped her face to his arm only in time to hide a blush that covered it. “What could I lack?” she asked. But a few minutes afterward, while the others recalled historical events connected with the place, and the Signora pointed out the cities and mountains by name, the young girl walked away to the Roman side, and stood looking off with longing eyes toward the west. She lacked a voice, a glance, and a smile too dear to lose, and her heart cried out for them. She was not unhappy, for she trusted in God, and in the friend whose unspoken affection absence and estrangement had only strengthened her faith in; but she wanted to see him, or, at least, to know how he fared. It seemed to her at that moment that if she should look off toward that part of the world where he must be, fix her thoughts on him and call him, he would hear her and come. She called him, her tender whisper sending his name out through all the crowding ghosts of antiquity, past pope and king and ambassador, poet and orator, armies thrust back and armies triumphant—the little whisper winged and heralded by a power older and more potent than Tusculum or the mountain whereon its ruins lie. They went down the steep way again, gathering all the flowers they could find, and, when they reached the shrine at the turn of the Cappucini road, stuck the screen so full of pink, white, and purple blossoms that the faces of Our Lady and the Child could only just be discerned peeping out. Then they turned into the pebbly path under the Cappucini wall, where the woods and briers on one side, and the wall on the other, left them room only to walk in Indian file; came out on the height above beautiful Villa Lancilotti, with another burst of the Campagna before their eyes, and the mountains with their coronets of towns still visible at the northeast over the Borghese Avenue and the solid pile of Mondragone. Here, set so high on the wall that it had to be reached by two or three stone steps, was the picture of the Madonna, looking off from its almost inaccessible height over the surrounding country. It was visible from the villas below, and many The others gave their flowers to Bianca, who climbed the steps, and set a border of bloom inside the frame, and pushed a flower through the wires to touch the Madonna’s hand, and set a little ring of yellow blossoms where it might look like a crown. As she stood on that height, visible as a speck only if one had looked up from the villa, smiling to herself happily while she performed her sweet and unaccustomed task, down in the town below, a speck like herself, stood a man leaning against the eagle-crested arch of the Borghese Villa gate, and watching her through a glass. He saw the slight, graceful form, whose every motion was so well known to him; saw the ribbon flutter in her uncovered hair, the little gray mantle dropped off the gray dress into the hands of the group at the foot of the steps; saw the arms raised to fix flower after flower; finally, when she turned to come down, fancied that he saw her smile and blush of pleasure, and, conquered by his imagination, dropped the glass and held out his arms, for it seemed that she was stepping down to him. The party went home tired and satisfied, and did not go out again that day. It was pleasure enough to sit in the westward windows as the afternoon waned and watch the sun go down, and see how the mist that for ever lies over the Campagna caught his light till, when he burned on the horizon in one tangle of radiating gold, the whole wide space looked as if a steady rainbow had been straightened and drawn across it, every color in its order, glowing stratum upon stratum pressed over sea and city and vineyard, blurring all with a splendid haze, till the earth was brighter than even the cloudless sky. “It is so beautiful that even the stars come out before their time to look,” the Signora said. “Your Madonna on the wall can see it too, Bianca. But as for the poor Madonna in her nest of trees, she can see nothing but green and flowers.” “I wonder why I prefer the Madonna of the wall?” asked Bianca dreamily. “I feel happy thinking of it.” TO BE CONTINUED. After many advances on the part of editors and correspondents towards approaching this question in a tangible form, the Rev. Dr. Engbers, a professor of the Seminary of Mount St. Mary’s of the West, Cincinnati, Ohio, has been the first to take up the subject in earnest. Often have we heard men, admirably adapted to handle this question, express the wish that some one would come forward and propose a system of improvement: we need better books, we are at the mercy of non-Catholic compilers, in every department of learning, except divinity. “Well, why do you not set to work and give us such text-books as can be safely adopted in our schools?—books of history, sacred, ecclesiastical, secular; books of mental or rational and natural philosophy; treatises on the philosophy of religion; books of geography, sadly wanted to let our boys know how wide the Catholic world is; then grammars; then Greek and Latin text-books—all and each of them fit to be placed in the hands of Catholic young men and women, for the salvation of whose souls some one will be called to an account, etc. etc.” “Oh! you see, I cannot tax my time to such an extent; I cannot afford it. Then do you think I can face the apathy, perhaps the superciliousness, of those who should encourage, but will be sure to sneer at me and pooh-pooh me down? No, no; I cannot do it.” Time and again have we heard such remarks. But, luckily, it seems as if at this propitious moment rerum nascitur ordo. All praise to the Rev. Dr. Engbers! Not only has he raised his voice and uttered words expressive of a long, painful experience, and resolutely cried out that something must be done, but has actually addressed himself to the work, and has broken ground on a road whereon we can follow him, whether pulling with him or not. That we need text-books for our schools is admitted by all who give a thought to the importance of a proper training in Catholic schools—that training which should distinguish the Catholic citizen from all others. There is no doubt but a judicious training in a properly-conducted Catholic college will stamp the pupil with a character we may dare to call indelible. There must needs be a character imprinted on the mind of the graduate, whether he goes forth from the halls of his Alma Mater as a literary man or a philosopher, a scientist or a professional man. We cannot refrain from transcribing the beautiful sentiments uttered by the Hon. George W. Paschal, in his annual address before the Law Department of the University of Georgetown, on the 3d of June, 1875: “You go forth from an institution long honored for its learning, its high moral character, its noble charities, which have been bestowed in the best possible way—mental enlightenment, and its watchful sympathy for its learned children spread all over the land. The fathers of that institution expect much from you, and they will be ever ready to accord to you every possible encouragement. Your immediate instructors in your profession Surely the gist of the above is that the graduates who “stand upon the threshold of their profession, holding passes to enter the great arena”—as Mr. Daly has so happily expressed it in his valedictory on the same occasion—must bear imprinted on their brows the parting kiss of their Alma Mater. Now, if bonum ex integr causÂ, malum ex quocumque defectu, everything in a collegiate course must tend to give the graduate a Catholic individuality in the world of science and of letters. And here it is that we cannot fail to admire the great wisdom of the Holy Father, who, when the question of classics in the Catholic schools began to be mooted, ex professo and in earnest, would not sanction a total and blind exclusion of the pagan classics—for that would be obscurantism—but advised the use of the classics, with a proviso that the rich wells of Christian classicism should not be passed by. Then it cannot be gainsaid that the use of pagan classics is necessary in the curriculum of belles-lettres, just as, if we may be allowed the comparison, the study of the sacred books is indispensable to the student of divinity; although even in Holy Writ there are passages which should not be wantonly read, and much less commented upon. And here we must differ from the admirable letter of Dr. Engbers, who certainly is at home on the subject and makes some excellent points. He avers that it is neither possible nor necessary “to prepare Catholic books for the whole extent of a college education.” For brevity’s sake we shall not give his reasons, but shall limit ourselves to our own views on the subject. In the first place, it is necessary to prepare text-books of the classics for our schools. For, surely, we cannot trust to the scholar’s hand Horace, or Ovid, or even Virgil, as they came from their authors; and this on the score of morality. Secondly, we have no hesitation in saying that we do not possess as yet a single Latin classic (to speak of Latin alone) so prepared to meet all the requirements of the youthful student. We may almost challenge contradiction when we assert that, in all such editions as are prepared for American schools, the passages really difficult are skipped over. True, it is many years since we had an opportunity of examining such works thoroughly; but from what we knew then, and have looked into lately, we find no reason for a change of opinion. The work of such editions is perfunctorily done. The commentators, annotators, or whatsoever other name they may go by, seem to have only aimed at doing a certain amount of work somewhat À la penny-a-liner; but nothing seems to be done con amore, and much less according to thorough knowledge. Let our readers point to one annotator or editor of any poet adopted in American schools who is truly Æsthetic in his labors. Classics must, then, be prepared. Dr. Engbers avers that we can safely use what we have, no matter by whom they have been prepared; and in this we must willingly yield to his judgment, because it would be temerity in us, who are not a professor and have so far led a life of quite the reverse of classical application, to make an issue with him. But we must be allowed to differ from him in that “we have not the means to provide for all, Let us bear in mind that we limit our disquisition to the Latin classics for the present. What we say about them will be equally applicable to the Greek, as well as to the authors of all nations. It seems to us abundantly easy to prepare books for this department. Let a certain number of colleges, schools, and seminaries join together, and through their faculties make choice of a competent scholar. Set him apart for one year for the purpose of preparing a neat, cheap school edition of the Latin classics for our Catholic schools. He must limit himself to the Ætas aurea, giving some of those authors in their entirety, such as Nepos; some with a little pruning, such as the Æneid; others, again, summo libandi calamo; while of Cicero and Livy we would advise only selections for a beginning. Of Cicero, e.g., give us a few letters Ad Familiares, his De Oratore, six Orations, Somnium Scipionis, De Officiis, and De Senectute. From what we are going to say it will be evident that no more will be necessary at first. Teach the above well, et satis superque satis! Exclude from your classes the cramming system. Prof. Cram is the bane, the evil genius of our classical halls. Supporters of the “forty lines a day” rule, listen! It was our good fortune to learn the classics in a Jesuit college. We were in rhetoric. Our professor gave Monday and Wednesday afternoons to Virgil, Tuesday to Homer, and Friday to Horace. Of Virgil we read book vi., and of Horace the third book of Odes—that is, what we did read of them. The professor was a perfect scholar, an orator, a poet, as inflammable as petroleum, and as sensitive as the “touch-me-not” plant, with a mind the quickest we ever knew, and a heart most affectionate, besides being truly a man of God. Well, the session had entered its fourth month, and we had gone through about three hundred verses of Virgil, while from Horace we were just learning not magna modis tenuare parvis. One afternoon the rector suddenly put in an appearance with some of the patrassi. As they had taken their seats, the former asked what portions of the Latin classics we had been reading. “Cicero and Livy of the prose, Horace and Virgil of the poets.” “But what part?” quoth he. “Any part,” replied the master. The rector looked puzzled; the boys—well, we do not know, for we had no looking-glass, nor did we look at one another—but perfectly astounded at the coolness of the teacher. One thing, however, all who have survived will remember: the strange feeling that seized us; for “Was he going to make a fool of every one of his boys?” We were eleven in the class. It was a small college, in a provincial town, that has given some very great men to the world, but of which Lord Byron did not sing enthusiastically. There we were: on the pillory, in the stocks, billeted for better for worse, for “what not?” The rector, with ill-disguised impatience, called for one of the boys, and, opening Virgil at random, chanced on the very death of Turnus. The poor boy, pale and trembling, began to read, and on he went, while the relentless questioner seemed carried away by the beauty of the passage, unconscious of the torture to which he had doomed the unlucky pupil. But, no; we take the word back: because Then it was our turn to ask the master why he had done that. “Well, boys,” said he, “I expected it all along. You see it now. How many times you have wondered at my keeping you so long on perhaps only three or four lines a whole afternoon! Now you understand. We have not read Virgil, but we have studied Latin poetry, and you have learned it. In future we shall skim the poets here and there, as I may choose, and at the final exhibition you shall be ready to read to the auditorium any part of the Greek and Latin authors the audience may think fit to call for.” And so we did, and did it well. Once, being on a school committee, we asked the master of the high-school—and a learned man he was—why he hurried through so many lines. “I cannot help it,” said he; “they must have read so many lines [sic] when they present themselves for examination at Harvard”! Nor shall we omit here to note that young men have failed in their examinations to enter Harvard because, in sooth, they could not get through the recitation. Prof. Agassiz himself told us that one of his favorite students (whom we knew well) failed because he could not repeat verbatim a certain portion of a treatise on some point of natural philosophy. However, the good professor insisted on the youth being examined as to the sense, and not, parrot-like, repeating sentence after sentence, and the candidate carried the palm. This “recitation” system, the “forty lines” routine, is a curse. We are sure professors will bear us out in our assertion. Dr. Becker, in his excellent article in the American Catholic Quarterly, deals with this matter in a very luminous style. What use, then, of so many authors, or of the whole of any one of them, for a text-book? Non multa sed multum, and multum in parvo. The bee does not draw all that is garnered in the chalice, but just that much which is necessary to make the honey. No wonder that so few are endowed with the nescio quo sapore vernaculo, as Cicero would call it. We have treasured for the last three-and-forty years the paper on which we copied the description of the war-horse, as rendered by our professor of rhetoric, who gave two lectures on it, bringing in and commenting on parallel descriptions in prose and verse. Nearly half a century has passed away, and those two charming afternoons in that old class-room are yet fresh in our remembrance. If some prelates have gone so far as to exclude profane classics from the schools in their seminaries altogether, the Holy Father, on the other hand, does not approve of such indiscriminate ostracism; nay, he recommends that a judicious And here it is that the necessity of preparing Catholic text-books becomes self-evident. Outsiders cannot furnish us with the materials we need for a thorough and wholesome Catholic training—even more important, in our estimation, when we take into consideration that such works in extenso are too costly and far beyond the means of the average of scholars. Hence if we are really in earnest in our desire of having perfect Catholic schools, such books must needs be prepared. After we have carefully prepared proper editions of the pagan classics, Ætatis aureÆ, for our schools, what else have we to do to furnish our arsenal with a well-appointed complement? We must look about for a choice of the best Christian Latin classics. As for Christian Latin poets of antiquity, the choice will be less difficult, because there is not an embarrassing wealth of them, yet enough to learn how to convey the holiest ideas in the phraseology of Parnassus, how to sing the praises of Our Lady with the rhythm of the Muses. It is well known that a new departure is about to take place, nay, has taken place, in the Catholic schools of Europe. The great patristic patterns of oratory and poetry will in future be held before the Catholic student for his imitation and improvement. The movement inside the Catholic world has become known, because there is no mystery about it, and the Catholic Church, faithful to her Founder’s example, does and says everything “openly.” The debate on the classics is over, and every one is satisfied of the necessity of the new arrangement. Outside the church some one stood on tiptoe, arrectis auribus; all at once a clapping of hands—presto! The chance is caught, the opportunity improved. We have used pagan classics in our schools as they came from a non-Catholic press, and we felt safe in adopting them! Moreover, it has been, so far, next to impossible to detail any one, chosen from our bands, to prepare new sets. Now a plan seems to be maturing, and a line drawn, following which one will know how to work; and it is on this line that the writer is adding his feeble efforts to aid a great cause. But what of the Christian classics? Obstupescite, coeli! Harper & Brothers have come to the rescue. To them, then, we must suppliantly look for help to open this avenue of Christian civilization—the blended instruction, in our schools, of pagan and Christian training in belles-lettres! “Latin Hymns, with English Notes. For use in schools and colleges. New York: Harper & Bros., Publishers, Franklin Square. 1875. pp. 333. 12mo, tinted paper, $1 75.” The book is to be the first of a series of what may be called sacred classics. The second of the series, already printed, is The Ecclesiastical History of Eusebius; it will be followed by Tertullian and Athanagoras (surely a worse choice as regards style could not be made), From a notice intended to usher the whole series before the public we learn that “for many centuries, down to what is called the pagan Renaissance, they [the writings of early Christians] were the common linguistic study of educated Christians.” A startling disclosure to us. For the future, pagan classics are to be eliminated. Is it not evident that the industrious editors have taken the clue from us?—at least for a part of their programme; for they push matters too far. But here is the mishap. If we have to judge by the first book, their works will be unavailable, their labor bootless. Dr. Parsons closes his admirable translation of Dante’s Inferno (albeit with a little profanity, which we are willing to forgive, considering the subject and its worth) with those imploring words, Tantus labor non sit cassus! Mr. March will find them at page 155 of his book. He may as well appropriate them to himself, with a little suppression, however; nor should he scruple to alter the text, seeing that he has taken other unwarrantable liberties with the ancient fathers. What right has he to mutilate Prudentius’ beautiful hymn De Miraculis Christi, and of thirty-eight stanzas give us only eight, therewith composing, as it were, a hymn of his own, and entitling it De Nativitate Christi? Without entering into other damaging details, we assure the projectors of this new enterprise that they have undertaken a faithless job. Catholic teachers cannot adopt their books. For, surely, we are not going to make our youth buy publications which tell us, e.g., that the hymn Stabat Mater is “simple Mariolatry,” to say nothing of other notes equally insulting, especially when we come to the historical department. Nor can it be said that they give proof either of knowledge or of taste when they choose Eusebius for the very first sample of patristic classicism. Ah! sutor, sutor! But enough. We have dwelt on this new departure of Protestant zeal for the study of the fathers, to give an additional proof in favor of our opinion as to how far we can trust non-Catholic text-books. Even the most superficial reader will at once discover that we only take up side questions, and our remarks and arguments do not in the least clash with the argument and judgment of Dr. Engbers, with whom we agree in the main. We only assert that it would be better were we to strain every nerve in preparing text-books of our own, whilst we also believe it would not be so very difficult to attain the long-wished-for result. It will take some time, it will require sacrifices, yet the object can be accomplished. A beginning has been made already in two American Catholic colleges. Nor should we forget that none but Catholics can be competent to perform such a work. The fathers are our property; and the same divine Spirit that illumined their minds will not fail to guide the pens of those who, in obedience to authority, undertake this work. As for the Christian authors, the difficulty is in the choice, as Dr. Engbers points out. For the sake of brevity we limit ourselves to the Latin fathers. From the works of St. Augustine Dr. Engbers is very anxious—and justly so, when we consider our needs—that something were done to supply our schools with works of “history, natural science, and geography.” Indeed, it is high time that we had a supply of such works. But here many will ask: “Have we resources in our own Catholic community on which to depend for such works?” Most assuredly we have. For, to quote only a few, is not Professor James Hall, of Albany, a Catholic? Indeed he is, and one of the first men in the department of natural history, acknowledged as such by all the eminent societies of the European continent. And who is superior to S. S. Haldeman, of Pennsylvania? And is he not “one of ours”? The fact is, we do not know our own resources. Here we have two men, inferior to none in their own departments of learning, and they are totally ignored by the Catholic body, to which they nevertheless belong! Indeed, John Gilmary Shea, another of our best men, has touched a sad chord in his article in the first number of the new Catholic Quarterly. We have allowed our best opportunities to slip by unnoticed, and may God grant it is not too late to begin the seemingly herculean task before us! We have written under the inspiration and after the guidance of the well-known wishes, nay, commands, of our Holy Father. He insists upon education being made more Christian. His Holiness does not exclude the pagan authors; he wishes them to be so presented to our youth that no harm may result therefrom to the morals of the student; and we have no doubt that the programme we have only sketched will meet with the approval of all who are interested in the matter, and who will give us the credit of having most faithfully adhered to our Holy Father’s admonition. Nor will the reader charge us with presumption if we dare to quote the words of our great Pope, with the pardonable assurance that no more fitting close could be given to our paper. Monseigneur Bishop of Calvi and Teano, in the kingdom of Naples, now a cardinal, is a most determined advocate of the needed reform, and justly claims the merit of having been the first to inaugurate it in Italy. In a letter to him Pius IX. sets down the importance of the movement, and distinctly places the limits within which it should be confined in order to attain complete success. “R. P. D. d’Avanzo, Episcopo Calven, Theanen. “Pius P.P. IX., Venerabilis Frater, Salutem et Apostolicam Benedictionem. “Quo libentius ab orbe Catholico indicti a Nobis JubilÆi beneficium fuit exceptum, Venerabilis Frater, eo uberiorem inde fructum expectandum esse confidimus, divina favente clementia. Grati propterea sensus animi, quos hac de causa prodis, iucunde excipimus, Deoque “Datum RomÆ apud S. Petrum die 1 Aprilis anno 1875, Pontificatus Nostri anno Vigesimonono. “Pius PP. IX.” This very letter is an instance of the results to which a thorough and judicious mixed Latin classical education will lead the student of Latinity—the resources of the pagan Latin made classically available even to him who is secretary to the Pope ab epistolis Latinis, to which post are appointed those who, with other proper qualifications, are good Latin scholars. Some of these letters, especially those issued under the pontificates of Benedict XIV. and Pius VI. and VII., are truly Ciceronian in style and language. We call the closest attention of such of our readers as are not acquainted with Latin to the following translation of the above most important document: “To the Rev. Father Bartholomew d’Avanzo, Bishop of Calvi and Teano. “Pius IX., Pope. “Venerable Brother, health and Apostolic Benediction: In proportion, Venerable Brother, to the eager good-will with which our proclamation of the Jubilee has been received by the Catholic world, is the harvest of good results we expect therefrom under favor of divine mercy. Heartily, therefore, do we welcome the sentiments of gratitude which you express, and offer them to God, that he may vouchsafe to your dioceses a share in your joy. Most seasonable, moreover, do we account the learned letter you have written on the mixed teaching of the Latin language. For with great erudition have you therein vindicated the honor of Christian Latinity, which many have charged with being a corruption of the ancient tongue; whereas it is clear that speech, as the expression of ideas, manners, and public usages, must necessarily have assumed a new garb after the law introduced by Christ—a law which, while it elevated human intercourse, and refashioned it to spiritual requirements, needed a new form of conversation, distinct from that which had so long reflected the bent of a carnal society swayed only by transitory things. And truly the monuments you have skilfully gathered from the several ages of the church afford a self-evident proof of our assertion; for, while they lay before the eyes of the reader the beginnings of the new form, its progress and importance, they also aver it to have been an established practice in the church to train youth in the Latin tongue by a mixed reading of sacred with classic authors. And assuredly this your dissertation, in throwing greater light on a question already well ventilated, will the more effectually urge upon the instructors “Given at Rome, at St. Peter’s, on the 1st of April, in the year 1875, the twenty-ninth of our pontificate.” “Pius PP. IX.” And thus Roma locuta est! BY THE AUTHOR OF “ROMANCE OF CHARTER OAK,” “PRIDE OF LEXINGTON,” ETC., ETC. Down in a dismal cellar, so poorly lighted, indeed, that you could scarce distinguish his tiny figure when it came into the world, Bob was born. Our little hero began life where we all must end it—underground; and certainly many a burial-vault might have seemed a less grimy, gloomy home than his. But Bob’s wretchedness being coeval with his birth, he never knew what it was to be otherwise than wretched. He cried and crowed pretty much like other infants, and his mother declared he was the finest child ever born in this cellar. “And, O darling!” she sighed more than once, while he snugged to her bosom—“O darling! if you could stay always what you are.” It was easy to feed him, easy to care for him, now. How would he fare along the rugged road winding through the misty future? Nothing looked so beautiful to his baby eyes as the golden streak across the floor which appeared once a day for a few minutes; and as soon as he was able to creep he moved towards it and tried to catch it, and wondered very much when the streak faded away. Bob’s only playmate was a poodle dog, who loved the sunshine too, and was able at first to get more of it than he; and the child always whimpered when Pin left him to go bask on the sidewalk. But by and by, when he grew older, he followed his dumb friend up the steps, and would sit for hours beside him; and the dog was very fond of his little master, if we may judge by the constant wagging of his bushy tail. When Bob was four years old his mother died. This was too young an age for him to comprehend what had happened. It surprised him a little when they carried the body away; and when she breathed her last words: “I am going, dear one; I wish I could take you with me,” he answered: “Going where, mammy?” “When is mammy coming home?” he asked of several persons who lodged in the cellar with him, and stayed awake the first night a whole hour waiting for her to return. But ere long Bob ceased to think about his mother, and in the course of a month ’twas as if she had never been; there was rather more space in the underground chamber than before, and now he had all the blanket to himself. Thus we see that the boy began early the battle of life. When he felt hungry, he would enter a baker’s shop near by, and stretch The one thing in the world Bob cherished was Pin. And the feeling was mutual; for not seldom, when the dog discovered a bone or crust of bread among the rubbish-heaps, he would let himself be deprived of the treasure without even a growl. Then, when Christmas came round, Bob and the poodle would stand by the shop-windows and admire the toys together; and the child would talk to his pet, and tell him that this was a doll and that a Noe’s ark. Once he managed to possess himself of a toy which a lady let drop on the side-walk. But he did not keep it long; for another urchin offered him a dime for it, which Bob accepted, then forthwith turned the money into gingerbread, which he shared with Pin. Such was the orphan’s childhood. He was only one vagrant amid thousands of others. In the great beehive of humanity his faint buzz was unheard, and he was crowded out of sight by the swarm of other bees. Still, there he was, a member of the hive; moving about and struggling for existence; using his sting when he needed it, and getting what honey he could. When the boy was in his seventh year, a misfortune befell him which really smote his heart—the poodle disappeared. And now, for the first time in his life, Bob shed tears. He inquired of everybody in the tenement-house if they had seen him; he put the same query to nearly every inhabitant of Mott Street. But all smiled as they answered: “In a big city like New York a lost dog is like a needle in a haystack.” Many a day did Bob pass seeking his friend. He wandered to alleys and squares where he had never been before, calling out, “Pin! Pin!” but no Pin came. Then, when night arrived and he lay down alone in his blanket, he felt lonely indeed. Poor child! It was hard to lose the only creature on earth that he loved—the only creature on earth, too, that loved him. “I’ll never forget you,” he sighed—“never forget you.” And sometimes, when another dog would wag his tail and try to make friends, Bob would shake his head and say: “No, no, you’re not my lost Pin.” It took a twelvemonth to become reconciled to this misfortune. But Time has broad wings, and on them Time bore away Bob’s grief, as it bears away all our griefs; otherwise, one sorrow would not be able to make room for another sorrow, and we should sink down and die beneath our accumulated burdens. We have styled Bob a vagrant. Here we take the name back, if aught of bad be implied in it. It was not his fault that he was born in a cellar; and if he stole peanuts and other things, ’twas only when hunger drove him to it. Doubtless, had he first seen the light in Fifth Avenue, he would have known ere this how to spell and say his prayers; might have As for not being able to read—why, if a boy in such ragged raiment as his were to show himself at a public school, other boys would jeer at him, and the pedagogue eye him askance. But Bob proved the metal that was in him by taking, when he was just eight years of age, a place in a factory. “Yes,” he said to the man who brought him there, “I’d rather work than be idle.” It were difficult to describe his look of wonder when he first entered the vast building. There seemed to be no end of people—old men, young men, and children like himself, all silent and busy. Around them, above them, on every side of them, huge belts of leather, and rods of iron, and wheels and cog-wheels were whirring, darting in and out of holes, clearing this fellow’s head by a few inches, grazing that one’s back so close that, if he chanced to faint or drop asleep, off in an eye’s twinkle the machinery would whirl him, rags, bones, and flesh making one ghastly pulp together. And the air was full of a loud, mournful hum, like ten thousand sighs and groans. Presently Bob sat down on a bench; then, like a good boy, tried to perform the task set for him. But he could only stare at the big flywheel right in front of him and close by; and so fixed and prolonged was his gaze that, by common consent, the operatives christened him Flywheel Bob. Next day, however, he began work in earnest, and it was not long ere he became the best worker of them all. When Bob was an infant, we remember, he used to creep toward the sun-streak on the cellar floor, and cry when it faded away. Now, although the building where he toiled twelve hours a day was gloomy and depressing, and the sunshine a godsend to the spirits, the boy never lifted his eyes for a single moment when it shimmered through the sooty windows. At his age one grows apace; one is likewise tender and easily moulded into well-nigh any shape. So, like as the insect, emerging from the chrysalis, takes the color of the leaf or bark to which it clings, Bob grew more and more like unto the soulless machinery humming round him. If whispered to, he made no response. When toward evening his poor back would feel weary, no look of impatience revealed itself on his countenance. If ever he heaved a sigh, no ears heard it, not even his own; and the foreman declared that he was a model boy for all the other boys to imitate—so silent, so industrious, so heartily co-operating with the wheels and cog-wheels, boiler, valves, and steam; in fact, he was the most valuable piece in the whole complicated machinery. Bob was really a study. There The child’s fame spread. In the course of time Richard Goodman, the owner of the factory, heard of him. This gentleman, be it known, was subject to the gout; at least, he gave it that name, which sounded better than rheumatism, for it smacked of family, of gentle birth; though, verily, if such an ailment might be communicated through a proboscis, there was not enough old Madeira in his veins to have given a mosquito the gout. When thus laid up, Mr. Goodman was wont to send for his superintendent to inquire how business was getting on; and it was upon one of these occasions that he first heard of Bob. Although not a person given to enthusiasm, not even when expressing himself on the subject of money—money, which lay like a little gold worm in the core of his heart—he became so excited when he was told about the model child, who never smiled, who never sulked, who never asked for higher wages, that the foreman felt a little alarm; for he had never seen his employer’s eyes glisten as they did now, and even the pain in his left knee did not prevent Mr. Goodman from rising up out of the easy-chair to give vent to his emotion. “Believe me,” he exclaimed, “this child is the beginning of a new race of children. Believe me, when our factories are filled by workers like him, then we’ll have no more strikes; strikes will be extinguished for ever!” Here Mr. Goodman sank down again in the chair, then, pulling out a silk handkerchief, wiped his forehead. But presently his brow contracted. “There is some talk,” he continued, “of introducing a bill in the legislature to exclude all children from factories under ten years of age. Would such a bill exclude my model boy?” “I can’t say whether it would,” replied the manager. “Bob may be ten, or a little under, or a little over. I don’t think he’ll change much from what he is, not if he lives fifty years. His face looks just like something that has been hammered into a certain shape that it can’t get out of.” “And they talk, too, of limiting the hours of work to ten per day for children between ten and sixteen years,” went on Mr. Goodman, still frowning; “and, what’s more, the bill requires three months’ day-schooling or six months’ night-schooling. I declare, if this bill becomes a law, I’ll retire from business. The public has no right to interfere with my employment of labor. It is sheer tyranny.” “But, no; the bill sha’n’t pass!” exclaimed Mr. Goodman, thumping his fist on the table. “Why, what’s the use of a lobby, if such a bill can go through?” Here the foreman smiled, whereupon his employer gave a responsive smile; then pulling the bell, “Now,” said the latter, “let us drink the model boy’s health.” In a few minutes there appeared a decanter of sherry. “Here’s to Flywheel Bob!” cried Mr. Goodman, holding up his glass. “To Flywheel Bob!” repeated the other; and they both tossed off the wine. “Flywheel Bob! Why, what a funny name!” spoke a low, silvery voice close by. Mr. Goodman turned hastily round, and there, at the threshold of the study, stood a little girl, with a decidedly pert air, and a pair of lustrous black eyes fixed full upon him; they seemed to say: “I know you told me not to enter here, yet here I am.” A profusion of ringlets rippled down her shoulders, and on one of her slender fingers glittered a gold ring. “Daisy, you have disobeyed me,” said her father, trying to appear stern; “and, what is more, you glide about like a cat.” “Do I?” said Daisy, smiling. “Well, pa, tell me who Flywheel Bob is; then I’ll go away.” “Something down at my factory—a little toy making pennies for you. There, now, retire, darling, retire.” “A little toy? Then give me Flywheel Bob; I want a new plaything,” pursued the child, quite heedless of the command to withdraw. “Well, I’d like to know how many toys you want?” said Mr. Goodman impatiently. “You’ve had dear knows how many dolls since Christmas.” “Nine, pa.” “And pray, what has become of them all, miss?” “Given away to girls who didn’t get any from Santa Claus.” “I declare! she’s her poor dear mother over again,” sighed the widower. “Margaret would give away her very shoes and stockings to the poor.” The sigh had barely escaped his lips when the foreman burst into a laugh, and presently Mr. Goodman laughed too; for, lo! peeping from behind the girl’s silk frock was the woolly head of a poodle. In his mouth was a doll with one arm broken off, hair done up in curls like Daisy’s, and a bit of yellow worsted twined around one of the fingers to take the place of a ring. “Humph! I don’t wonder you’ve had nine dolls in five months,” ejaculated Mr. Goodman after he had done laughing. “Rover, it seems, plays with them too; then tears them up.” “Well, pa, he is tired of dolls now, and wants Flywheel Bob; and so do I.” “I wish I hadn’t mentioned the boy’s name,” murmured Mr. Goodman. Then aloud: “Daisy dear, I am going out for a drive by and by; which way shall we go? To the Park?” “No; to Tiffany’s to have my ears pierced.” At this he burst into another laugh. “Why, pa, I’m almost ten, and old enough for earrings,” added Daisy, tossing her head and making “Well, well, darling; then we will go to Tiffany’s.” “And afterwards, pa, we’ll get Flywheel Bob.” “Oh! hush, my love. You cannot have him.” “Him! Is he a little boy, pa?” Mr. Goodman did not answer. “Well, whatever Flywheel Bob is,” she continued, “I want a new plaything. This doll Rover broke all by accident. And I scolded you hard; didn’t I, Rover?” Here she patted the dog’s head. “But, pa, he sha’n’t hurt Flywheel Bob.” “Well, well, we’ll drive out in half an hour,” said her parent, who would fain have got the notion of Flywheel Bob out of his child’s head, yet feared it might stick there. “In half an hour,” repeated Daisy, feeling the tips of her ears, while her eyes sparkled like the jewels which were shortly to adorn them. Then, going to the bell, she gave a ring. Mr. Goodman, of course, imagined that it was to order the carriage. But when the domestic appeared, Daisy quietly said: “Jane, I wish the boned turkey brought here.” No use to protest—to tell the child that this room was his own private business room, and not the place for luncheon. In the boned turkey was brought, despite Mr. Goodman’s sighs. But it was well-nigh more than he could endure when presently, after carving off three slices, she bade Rover sit up and beg. In an instant the poodle let the doll drop, then, balancing himself on his haunches, gravely opened his mouth. “He never eats anything except boned turkey,” observed Daisy in answer to her father’s look of displeasure. “Bones are bad for his teeth.” Then, while her pet was devouring the dainty morsels: “Pa,” she went on, “you haven’t yet admired Rover’s blue ribbon.” “Umph! he certainly doesn’t look at all like the creature he was when you bought him three years ago,” answered Mr. Goodman. “Well, pa, this summer I will not go to the White Mountains. Remember!” “Why not?” inquired Mr. Goodman, who failed to discern any possible connection between the poodle and this charming summer resort. “Because I want surf-bathing for Rover. I love to throw your cane into the big waves, then see him rush after it and jump up and down in the foam. This season we must go to Long Branch.” Her father made no response, but turned to address a parting word to the superintendent, who presently took leave, highly amused by the child’s bold, pert speeches. “Now, Daisy, for our drive,” said Mr. Goodman, rising stiffly out of the arm-chair. But he had only got as far as the door when another visitor was announced. It proved to be a member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals—a society which has already done much good, and whose greatest enemy is the ill-judged zeal of some of its own members. “What on earth can he want?” thought Mr. Goodman, motioning to the gentleman to take a seat. “I am come, sir,” began the latter, “to inquire whether you would accept the position of president of our society? We have much to contend with, and gentlemen like yourself—gentlemen of wealth and influence in the community—are needed to assist us.” “Here is success and prosperity to—” “Flywheel Bob,” interrupted Daisy. “For, pa, he is a little boy, isn’t he? A little boy making pennies?” Mr. Goodman frowned, while the child laughed and Rover barked. But presently the toast to the society was duly honored, after which the visitor proceeded to speak of several cruel sports which he hoped would soon be put a stop to. “Turkey-matches on Thanksgiving day must be legislated against, Mr. President.” Mr. President bowed and waved his hand. “And there is talk, sir, of introducing fox-chases, as in England. This sport must likewise be prevented by law.” Another bow and wave of the hand. “Well, pa, you sha’n’t stop me killing flies; for flies plague Rover,” put in Daisy, with a malicious twinkle in her eye. Again the poodle barked. Then, clapping her hands, off she flew to get her hat and gloves, leaving the gentlemen smiling at this childish remark. “My darling,” said Mr. Goodman a quarter of an hour later, as they were driving down Fifth Avenue together—“my darling, I have been placed at the head of another society—a society to prevent cruelty to animals.” “I am glad,” replied Daisy, looking up in his face. “Everybody likes you, pa; don’t they?” Daisy, let us here observe, was the rich man’s only child. His wife was dead; but whenever he gazed upon the little fairy at this moment seated beside him, he seemed to behold his dear Margaret anew: the same black eyes, the same wilful, imperious, yet withal tenderly affectionate ways. No wonder that Richard Goodman idolized his daughter. To no other living being did he unbend, did his heart ever quicken. But to Daisy he did unbend. He loved to caress her, to talk to her, too, about matters and things which she could hardly understand. And she would always listen and appear very pleased and interested. Search the whole city of New York, and you would not have found another of her age with so much tact when she chose to play the little lady, nor a better child, either, considering how thoroughly she had been spoilt. If Daisy was a tyrant, she was a very loving one indeed, and none knew this better than her father and the poodle, who is now perched on the front cushion of the barouche, looking scornfully down at the curs whom he passes, and saying to himself: “What a lucky dog I am!” “I am sure the Society to prevent Cruelty to Animals will do good,” observed Daisy, after holding up her finger a moment and telling Rover to sit straight. “But, pa, is Flywheel Bob an animal or a toy? Or is he really a little boy, as I guessed awhile ago?” “There it comes again,” murmured Mr. Goodman. Then, with a slight gesture of impatience, he answered: “A boy, my love, a boy.” “Well, what a funny name, pa! Oh! I’m glad we’re going to see him.” “No, dear, we are going to Tiffany’s—to Tiffany’s, in order to have “I know it, pa, but I ordered James to drive first to the factory.” No use to protest. The coachman drove whither he was bidden. But not a little surprised was he, when they arrived, to see his young mistress alight instead of his master. “I am too lame with gout to accompany her,” whispered Mr. Goodman to the foreman, who presently made his appearance. “It is an odd whim of hers. Don’t keep her long, and take great care about the machinery.” “I’ll be back soon, pa,” said Daisy—“very soon.” With this she and Rover entered the big, cheerless edifice, which towered like a giant high above all the surrounding houses. “Now, Miss Goodman, keep close to me and walk carefully,” said her guide. “Let me hold your hand,” said the child, who already began to feel excited as the first piece of machinery came in view. Then, pausing at the threshold of floor number one, “Oh! what a noise,” she cried, “and what a host of people! Which one is Flywheel Bob?” “Yonder he sits, miss,” replied the superintendent, pointing to the curved figure of a boy—we might better say child; for, in the two and a half years since we last met him, Bob has hardly grown a quarter of an inch. “Why doesn’t he sit straight?” asked Daisy, approaching him. “Because, miss, Bob minds his task.” “Well, he does indeed; for he hasn’t looked at me once, while all the rest are staring.” “You are the first young lady that has ever honored us by a visit,” answered the foreman. “Am I?” exclaimed Daisy, not a little gratified to have so many eyes fastened upon her. At children’s parties, pretty as she was, she had rivals; here there were none. And now, as she moved daintily along, with her glossy curls swaying to and fro, and her sleeves not quite hiding the gold bracelets on her snowy wrists, she formed indeed a bewitching picture. Presently they arrived beside Flywheel Bob; then Daisy stopped and surveyed him attentively, wondering why he still refused to notice her. “How queerly he behaves!” she said inwardly, “and how pale he is! I wonder what he gets to eat? His fingers are like spiders’ claws. I’d rather be Rover than Bob.” While she thus soliloquized the poodle kept snuffing at the boy’s legs, and his tail, which at first had evinced no sign of emotion, was now wagging slowly from side to side, like as one who moves with doubt and deliberation. Mayhap strange thoughts were flitting through Rover’s head at this moment. Perchance dim memories were being awakened of a damp abode underground; of a baby twisting knots in his shaggy coat; of hard times, when a half-picked bone was a feast. Who knows? But while the dog poked his nose against the boy’s ragged trowsers, while his tail wagged faster and faster, while his mistress said to herself: “I’ll tell pa about poor Bob, and he shall come to Long Branch with us,” the object of her pity continued as unmoved by the attention bestowed on him as if he had been that metal rod flashing back and forth in yon cylinder. “How many hours does Bob work?” inquired Daisy, moving “Twelve, miss,” replied the foreman. “Twelve!” repeated Daisy, lifting her eyebrows. “Does he really? Why, I don’t work two. My governess likes to drive in the Park, and so do I; and we think two hours long enough.” “Well, I have seen him, pa,” said Daisy a few minutes later, as she and her father were driving away. “Have you? Humph! then I suppose we may now go to Tiffany’s,” rejoined Mr. Goodman somewhat petulantly. “And, pa, Flywheel Bob isn’t a bit like any other boy I have ever seen. Why, he is all doubled up; his bony fingers move quick, quick, ever so quick; his eyes keep always staring at his fingers, and”—here an expression of awe shadowed the child’s bright face a moment—“and really, pa, I thought he said ‘hiss-s-s’ when the steam-pipe hissed.” “Humph!” ejaculated the manufacturer. Then, after a pause: “Well, now, my dear, let us talk about something else—about your earrings; which shall they be, pearls or diamonds?” “Diamonds, pa, for they shine prettier.” Then clapping her hands: “Oh! wouldn’t it surprise Bob if I gave him a holiday? He is making pennies for me, isn’t he? You said so this morning. Well, pa, I have pennies enough, so Bob shall play awhile; he shall come to Long Branch.” “My daughter, do not be silly,” said Mr. Goodman. “Silly! Why, pa, if Rover likes surf-bathing, I’m sure Flywheel Bob’ll like it too.” “He is too good a boy to idle away his time, my love.” “Well, but, pa, I heard you say that bathing was so healthy; and Bob doesn’t look healthy.” “Thank heavens! here we are at Tiffany’s,” muttered Mr. Goodman when presently the carriage came to a stop. But before his daughter descended he took her hand and said: “Daisy, you love me, do you not?” “Love you, pa? Of course I do.” And to prove it the child pressed her lips to his cheek. “Then, dearest, please not to speak any more about Flywheel Bob; otherwise your governess will think you are crazy, and so will everybody else who hears you.” “Crazy!” cried Daisy, opening her eyes ever so wide. Then turning up her little, saucy nose: “Well, pa, I don’t care what Mam’selle thinks!” “But you care about what I think?” said Mr. Goodman, still retaining her hand; for she seemed ready to fly away. “Oh! indeed I do.” “Then I request you not to mention Flywheel Bob any more.” “Really?” And Daisy gazed earnestly in his face, while astonishment, anger, love, made her own sweet countenance for one moment a terrible battle-field. It was all she spoke; in another moment she and Rover were within the splendid marble store. As soon as she was gone Mr. Goodman drew a long breath. Yet he could not bear to be without his daughter, even for ever so short a time; and now she was scarcely out of sight when he felt tempted to hobble after her. He worshipped Daisy. But who did not? She was the life of his home. Without her it would have been sombre indeed; “O darling! do hurry back,” murmured Mr. Goodman, while he waited in the carriage, longing for her to reappear. At length she came, and the moment she was beside him again he gave her an embrace; then the rich man drove home, feeling very, very happy. But not so Daisy. And this afternoon she stood a whole hour by the window, looking silently out. In vain the itinerant minstrel played his finest tunes; she seemed deaf to the music. Rover, too, looked moody and not once wagged his tail; nor when dinner-time came would he touch a mouthful of anything—which, however, did not surprise the governess, who observed: “Ma foi! l’animal ne fait que manger.” But when a whole week elapsed, and Daisy still remained pensive, her father said: “You need change of air, my love; so get your things ready. To-morrow we’ll be off for Long Branch.” “So soon!” exclaimed Daisy. It was only the first of June. “Why, my pet, don’t you long to throw my cane into the waves, to see Rover swim after it?” Then, as she made no response, “Daisy,” he went on, “why do you not laugh and sing and be like you used to be? Tell me what is the matter.” Without answering, Daisy looked down at the poodle, who turned his eyes up at her and faintly moved his tail. “Yes, yes; I see you need a change,” continued Mr. Goodman. “So to-morrow we’ll be off for the seaside. There I know you will laugh and be happy.” “Is Flywheel Bob happy?” murmured the child under her breath. “A little louder, dear one, a little louder. I didn’t catch those last words.” “You asked me, pa, not to speak of Flywheel Bob to you; so I only spoke about him to myself.” “Well, I do declare!” exclaimed Mr. Goodman in a tone of utter amazement; then, after staring at her for nearly a minute, he rose up and passed into his private room, thinking what a very odd being Daisy was. “She is her poor, dear mother over again,” he muttered. “I never could quite understand Margaret, and now I cannot understand Daisy.” Mr. Goodman had not been long in his study when a visitor was announced. The one who presently made his appearance was as unlike the benevolent and scrupulous gentleman who came here once to beg the manufacturer to become president of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals—as unlike him, we repeat, as a man could possibly be. This man’s name was Fox; and verily there was something of his namesake about him. Explain it as we may, we do occasionally meet with human beings bearing a mysterious resemblance to some one of the lower animals; and if Mr. Fox could only have dwindled in size, “Glad to see you, Mr. Fox,” said Mr. Goodman, motioning to him to be seated. “I sent for you to talk about important business.” “At your service, sir,” replied the other, with a twinkle in his gray eye which pleased Daisy’s father; for it seemed to say, “I am ready for any kind of business.” “Very good,” said Mr. Goodman; then, after tapping his fingers a moment on the table: “Now, Mr. Fox, I would like you to proceed at once to Albany. Can you go?” Mr. Fox nodded. “Very good. And when you are there, sir, I wish you to exert yourself to the utmost to prevent the passage of a bill known as ‘The Bill for the protection of factory children.’” Here Mr. Fox blew his nose, which action caused his cunning eyes to sparkle more brightly. Then, having returned the handkerchief to his pocket, “Mr. Goodman,” he observed, “of course you are aware that it takes powder to shoot robins. Now, how much, sir, do you allow for this bird?” Mr. Goodman smiled; then, after writing something on a slip of paper, held it up before him. “Humph!” ejaculated Mr. Fox. “That sum may do—it may. But you must know, sir, that this legislature is not like the last one. This legislature”—here Mr. Fox himself smiled—“is affected with a rare complaint, which we gentlemen of the lobby facetiously call ‘Ten-Commandment fever’; and the weaker a man is with this complaint, the more it takes to operate on him.” “Then make it this.” And Mr. Goodman held up another slip with other figures marked on it. “Well, yes, I guess that’ll cure the worst case,” said Mr. Fox, grinning. “Good!” exclaimed Daisy’s father. “Then, sir, let us dismiss the subject and talk about something else—about a bill introduced by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, of which society I am president. It relates to chasing foxes.” “And this bill you don’t want killed?” said Mr. Fox. “Precisely.” “Well, sir, how much are you willing to spend for that purpose?” Again Mr. Goodman held up a piece of paper. “Why, my stars!” cried the lobby-member, after glancing at the figures—“my stars! isn’t it as important a bill as the other?” “I won’t alter my figures,” replied Mr. Goodman. “But remember, sir, you are president of the So—” “I won’t alter my figures,” repeated Mr. Goodman, interrupting him. “Then, sir, you cannot count on a law to prevent people running after foxes,” answered Mr. Fox dryly; but presently, shrugging his shoulders, “However, as much as can be accomplished with that small sum of money, I will accomplish.” “I don’t doubt it,” observed Mr. Goodman; then, turning toward the table, “And now, sir, suppose we drink a glass of wine, after which you will proceed to Albany.” Accordingly, to Albany Mr. Fox went, while Richard Goodman and his daughter took wing for Long Branch. But, strange to relate, the change “What can ail my darling child?” Mr. Goodman often asked himself during these pensive moods. Then he consulted three physicians who happened to be taking a holiday at the Branch; one of whom recommended iron, another cod-liver oil, while the third doctor said: “Fresh milk, sir, fresh milk.” While he was thus worried about Daisy, the torrid, sunstroke heat of summer flamed down upon the city, and more and more people followed his example and fled to Newport and the White Mountains, to Saratoga and Long Branch. But those who went away were as a drop in the ocean to those who remained behind. The toilers are ever legion. We see them not, yet they are always near, toiling, toiling; and our refinement, our luxury, our happiness, are too often the fruit of their misery. The deeper the miner delves in the mine, the higher towers the castle of Mammon. So in these sultry dog-days Flywheel Bob’s spider fingers were at work for Richard Goodman’s benefit, as deftly as in the depths of winter—no holiday for those poor fingers. Yet not even a sigh does Bob heave, and he cares less now for the blessed sunshine than he did in his baby days, when it painted a golden streak on the cellar floor. O foolish boy! why didst thou not go with thy mother? There was room enough in the pine box to have held ye both, and in Potter’s field thy weary body would have found rest long ago. But Bob, instead of dying, lived; and now behold him, in his eleventh year, in the heart of this big factory, the biggest in the metropolis, and the clatter and din of it are his very life. Oh! show him not a rose, Daisy dear. Keep far from his ears the song of the birds! Let him be, let him be where he is! And O wheels and cogwheels, and all ye other pieces of machinery! whatever name ye go by, keep on turning and rumbling and groaning; for Flywheel Bob believes with all his heart and soul that he is one with you, that ye are a portion of himself. Break not his mad illusion! ’Tis the only one he has ever enjoyed. And on the machinery went—on, on, on, all through June, July, August, earning never so much money before; and the millionaire to whom it belonged would have passed never so happy a summer (for his manager wrote him most cheering reports), if only Daisy had been well and cheerful. It was the 1st of September when Mr. Goodman returned to New York—the 1st of September; a memorable day it was to be. Hardly had he crossed the threshold of his city home when he received a message which caused him to go with all haste to the factory. What had happened? The machinery had broken down, come to a sudden dead pause; and the moment’s stillness which followed was not unlike the stillness of the death-chamber—just after the vital spark has fled, and when the mourners can hear their own hearts beating. Then came a piercing, agonizing cry; up, up from floor to floor it shrilled. And lo! Flywheel Bob had become a raving maniac, But ere long the place was thronged with curious people, drawn thither by his cries, and who made sport of his crazy talk; for Bob told them that he was a flywheel, and it was dangerous to approach him. Then they lit some bits of candle, and formed a ring about him, so as to give his arms full space to swing. And now, while his wild, impish figure went spinning round and hissing amid the circle of flickering lights, it was well-nigh impossible to believe that he was the same being who eleven years before had crept and crowed and toddled about in this very spot, a happy babe, with Pin and a sunbeam to play with. It was verging towards evening when Mr. Goodman received the message alluded to above; and Daisy, after wondering a little what could have called her father away at this hour, determined to sally forth and enjoy a stroll in the avenue with Rover. Her governess had a headache and could not accompany her; but this did not matter, for the child was ten years old and not afraid to go by herself. Accordingly, out she went. But, to her surprise, when she reached the sidewalk her pet refused to follow. He stood quite still, and you might have fancied that he was revolving some project in his noddle. “Come, come!” said Daisy impatiently. But the dog stirred not an inch, nor even wagged his tail. And now happened something very interesting indeed. Rover presently did move, but not in the direction which his young mistress wished—up towards the Park—but down the avenue. Nor would he halt when she bade him, and only once did he glance back at her. “Well, well, I’ll follow him,” said Daisy. “He likes Madison Square; perhaps he is going there.” She was mistaken, however. Past the Square the poodle went, then down Broadway, and on, on, to Daisy’s astonishment and grief, who kept imploring him to stop; and once she caught his ear and tried to hold him back, but he broke loose, then proceeded at a brisker pace than before, so that it was necessary almost to run in order to keep up with him. By and by the child really grew alarmed; for she found herself no longer in Broadway, but in a much narrower street, where every other house had a hillock of rubbish in front of it, and where the stoops and sidewalks were crowded with sickly-looking children in miserable garments, and who made big eyes at her as she went by. The curs, too, yelped at Rover, as if he had no business to be among them; and one mangy beast tried to tear off his pretty blue ribbon. But, albeit no coward, Rover paused not to fight; steadily on he trotted, until at length he dived down a flight of rickety steps. Daisy had to follow, for she durst not leave him now; she seemed to But it was not easy to penetrate into the cavern-like domicile whither the stairway led; for it was very full of people. The dog, however, managed to squeeze through them; and Daisy, who was clinging to his shaggy coat, presently found herself in an open space lit up by half a dozen tapers, and in the middle of the ring a boy was yelling and swinging his arms around with terrific velocity, and the boy looked very like Flywheel Bob. “Hi! ho! Here’s a fairy, Bob—a fairy!” cried a voice, as Daisy emerged from the crowd and stood trembling before him. “It’s Cinderella,” shouted another. “Isn’t she a beauty!” exclaimed a third voice. While they were passing these remarks upon the child, Rover was yelping and frisking about as she had never seen him do before; he seemed perfectly wild with delight. But the one whom the poodle recognized and loved knew him not. “O Bob! Bob!” cried Daisy presently, stretching forth her hands in an imploring manner, “don’t kill my Rover! Don’t, don’t!” There was indeed cause for alarm. The mad boy had suddenly ceased his frantic motions and clutched her pet by the throat, as if to choke him. Yet, although in dire peril of his life, Rover wagged his tail, and somebody shouted: “Bully dog! He’ll die game!” “Come away, come away quick!” said a man, jerking Daisy back by the arm. Then three or four other men flew to the rescue of the poodle, and not without some difficulty unbent Bob’s fingers from their iron grip; after which, still wagging his poor tail, Rover was driven out of the room after his mistress. Oh! it seemed like heaven to Daisy when she found herself once more in the open air. But what she had heard and witnessed in the horrible place which she had just quitted wrought too powerfully on her nerves, and now the child burst into hysterical sobs. While Daisy wept, somebody—she hardly knew whether it was a man or woman—fondled her and tried to soothe her, and at the same time slipped off her ring, earrings, and bracelets. The tender thief was in the very nick of time; for in less than five minutes, to Daisy’s unutterable joy, who should appear but her father, accompanied by a policeman and the superintendent of the factory. “O my daughter! my daughter! how came you here?” cried Mr. Goodman, starting when he discovered her. “Have you lost your senses too?” “Oh! no, no, pa,” answered Daisy, springing into his arms. “Rover brought me here.” Then after a brief silence, during which her father kissed the tears off her cheek: “And, pa,” she added, “I have seen Flywheel Bob, and do you know I think they have been doing something to him; for he acts so very strangely. Poor, poor Bob!” While she was speaking the object of her commiseration was carried up the steps. Happily, he was tired out by his crazy capers and was now quite calm, nor uttered a word as they laid him on the sidewalk. “Dear Bob, what is the matter? What have they done to you?” said Daisy, bending tenderly over him. Bob did not answer, but his eyes rolled about and gleamed brighter than her lost diamonds. “Well, pa, he sha’n’t go back to that horrid factory,” answered Daisy; “and, what’s more, now that he is ill, he sha’n’t go anywhere except to my house.” “Darling, don’t be silly,” said Mr. Goodman, dropping his voice. “How could a little lady like you wish to have him in your house?” “Why, pa, Bob is ill; look at the foam on his lips. Yes, I’m sure he is ill, and I wish to nurse him.” “Well, my child, you cannot have him; therefore speak no more about it,” replied Mr. Goodman, who felt not a little annoyed at the turn things were taking. “Then, pa, I’ll go to the hospital too, and nurse him there; upon my word I will.” “No, you sha’n’t.” “But I will. O father!” Here the child again burst into sobs, while the crowd looked on in wonder and admiration, and one man whispered: “What a game thing she is!” Three days have gone by since Daisy’s noble triumph, and now, on a soft, luxurious couch in an elegant apartment, lies Flywheel Bob, while by the bedside watches his devoted little nurse. The boy’s reason has just returned, but he can hardly move or speak. “O Bob! don’t die,” said Daisy, taking one of his cold, death-moistened hands in hers. “You sha’n’t work anymore. Don’t, don’t die!” The physician has told her that death is approaching. “Where am I?” inquired Bob in a faint, scarce audible whisper, and turning his hollow, bewildered eyes on the child. “You are here, Bob, in my home, and nobody shall put you out of it; and when you get well, you shall have a long, long holiday.” The boy did not seem to understand; at least, his eyes went roving strangely round the room, and he murmured the word “Pin.” “What do you mean, dear Bob?” asked Daisy. “Pin,” he repeated— “my lost Pin.” Here the door of the chamber was pushed gently open and Rover thrust his head in. The dog had been thrice ordered out for whining and moaning, and Daisy was about to order him away a fourth time, when Bob looked in the direction of the door. Quick the poodle bounded forward, and as he bounded Flywheel Bob rose up in the bed, and cried in a voice which startled Daisy, it was so loud and thrilling: “O Pin! Pin! Pin!” In another moment his arms were twined round the creature’s neck; then he bowed down his head. Bob spoke not again—Bob never spoke again and when Daisy at length discovered that he was dead, she wept as if her heart would break. * * * * * “Father, I think poor Bob would not have died, if you had let me have him sooner,” said Daisy the evening of the funeral. “Alas! my child, I believe what you say is too true,” replied Mr. Goodman. “But his death has already caused me suffering enough; do let me try and forget it. I promise there shall be no more Flywheel Bobs in my factory.” “Oh! yes, pa; give them plenty of holidays. Why, Rover, I think, is happier than many of those poor people.” Then, patting the dog’s head: “And, pa, I am going now to call Rover Pin; for I am sure that was his old name.” “Mad? Why, pa?” “Because I have sworn to undo all I have done. Ay, I mean to try my best to be elected president of another society—the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children; and I will try to make them all happy.” “Oh! yes, yes, as happy as Pin is,” said Daisy, laughing. “Why, pa, I only work two hours a day, and Mam’selle is always pleased with me.” Then, her cherub face growing serious again: “And now,” she added, “I must have a pretty tombstone placed on Bob’s grave, and I will pay for it all myself out of my own money.” “Have you enough, darling?” “Well, if I haven’t, pa, you’ll give me more money; for I wish to pay for it all, all myself.” “So you shall, my love,” said Mr. Goodman, smiling. “But what kind of a monument is it to be?” “A white marble cross, pa. Then I’ll often go and hang wreaths upon it—wreaths of beautiful flowers; for I never, never, never will forget Flywheel Bob.” Much discussion has arisen among commentators and archÆologists with regard to the sacred vestments of the Jewish high-priest and the Levites; and yet it does not appear to have hitherto occurred to them to refer to the only sources whence additional and authentic information respecting these vestments can be obtained—namely, the monuments of ancient Egypt. Age after age have repeated attempts been made to remake the vestments of the Hebrew priesthood solely from the descriptions given in the Pentateuch; but hitherto the words of Moses have been subjected to the most discordant interpretations. In a book by the AbbÉ Ancessi, entitled Egypt and Moses, At the very epoch to which chronologists are wont to refer the origin of the human race we find on the borders of the Nile an already powerful nation. Most of the peoples whose names were in after-times to be renowned in history were then tribes of mere barbarians, dwelling in the depths of forests, in caverns, or on the islets of the lakes, their weapons rude flint-headed axes and arrows, and their ornaments the teeth of the wild beasts they had slain in the chase, a few amber beads or rings At this time the nobles of Egypt inhabited sumptuous palaces, wore necklaces of gold adorned with brilliant enamels, and hung from their girdles laminÆ of bronze, damascened in gold with marvellous delicacy. The deciphering of inscriptions has given an insight into the history of Egypt, and “there are,” as M. Ancessi observes, “kings of the middle ages who are less known to us than these Pharaos of every dynasty,” who, by way of relaxation from the long, funereal labors in the building of the Pyramids imposed upon each prince by the belief and traditions of his ancestors, would ravage Africa or Asia; then, returning from these expeditions, exchange the fatigues of arms for the pleasures of the chase. In the desert or on Mount Sinai we find them hunting the lion and the gazelle, after having carried their thank-offerings to the temples of Memphis or of Thebes. Thus we find in remote ages the fame of Egypt reaching to distant regions, besides exercising an immense influence on neighboring nations. It was what, later on, Athens became, and after Athens Rome—an object of wonder, interest, and envy for its power, its wealth, and splendor. Such were the position and influence of Egypt when the family of shepherds which was one day to become the Hebrew nation wandered in the valley of the Jordan and on the plains of Palestine—that family to whom those pastures, streams, and mountain gorges were already peopled with precious memories, and who were farther bound to the land by the promises of God and their own most cherished hopes. Too feeble then to overcome the races of Amalec and Chanaan, it was needful that this tribe should be for a time withdrawn into a country in which they would forget their nomadic habits and become habituated to the settled life of civilized nations; in which, moreover, they would be disciplined and strengthened, and where their numbers would increase, until the time appointed should arrive when God would deliver into their hands the country so repeatedly promised to their race. This time being come, he had recourse, if one may say so, to a touching stratagem, and drew the sons of Jacob into the land of the Pharaos by placing Joseph on the steps of the throne. During the gradual transformation of a wandering tribe into a On the arrival of the patriarch Jacob in the fertile plains of the Delta the great and powerful of that day hastened to meet him with royal magnificence. These shepherds, accustomed only to the shelter of the tents which they carried away at will on their beasts of burden, found themselves face to face with palaces and temples of which the very ruins strike us with amazement. And farther, what marvels were in store for the strangers in the various arts of civilization carried on in the cities of Mizraim, where painting and music flourished, where gravers and goldsmiths produced their excellent works, where unceasingly resounded the hammers of those who wrought in wood and stone, and the hum of a thousand looms, weaving those wondrous tissues The sight of all this must have vividly struck the imagination of the strangers; nevertheless, the prejudices and antipathies of race which speedily declared themselves, doubtless on the occasion of changes on the throne, would have kept them aloof from sharing in the pursuits by which they were surrounded, had not their new masters forced them away from tending their flocks and herds in the land of Goshen, and scattered them in the cities, mingling them with the Egyptian people. They now found themselves compelled to make brick, hew stone, and handle the workman’s hammer; to build, to cultivate the ground, and, in spite of any hereditary repugnance which might exist, to suffer themselves to be initiated into the arts and manufactures of ancient Egypt. That which at first was only submitted to under coercion soon grew into the habits, tastes, and customs of the Israelites. They had entered upon a new phase of their existence, thence to issue, after a period of four hundred years, transformed into a people ripe for a constitution, laws, government, and national worship. A man alone was wanting to them, and this man God provided. When Moses arose amongst them, they were familiar with all the secrets of Egyptian art and manufacture. But it was not only by the formation of skilful craftsmen that the influence of this mighty nation made itself felt. It penetrated the whole of their daily life; and this indelible impression was not effaced when Israel had traversed a career of well-nigh twenty centuries. After the fall of Jerusalem and the dispersion of the Jewish people, it still attracted the attention of historians and thoughtful men. It did not even occur to those not well acquainted with the customs of the Hebrews and of ancient Egypt, such as Tacitus, to separate the names of the two peoples, which were included by them in one and the same judgment, meriting in their eyes the same reproaches and together sharing the scanty praise which their new masters allowed at times to fall from their disdainful lips. But there were others, more attentive and better informed, who Nearer to our own time the learned Kircher devoted long years to searching out those points of resemblance which could not at that time be studied by the light of original documents. The severest censors would be disarmed by the telling, though somewhat barbaric, form in which he has presented the true relationship existing between the Mosaic and Egyptian constitutions: “HebrÆi tantam habent ad ritus, sacrificia, cÆremonias, sacrasque disciplinas Ægyptiorum affinitatem, ut vel Ægyptios hebraÏzantes, vel HebrÆos Ægyptizantes fuisse, mihi plane persuadeam.” Kircher is right. These men of Asiatic race, born at Memphis, Tanis, or Ramses, were practically Egyptians, and had forgotten their ancient habits, their pastoral life, and the land where the ashes of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob were awaiting them. They had grown up and lived amongst a people whose tongue they had learned, Moses, who was to become their lawgiver, was a learned and accomplished Egyptian in everything but the fact of race. Early separated from his family and countrymen, he had grown up at the court of Pharao, among the near attendants and favorites of the king, and was “instructed in all the wisdom of the Egyptians.” Into this inner sanctuary, the Egyptian Holy of Holies, the pontiff alone entered, but Moses could behold him from afar, when he burnt the incense before the veiled ark, where, concealing itself from mortal sight, dwelt the invisible majesty of Ra, “Creator and lord of the world.” To show this in detail is the object of M. Ancessi’s interesting work, in which, with minute care and research, he proceeds, in the first place, to consider the material portion of the worship—the sacerdotal garments, the ark, the altars, and the sacrifices—with the intention later of approaching the moral code, and, lastly, the literature of the two peoples. The first of the sacerdotal garments described by Moses is the ephod. This vestment, conspicuous for its richness, was woven of threads of brilliant colors and adorned with precious stones set in gold. But it owed its peculiar excellence to the pectoral with the Urim and Thummim, that mysterious organ of the divine oracles which manifested God’s care over his people by a perpetual miracle. Tradition makes frequent mention of this marvellous vestment. After the ruin of the Temple, Oriental writers gave free scope to their imagination and to the influence of family reminiscences in their descriptions of the ephod. We must not, however, take these as guides by any means trustworthy, but endeavor to arrive at the exact meaning of the Mosaic description, Referring to the Vulgate, we find as follows: “Facient autem superhumerale [ephod] de auro et hyacintho et purpura, coccoque bis tincto, et bysso retorta, opere polymito.” This gives us the tissue of which the ephod was made—namely, a rich stuff of fine linen, composed of threads of blue, purple, and scarlet worked in with filaments of gold. So far there is no difficulty. Now, if we compare with this the drawings representing the gods or kings of Egypt in their richest apparel, our attention is at once attracted by a broad belt of precious material and brilliant colors which encircles the body from the waist upwards to a little below the arms, and is upheld by two narrow bands, one passing over each shoulder, and joined together at the top, their lower extremities being sewn to the vestment before and behind. These are clearly the two humeralia spoken of by Moses. In the Egyptian paintings we notice that the buttons by which the bands are fastened together on the shoulders are precious stones in a gold setting, and fixed, not on the top, but a little lower down towards the front, and at the exact place where Moses directs two gems to be placed, each on a disc of gold. We know from Josephus that in the vesture of the high-priest these two uncut stones joined the shoulder-bands of the ephod together; We read further: “And thou shalt take two onyx stones, and shalt grave on them the names of the children of Israel: six names on one stone, and the other six on the other, according to the order of their birth. With the work of an engraver and a jeweller thou shalt engrave them with the names of the children of Israel, set in gold and compassed about: and thou shalt put them on both sides of the ephod, a memorial of the children of Israel. And Aaron shall bear their names before the Lord upon both shoulders, for a remembrance.” Our European museums, and more so still that of Boulaq, near Cairo, possess a large number of Moses, by the command of God, adopted this idea in composing the vestments of Aaron, placing on the shoulders of the high-priest two precious stones, upon which were engraven the names of the twelve tribes of Israel; expressing under this graceful symbolism the office and character of the priesthood. He thus reminded his people that the priest is a mediator between God and men, and that he presents himself before JEHOVAH in the name and on behalf of this people, whose whole weight, so to speak, he seems to bear upon his shoulders. “The ephod,” says Josephus, “is a cubit in width, and leaves the middle of the chest open.” In the Egyptian paintings the lower edge of the ephod is encircled by a girdle usually made of the same material as the corselet itself. The resemblance in every particular between the Hebrew and the Egyptian ephod is, in fact, perfect. We must now proceed more fully to consider the pectoral, the importance of which renders it worthy of very careful study. “And thou shalt make the rational of judgment,” This passage has been compared by commentators with the following from Elian: “Among the Egyptians, from the remotest ages, the priests were also the judges; the senior being chief, and judge over all the rest. It was required of him that he should be the most just and upright of men. He wore suspended from his neck an image made of sapphire, and which was called TRUTH.” And Diodorus Siculus, respecting the same symbol, writes as follows: “The chief of the judges of Egypt wore round his neck, suspended from a chain of gold, a symbol made of precious stones, and called Truth. Until the judge had put on this image no discussion began.” In examining the Egyptian monuments we find that the personages who are represented wearing the vestment corresponding to that which, by Moses, is designated the ephod, usually also wear upon the breast a square ornament adorned with precious stones. It is placed between the shoulder-bands, and rests, as it were, on the upper edge of the ephod, its position exactly corresponding to that of the pectoral of Aaron. The museums of Boulaq and the Louvre possess pectorals of rare beauty. That of Boulaq was sent to Paris, with the other jewels of Queen Aa Hotep, to the Exhibition of 1867. It is a chef-d’oeuvre of ancient jewelry. The frame, which is almost square, encloses a mythological scene much in favor with the Egyptians. King Amosis is standing in a bark of lapis lazuli and enamel, while two divinities pour upon his head the waters of purification. This pectoral, which belonged to the mother of Amosis, is worthy of particular notice, not only because of its admirable workmanship, but also because its date is known to us as being to a certainty anterior to Moses. In the pectoral of Aaron the precious stones were attached to the rich stuff which formed the foundation by little rings of fine gold, instead of being held in place by small plates of gold, as they usually are in the Egyptian pectorals. There is, however, in the museum at Boulaq, a splendid necklace, the arrangement of which proves that if the idea of the pectoral is Egyptian, so also is the manner of its workmanship. This necklace is composed of a multiplicity of tiny objects, garlands, twisted knots, four-petalled flowers, lions, antelopes, hawks, vultures, and winged vipers, etc., all of which are arranged so as to lie in parallel curves on the breast of the wearer. Now, each one of these objects forms a piece apart, quite separate from the others, and is sewn to the stuff serving for a foundation by minute rings fastened behind each. It seems to have been by a similar arrangement that the precious stones were attached With regard to the word caphul—duplicatum: “it shall be square and doubled [or double]”—it is, with our present knowledge, impossible to say whether Moses intended to direct that the ornamentation of the back of the pectoral was not to be neglected, or that the stuff was to be doubled, so as the better to support the weight of the precious stones. Some of these stones it is now difficult to identify; but we cannot leave this part of the subject without giving an abridged quotation from the ingenious work of M. de Charancey, Actes de la SociÉtÉ philologique, v. iii. No. 5: “De quelques IdÉes symboliques,” etc. According to M. de Charancey, the twelve stones of the pectoral ought to be divided into two series, It is in any case certain that the church, in her liturgy, makes occasional allusion to this symbolism; as, for instance, in the second response for the Tuesday following the third Sunday after Easter we find: “In diademate capitis Aaron magnificentia Domini sculpta erat.… In veste poderis quam habebat totus erat orbis terrarum et parentum magnalia in quatuor ordinibus lapidum sculpta erant” (Brev. Romanum). The Egyptian pectorals, being usually made with a ground-work of metal, were simply suspended from a gold chain which passed round the neck; but the foundation of the Aaronic pectoral, being of woven material, needed a different kind of support to keep it stretched out and in place. We accordingly find exact directions given that to each of the two upper corners should be fastened a ring of pure gold, and to each ring a chain, the other end of which should be fixed to one of the gems on the shoulders. These gems are also directed to be placed, not on the top of the shoulders, but a little lower and towards the front, exactly as we see them in the sculptures and paintings of Egypt. To the lower corners of the pectoral rings were also attached, and again at the joining, in front, of the bands with the ephod, while a violet-colored fillet passed through the two on the right, and tied, and another similarly through the two on the left. The directions (Exod. xxviii. 13, 14, 23, 25) are so explicit as to give evidence that we have here some departure from the well-known arrangements with which the Israelites were familiar. We must now consider the question of the urim and thummim, celebrated for its inextricable difficulties; but as no authoritative document has as yet given the solution of this problem, it is impossible “Without entering into lengthy philological discussions, it is easy to show that the word urim must have originally signified light. This is the sense of aor, to sparkle, to shine; it is the sense of iara, which has a relationship with iara to see, and with the analogous root of the Indo-Germanic languages from which come ordo, orior, Iris, Jour, Giorno, etc., etc. In Egyptian we also find this radical in the name of Horus, the Shining One, the Morning Sun. With this root again is connected iara, the river, the sparkling, and in Hebrew nahar, “Besides, the meaning of the word urim is scarcely contested, and it is generally admitted that its original signification is lights, or beams. “The word thummim has been less easy to interpret. “The Egyptian radical tum signifies to be shut up, veiled, hidden, dark, obscure. This meaning reappears in the triliterate form of the Semitic Tamam. “As from the radical aor the Egyptians had made the god of light, so from the radical tum they made the name of the hidden god, the god veiled in darkness and obscurity, who had not manifested himself in the bright vesture of creation—the god Tum, hidden in the silence and darkness of eternity, in opposition or contrast to Horus, the god of the morning of creation, shining in the sunbeams, and glittering in the bright gems of the midnight skies. “Thus, according to the etymology of these words, we have in the urim the lights, beams, or rays, and in the thummim the obscurities and shadows, which doubtless passed over the face of the pectoral.… The high-priest grouped the luminous signs according to a system which remained one of the mysteries of the tabernacle. This key alone could give the interpretation of the will of Jehovah, and this may explain the curious episode in the time of the Judges to which allusion has already been made, when we find one of the tribes of Israel hire a Levite to place the ephod and interpret its oracles.” What rule was followed in interpreting the answers—whether it was formed by grouping all the luminous letters, or only that one which was brightest in the name of each tribe—we know not. We do not even know whether the foregoing explanation is the true one, although we may safely allow that it answers to all the requirements of the Scriptural texts, as well as to the indications of tradition. It is thus that Josephus explains the manner in which the oracles were given by the “rational of judgment,” and well-nigh the whole of Jewish and Christian tradition follows in his steps. Some have found a difficulty in the thirtieth verse of Exodus xxviii.: “Thou shalt place on the pectoral of judgment the urim and the thummim, We have now, as briefly as may be, to consider the remaining “ornaments The Israelites were familiar with the symbols and rich ornaments which in Egypt characterized the head-dress of the deities and kings; each god and goddess wearing on the head a particular sign indicative of his or her attributes or functions, and consecrated by a long tradition. Among these symbols that of most frequent occurrence is the serpent UrÆus, which encircles with its coils the heads of kings, raising broad, inflated chest over the middle of the forehead. The UrÆus, by some capricious association, signified the only true and eternal king, of whom all earthly monarchs are but the image and representative incarnation. At the time the Hebrews were in Egypt the form of this serpent had been gradually modified into that of the fleur-de-lys, which we so often find carved on the brow of kings and sphinxes, springing from a fillet at the border of the head-attire. Instead of passing round the head, this fillet is only visible on the forehead, disappearing over the ears in the folds of a kind of veil. Now, Moses is directed to place upon the forehead of Aaron a band of gold engraven with the name of the Most Holy. He gives to the high-priest not only an ornament analogous to that worn by the Egyptian kings—that is to say, the chiefs of the priesthood and the representatives of the Deity—but he preserves also the same symbolical idea which it had for the people of Egypt. No created thing could either represent or even symbolize JEHOVAH; nothing but the most holy name itself could remind them of the uncreated Essence, who, being pure spirit, has no form. Hence the great importance of the name of Jehovah—or, more exactly, YAHVEH—in the history of Israel. The name of Him who dwelt in the most holy place, whose glory shone above the mercy-seat—this name alone, with the ascription of sanctity, was engraven on the golden fillet on the brow of his high-priest. “And the band shall be always upon his forehead, that the Lord may be well pleased with him.” This idea of the abiding of God on the head of the pontiff-kings was one very familiar to the Egyptians, and has been expressed by them in a variety of ways. For example, we find the “divine Horus” forming with his wings a graceful ornament on the head-attire of some of the statues of the Pharaos, or again spreading his wings upon them to communicate the divine life. The sign of the God of Israel was placed on the forehead of the high-priest, as if to overshadow him with his majesty, and to give Under the ephod was worn the long tunic, called in Hebrew Mehil, the most noticeable part of which is its fringe, composed of little bells of gold alternating with colored pomegranates. The description given by Moses (Exod. xxviii. 31, 34) is very simple: “And thou shalt make the tunic of the ephod all of violet; in the midst whereof above shall be a hole for the head, and a border round about it woven, as is wont to be made in the outmost part of garments, that it may not easily be broken. And beneath, at the feet of the same tunic, round about, thou shalt make as it were pomegranates, of violet, and purple, and scarlet twice-dyed, with little bells between: so that there shall be a golden bell and a pomegranate, and again a golden bell and a pomegranate.” The Mehil was not only the counterpart of an Egyptian vestment worn by the Pharaos, and which we see represented with a broad hem round the neck, but we find upon it the same ornaments as those mentioned in Exodus—namely, acorns or tassels of colored threads alternating with pendants of gold. It must not be forgotten that there was, in the ornamentation of the period we are considering, a singular admixture of Assyrian with Egyptian forms. Assyrian garments were also bordered with heavy fringes, the tassels of which sometimes take the form of pomegranates. Moses must have seen at the palace of the Pharaos, as ambassadors, as tributaries, or as captives, some of those Eastern princes whose majestic countenances and kingly garments long ages have preserved to us on the sculptured blocks of the palaces of Babylon and Ninive. In a fragment of a Coptic translation of the Acts of the Council of NicÆa, which has lately been discovered by M. Revillout among the Oriental MSS. of the Museum of Turin, the fathers of the holy council give the following advice to a young man just entering into life: “My son, avoid a woman who loves gay clothing; for displays of rings and little bells Thus through a long series of ages this custom of adorning vestments with bells has come, almost without a break, down to these latter centuries. The other vestments of the high-priest were common also to the Levites, and, as well as the striking analogies between the Egyptian and Mosaic manner of offering sacrifice, may furnish matter for consideration at some future time. Meanwhile, we will close the present notice with the appropriate words of St. John Chrysostom: “Deus ad errantium salutem his se coli passus est quibus doemonas gentiles colebant aliquantulum ilia in melius inflectens”—“God, for the salvation of the erring, suffered himself to be honored in those things which had served in the worship of idols, modifying them in some measure for the better.” And, continues this great doctor, God, by thus introducing into his temple all that was richest in the vestments of the Egyptians, all that was most solemn in their sanctuaries, most elevated in their symbolism, and most impressive in their ceremonies, willed that his people should feel no regret, and experience no want or void, in their worship of him, when, amid the new ceremonial, they should call to mind that which they had seen in Egypt: “Ne unquam postea Ægyptiorum aut eorum quÆ apud Ægyptios fuerant experti cupiditate tangerentur.” It was not only fitting but also necessary that the worship of the Lord JEHOVAH should not in any point appear inferior to that of idols; for the unspiritually-minded nation of whom Moses was the leader was incapable of appreciating the greatness and majesty of God, except in some proportion to the splendor of his worship. FROM THE FRENCH. Orleans, Feb. 15, 1868. Dear, sweet Kate, I have seen Sainte-Croix again, and now I write to you. The general installation has scarcely begun; great agitation and noise in all directions. Everybody is surprised to see me so soon settled down and quiet, but Marianne and Antoine are of a fairy-like agility. RenÉ is busy; Marcella still asleep, having watched till very late by her little Anna, who was rather feverish. ThÉrÈse and Madeleine will regularly attend catechism at Sainte-Croix during some weeks, unless their mother consents to their speedy departure. This good and amiable Berthe has promised the superior of —— to send her daughters to her for a year at the time of their First Communion; now she hesitates, and none of us, to say the truth, persuades her to send them—they are so gentle and sweet, so truly two in one. This is but a sign of life, dear sister. Good-by for the present. February 17. My good paralytic showed much pleasure at seeing me again. It is arranged that Marcella and I are to go to her by turns, and Gertrude, who ardently desires some active occupation, claims her share of presents of poor. Not a minute is wasted here, dear Kate. We are keeping the twins, not wishing to place them under any external influence; and although Arthur has entered at the Jesuits’, the good abbÉ has consented to remain permanently the guest of Mme. de T——, as preceptor to these lovable children, whom he finds so attractive. Marcella is giving them lessons in Italian. How learned they are already! Every month, in accordance with Adrien’s decision, there are solemn examinations. The delicate little Anna studies with zeal, finding herself very ignorant by the side of the twins. I have knelt again before Notre Dame des Miracles, and have done the honors of Recouvrance to our fair Roman. Did I tell you that Margaret is a little jealous? “Keep me at least a tiny little corner in your heart, which I see invaded from so many quarters.” Her happiness has undergone no alteration; she is expecting and wishing for me.… Read Emilia Paula, a story of the Catacombs. Mgr. La CarriÈre, formerly Bishop of Guadaloupe, will preach the Lent, and Mgr. Dupanloup will speak in the rÉunions of the Christian Mothers. It is also said, though it is not very likely, that the great bishop will this year deliver the panegyric of Joan of Arc. Marcella is in a state of enthusiasm. Her heart opens out in the warm atmosphere created for her by our friendship. Anna is well—still a little shy; the delicate temperament of the dear orphan having for so long kept her at a distance from anything like noisy play. MarguÉrite and Alix teach her her We all communicated this morning, the anniversary of Mme. de T——’s marriage. O my God! what can the soul render to thee to whom thou givest thyself? Oh! how I pity those who know thee not, who never receive thee as their Guest, who never weep at thy feet like Magdalen, who return not to thee like the prodigal, who lean not upon thy heart like St. John. Oh! with the divine and fiery beams of thy bright dawn illuminate this earth, wherein the evil fights against the good. Still more deaths, dear Kate. See what Isa writes to me: “My grandfather suffers continually more and more from fearful pain and extreme weakness. His patience and resignation are admirable. We pray together; I read him the Imitation; the Sick Man’s Day, by Ozanam, which Lizzy has translated for me, since your friendly kindness made me acquainted with EugÉnie de GuÉrin; also a book most effectually consoling, and to which my grandfather listens with tears. We make Novenas. He has received the ‘Bread of the strong,’ and the help of Heaven cannot fail this manly soul, who has passed through life so nobly.” Jenny has lost her sister-in-law—another house disorganized and without its soul. The little nephew is given to the two sisters, who are going to bring him up and educate him; and Jenny, who had a horror of Latin, is going to learn it in order to lessen its difficulties to the pretty darling. Mother St. AndrÉ is in heaven. It makes my heart bleed to think of the grief of Mother St. Maurice. It is so cruel a sorrow to lose one’s mother, and such a mother—an exceptionally holy soul, friend of the saintly foundress, destined by Providence to such great things; who has known the brightest joys and the most deadly sorrows, seeing her children die after she had given them up to God. What holy joy gladdened her soul on that day when, herself a religious, she beheld her two daughters clothed in the livery of Christ, and her son, her third treasure, the third pearl in her maternal crown, a priest! What a family of chosen ones, and what sorrows! Oh! when this mother, at the same time austere and tender, was called upon to close her children’s eyes, were there not, side by side with the feelings of the Christian and the saint, those also of the wife and mother? Dear Kate, I can understand that a religious loves more deeply than other women. The love of God, sanctifying her affections and rendering them almost divine, communicates to them something of the infinite, which is not broken without indescribable suffering. I am writing to Mother St. Maurice. How much I pray God that He may console her—he, the Comforter above all others, who alone touches our wounds without wounding us still more! RenÉ is sending you a volume. The affection of all those who love you would fill many. May all good angels of holy affections protect you, dear Kate! February 26, 1868. Behold me with ashes on my brow—ashes placed there by the great bishop. “Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris.” But, O my soul! it is but the envelope of flesh and clay which must return to dust. The immaterial being escapes the corruption of Yesterday the dressed-up figures going about the streets were anything but attractive, but there were others elsewhere at which the angels would smile. M. l’AbbÉ Baunard, director of the catÉchisme of Sainte-Croix, a few days ago organized a lottery, with the produce of which some little girls, disguised as scullions, gave yesterday an excellent dinner to the old people of the Little Sisters of the Poor. This feast of charity was a charming idea, bringing together under the eye and the blessing of God smiling and happy childhood with suffering and afflicted decrepitude—poverty and riches, two sisters in the great Catholic communion. And the twins were not there! Our good curÉ in Brittany requested as a favor that they might make their First Communion in his church. The good abbÉ is preparing them for it, and the ceremony is fixed for the 2d of July, the Feast of the Magnificat. We are all in deep mourning for my Aunt de K——, and neither visit nor receive company this winter; thus we shall have more leisure for our different works. Adrien and Raoul were present at the funeral. My mother feels this death very much. Bought a pamphlet by the great bishop. It is admirable—worthy of Bossuet. What a portrait of the Christian Frenchwoman! What vehement and sublime indignation against those who would make this noble type disappear from our France! What nobility of soul! Oh! if all fathers, if all mothers, heard these accents, which proceed from a more than paternal heart, how they would reflect upon themselves, and long to become worthy of the mission entrusted to them by Providence. Poor France! what will become of her? I was glad to hear one of the vicaires of Sainte-Croix, M. Berthaud, in speaking of the horoscope of the impious against religion, say: “Prophecy for prophecy. I prefer to believe the words of the Count de Maistre, the noble genius who saw so deeply and so far into the events of the present time, and who said fifty years ago: ‘In a hundred years France will be wholly Christian, Germany will be Catholic, England will be Catholic; all the peoples of Europe will go into the basilica of St. Sophia at Constantinople to sing a Te Deum of thanksgiving.’” God grant it may be so! Lizzy announces to me the mourning of Isa, who is not well enough to write to me. “There is a yoke upon all the children of Adam.” These words of Holy Scripture often come into my mind as I see all around me darkened by mourning. Spes unica! Hope remains, and the love of God shows heaven open. Dear sister of my life, this letter, begun yesterday, is to contain yet a third funereal announcement: Nelly has been suddenly summoned from this world. I know how much you loved her. Thus this time of penitence opens for us. Dead!—Nelly, in her spring-time, her grace, her youth; dead, after a long and holy prayer, which had preceded a walk with Madame D——. Imagine the distress of this poor mother, roused from her sleep by the cry: “Mother, I think I am dying!” Mme. D—— rushes, terrified, into Nelly’s room; her child embraces her with only these words: “Adieu—on high—heaven!…” and expires. The whole town is in consternation. RenÉ wishes me to stop here. Adieu, dear Kate. March 5, 1868. I have been rather ill, dear Kate, and to-day I am beginning to get up. The doctor forbids me emotion, but as soon might he forbid me to live. Marcella has nursed me like a sister. Anna is growing stronger. How pretty she was, playing with her doll near my bed, silently and gravely, without any demonstrative gayety, but often raising her beautiful eyes to look at me! I have thus missed the two first Lenten sermons. RenÉ has never left me a moment. Dear, kind RenÉ! how thoughtful he is, even about the smallest details. A letter from Isa: still in bed; weak, very weak, but wishing to live, that she may be a comfort to her much-tried family. “Aunt D—— finds no peace but when she is with me. Oh! I can truly say with St. Augustine that the Christian’s life is a cross and martyrdom!” Hear what RenÉ was reading to me this morning: “Every Christian,” says Mgr. de SÉgur, “receives in baptism the all-powerful lever of faith and love, capable of moving more than the world. Its fulcrum is heaven; it is Jesus Christ himself, the King of Heaven, whose love brings him down into the heart of each one of his faithful. The prospect of eternity keeps us from fainting. How everything there will change its aspect! Tears will be turned into joy—a joy divine, eternal, infinite, ineffable, of which none can deprive us for ever.” May God guard you, dear Kate, and may he guard our Ireland, her cradles and her tombs! March 8, 1868. Beautiful sunshine; your Georgina in the drawing-room; RenÉ at the piano, making the children sing a quartette. This harmony penetrates my heart. All these deaths had overwhelmed me; I have now recovered my balance of mind. Oh! it is undeniably sad to see so many sister-souls disappear; but they go to God. Each day brings us nearer to the eternal reunion; and your Georgina says, with Mme. Swetchine, that “life is fair and happy, and yet more and more happy, fair, and full of interest.” Yesterday Monsignor preached at Saint-Euverte; I wished very much to go, but the wish was not reasonable. I must wait until Saturday for my ecstasy. Heard a strange bishop this evening. “I will give thee every good thing.” “The eye of man hath not seen, nor his ear heard, nor his heart conceived what God hath prepared for them that love him.” The preacher employed a profusion of words, thoughts, and images which interfered with his principal idea; and it was only with the greatest difficulty that one could keep hold of it under this overflow, this torrent, this avalanche of expressions, which, although rich and well chosen, were far too superabundant. Monsignor was there. How well he would have treated this fruitful subject! With what genius would he have depicted the immense suffering of man, who, being made for heaven, finds happiness nowhere upon earth, is never satisfied, whilst everything Lamartine describes this when he says: “Mon Âme est un rayon de lumiÈre et d’amour, Qui du flambeau divin dÉtachÉ pour un jour, De dÉsirs dÉvorants loin de Dieu consumÉe BrÛle de remonter À sa source enflammÉe!” Dear, sweet Kate, all the lovable little singing party salutes you. God be with you! March 11, 1868. Dear Kate, again there are separations and adieux! George and Amaury are entering La Trappe!—an unmistakable vocation, I assure you. Adrien and Gertrude are so far above nature since they have seen Pius IX. and suffered for him, that they gave their consent at once. Grandmother clasps her hands and utters the fiat of Job. Brothers and sisters wonder and admire. Happy family! All three chosen, all three marked with the seal of God! I should regret them, if I were their mother—so young, so handsome, rich in every gift of heart and understanding. O life of mothers!—Calvary and Thabor! I knew nothing of it; they feared I should feel it too much. We all went to Communion this morning, and this evening they leave us. What! have I not yet spoken to you about Benoni, who says my name so prettily, and who is growing superb? It is an unpardonable forgetfulness on my part. It was a pleasure to see this baby again, and his parents also, so sincere in their gratitude for the little that a kind Providence has allowed me to do for them! Evening.—They are gone. Adrien accompanies them; and Gertrude, whom I have just been to see, said to me simply: “Dear Georgina, now I can say Nunc dimittis. Will you thank God with me?” I knelt down by her side, breathless with admiration. O this scene of the adieux! Those two noble heads bent down to receive their grandmother’s blessing; the assembled family; the emotion of all; the last pure kisses—all this may be felt, but cannot be described. I know, I understand, how the Christian cannot render too much to God, who has given him all; but my heart is struck by the contrast between La Trappe and the world. On the one side austerities, silence, anticipated death, manual labor, and forgetfulness of earth; on the other a great name, a large fortune, easy access to any position, renown, and glory. Oh! how well they have chosen. How I love you, dear Kate! How I love Ireland! I speak of it to the children, and love to hear them say to me, as the multitudes of Ireland said to our great O’Connell: “Yes, we love it; we love Ireland!” March 14, 1868. Before going to rest, my beloved sister, I want to tell you that I was this morning at Saint-Euverte, and that I have heard the great bishop. Marcella was with me, especially happy, she said, because of the joy which she read in my looks. I sent back the horses, and we came home by the longest way, as the charming Picciola says, under a bright sun, which illuminated I am going to sleep, but first I wish to ascertain whether Anna is free from fever. Marcella was uneasy this evening. They are both asleep, beautiful enough to charm the angels. The little one’s breathing is calm and gentle. I prayed by her, placing myself also under the sheltering wing of the invisible Guardian. I salute yours, and embrace you, dearest Kate. March 16, 1868. “As on high, so also here below, to love and to be loved—this is happiness.” Oh! how truly he speaks, and how I realize it every day! Your tender affection, dearest Kate, that of RenÉ, and of all the kind hearts around me—this is heaven, or, at least, that which leads one thither. Mid-Lent, and the Feast of St. Joseph—this sweet and great saint, so powerful in heaven. O most glorious patriarch, who didst behold, and bear in thy arms the Messias desired by thy fathers, foretold by thine ancestor David and all the prophets, how favored wert thou of the Lord! Marcella said to me: “I have a particular devotion for St. Joseph, and a boundless confidence in him; I have often thought that he must have known a multitude of things about our Lord which no one has ever known.” O St. Joseph! remember those who invoke you in exile. What an admirable existence! What a long poem from the day when the rod of the carpenter blossomed in the Temple to that when Joseph expires in the arms of Jesus and Mary, the two whom every Christian would wish to have by him when on his death-bed! Never did any man receive a mission more divine than was entrusted by the Almighty to St. Joseph. I love to picture him to myself, grave, recollected, seraphic, accompanying Mary, that sweet young flower whom the angels loved to contemplate, leading her over the mountains to Hebron, to the abode of Elizabeth, then to Bethlehem and the Crib, then into Egypt—a long Evening.—Karl is here, dear Kate, more grave and saintly than ever; his feet on earth, his heart in heaven! He gives us a week. Adrien arrived at the same time—two souls formed to understand one another. Letters from Ireland, where Karl’s departure is causing general regret. We spoke of Ellen—an inexhaustible subject. Karl was moved as he listened to me; there are so many memories of my childhood to which those of Ellen are united, making them doubly sweet. Marcella, RenÉ, and Karl are wanting this letter to send to the post. Good-night, dear sister. March 21, 1868. Dear Kate, I send you my notes, freshly made; you will kindly return them to me, that I may send them off to Margaret. We are visiting the churches with Karl. Anna and all the dear little people salute Mme. Kate. God guard you from all harm, dear sister! March 25, 1868. Dearest Kate, what will you think of your Georgina getting the ConfÉrences aux Femmes du Monde O sweetest Virgin, what a most fair memory in your glory! Gabriel, one of the seven archangels continually at the feet of the Eternal, spreads his wings, and from the heights of the everlasting hills descends into the valleys of Judea. Celestial messenger, you doubtless cast a glance of pity on the abodes of opulence and the vanities of the world; or rather, you saw them not. Absorbed in your admiration at the mercy of the Almighty, you adored and gave thanks. And now a Virgin of Nazareth, in the tranquillity of prayer and love, is suddenly dazzled by an unknown light, and the archangel salutes her in the sublime words which will be repeated by Catholic hearts to all generations: “Ave, gratia plena!” O Mary! from this day forth you are our Mother, the Mother of our Salvation. O Handmaid of the Lord, humble and sweet Mother! obtain for my soul humility and love. Hail to the spring, the swallows, the periwinkles, all the renewal of nature! How good is God, to have made our exile so fair! Oh! how I enjoy everything, dear Kate. Presented Karl with the portrait of Ellen, painted from memory. His silent tears expressed his thanks. I have made him also sit for his likeness; it will be a precious remembrance of this true friend. Who knows whether we shall ever meet again in this world? Thus the days pass away, shared between regret and hope. The good abbÉ is delighted with the progress of his pupils. Anna grows visibly stronger. I am reading Dante with RenÉ. Ah! dearest, how magnificent it is. Marcella Love me always, dear Kate. March 28, 1868. Darling Kate, I send you my notes without adding anything, because we have Karl with us for only one more day. O these departures! Laus Deo always, nevertheless. March 30, 1868. Dear sister, Karl is gone! I am not sorry; I shall see him again, and he will then be nearer to God. How happy it is to feel that God is the bond of our souls! Yesterday, Sunday, his last in the life of the world, we went together to Sainte-Croix, where we heard a long sermon, a veritable encyclopÆdia: Godfrey de Bouillon at Jerusalem; Maria Theresa in Hungary, with the shout of the magnates in French and in Latin; the proud Sicambre listening to the Bishop Remy; St. Elizabeth on the throne, and then in penury; St. Thomas writing sublime pages before his crucifix; St. Francis of Assisi receiving the stigmata; St. Bernard; St. Catherine of Genoa; the Crusaders; Magdalen at the foot of the cross; Veronica wiping the face of our Saviour, etc., etc., appearing in it by turns. A day of unspeakable serenity. Karl sang the LÆtatus for his adieu. Dearest sister, how happy Ellen must be! You will see Karl. Tell me if you do not find him transfigured. We read, during his too short stay with us, the life of Mme. St. Notburg, by M. de Beauchesne—another saint in Protestant Germany, a French saint, though her tomb is there. I have asked Karl to take you this book; read, and see how excellent it is! And so the month of St. Joseph is ended! O protector of temporal things! guard well all whom I love. Marcella, my winning Marcella, is a poet; I ought to have told you this. I gave her a surprise: her most feeling lines have been printed in a newspaper, which I managed to put before her eyes. She blushed and grew pale—the first emotion of authorship. Poor heart! for so long severed from love, and which so soon lost that whereon it leaned. “O Madonna mia! how good God is,” she often repeats with ecstasy in admiring her beautiful little Anna, who grows wonderfully. I think this child was too much kept in a hot-house, when she had need of air, space, and movement. I can understand how her mother may well doat on her: she has a way of looking at you, kissing you, and of bending her forehead to be kissed, quite irresistible. Carissima, how I love her, and how fondly I love my Kate! RenÉ is writing to you; everybody would like to do the same. April 3, 1868. Feast of the Compassion. Stabat Mater Dolorosa! Have I mentioned to you the new frescoes of Recouvrance, dear Kate?—the birth and espousals of the Blessed Virgin. The first does not impress me; but the second! The high-priest is admirable; his purple robe gleams like silk. Mary is not so beautiful as in Raphael’s pictures. I have undertaken a painting on ivory which I wish to send to the amiable ChÂtelaine in Brittany, whom I think you cannot have forgotten. I am making Mgr. de SÉgur, author of the poem of St. Francis, has just written a tragic poem, St. Cecilia. What a fine subject, and how well the writer has been inspired! Isa must read it. You see whether my life is occupied or not. God, the poor, the family, friendship, study—my mind is full! The language of Homer no longer appears to me so difficult as at first. But Latin—oh! this is charming, and I delight in it; in the first place, because I am still at rosa and rosarium. What a head Marcella has! She has learnt everything, and sings like Nilsson. If only you could hear her in La Juive! This is profane music; but we have pious also, and Marcella enjoys Hermann. This note will be slipped into the envelope destined for Karl. Lizzy announces to me her visit. Good-night, carissima sorella. April 5, 1868. And so we are in Holy Week, my sister. I have here a blessed palm, sweet and gracious souvenir of the Saviour’s entry into Jerusalem. O King of Peace! bring peace to souls. Have pity upon us; assemble together at thy holy table both the prodigal sons and the faithful; grant peace to thy church! To all troubled hearts, to all those who suffer, to those who are oppressed and persecuted, give the hope of heaven—of that eternal dwelling where all tears will be wiped away, where all lips will drink of the stream of delights, and where every heart will receive the fulfilment of its desires. Why does Lent come to an end? I could listen for ever to the lovely chants of the Miserere, the Attende, the Stabat Mater, and the Parce Domine. No sermon, to my mind, equals the Stabat Mater, sung alternately by the choir-boys, with their pure, melodious, aËrial voices, and the men who fill the nave, and who, varying in their social position, fortune, and a thousand things besides, are one in the same faith, the same hope, and the same charity. Dear Kate, I shall send you on the day of Alleluias my journal of the week. Thanks for having allowed me to come to you as usual during this Lent; to read you and talk to you is a part of my life. A thousand kisses, my very dearest. April 6, 1868. My sweet sister, I have just come in with RenÉ from Mass. We communicated side by side, like the martyrs of the catacombs. As we came out, and while still under the deep impression of the presence of God, RenÉ proposed to me a sacrifice—that of not speaking to each other, at any rate without absolute necessity, during this week. My heart felt rather full—it will cost me so much; but how could I help consenting? Oh! but how love longs to speak to the object loved. I shall have to throw myself into a whirl of things, and absorb myself in them, that I may not find this privation quite insupportable. 7th.—Yesterday evening, at Sainte-Croix, Monsignor spoke for about twenty-five minutes. I was too far off to hear, but I was none the less happy. I am reading Mgr. de SÉgur; his teaching is gentle and loving, even when he speaks of self-renunciation and sacrifice. Nothing is more comforting than his little work, Jesus Living in Us. I remarked this thought of Origen’s: “Thou art heaven, and thou wilt go to heaven!”—Confession. How 8th.—Letter from Sarah, full of joy; her sister Betsy is to be married on the 22d, and wishes for me to be at her wedding. Kind friend! God grant that she may be happy! Until this present time, with the exception of the terrible strokes of death which have fallen not far from her on the friends of her childhood, her life has been calm and happy, almost privileged. She has never left her mother. Marcella, Lucy, and I are preparing an Easter-tree for all the darlings. I have been studying very much lately; Marcella mia assures me that I make wonderful progress. Benoni does not expect to share in the festivity, but he must; and how joyfully he will clap his hands at the sight of the playthings hung there for him! My paralytic told me yesterday that she would like to make her Easter Communion next Thursday—that is, to-morrow. Gertrude and I must rise with the dawn to make an escort for the gentle Jesus, the Comforter of the infirm and poor. Ah! dear Kate, how much I should dislike the life of a Chartreux. To see RenÉ and not be able to speak to him, when I feel such a want to pour out my thoughts to him, is a martyrdom. So far, thanks to our good angels, we have not been found out, and we have not said a single word to each other. 9th.—What emotions! My poor and venerable paralytic has just died in my arms. I return to pass the night by her. Gertrude undertook to obtain RenÉ’s permission. She communicated this morning in ecstasy, and blessed us afterwards. As I observed something unusual about her, I begged Marianne to go several times. A long walk to the different sepulchres in the churches with our train of little angels, and without RenÉ, who avoids me, from which we returned home at six o’clock. I found a line from Marianne, entreating me to join her as soon as possible; so I hurried away with Gertrude. The dear sufferer had scarcely a breath of life left. “I was waiting for you that I might die.… Thanks!… May God reward you!” Dear Kate, I was ready to drop from fatigue, but I know not what exciting power sustains me. 10th.—O Christ Jesus! who saidst: “When I shall be lifted up from the earth, I will draw all unto me,” draw all hearts for ever unto thyself. RenÉ passed the night by the lowly couch with me, and we came home together, still without speaking. This evening, at Sainte-Croix, heard Mgr. Dupanloup. The force and authority of his language make a deep impression upon his hearers. “There is in Christianity everything which can naturally go to the heart of man.” How he speaks of the Crib and of Calvary; of the Mother whom we find with the Holy Child at Bethlehem, and again with him upon the cross! When the clock struck eight, he stopped. How eloquent he is! He quoted our Mgr. la CarriÈre preached an hour and a half. Remarked this passage: “Pilate washes his hands. Oh! there is blood upon those hands. Were the waters of the Deluge to pass over them, still would they keep the stain of blood!” This reminds me of Macbeth, where, looking on his murderous hands, he says: “What hands are here? Ha! they pluck out mine eyes. Will all great Neptune’s ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red.” 11th.—Was present at the funeral of this saintly friend, whom God had given me through HÉlÈne. Looked through Marcella’s manuscript books, in one of which she wrote a year ago: “Cymodoceus said: ‘When shall I find again my bed of roses, and the light of day, so dear to mortals?’ And all this harmonious page put in his mouth by St. Teresa used to say: “The soul ought to think that there is nothing in the world but God and herself.” RenÉ must have meditated on that. 12th.—Alleluia! dear Kate, Alleluia! No more penance, no more of this torturing silence which so resembles death; but now talking to each other without ceasing, songs, letters, walks—and always prayers. What will you think of my week, carissima? Oh! I could not have borne it longer; I found RenÉ too holy for my unworthiness. Not a word, not a look. It was like the visible presence of my guardian angel. How delightful it is to hear his voice again! Went to the Mass for the general communion of the men; no spectacle on earth can be more admirable or more touching. This scene was worth far more than a sermon—this multitude of men, so perfectly attentive and earnest, singing heartily the sweet hymns they all had sung on the day of their First Communion! And what joy to see in this Christian assembly those to whom I am bound by affection, and to feel myself united in the grand fraternity of the faith to all these happy guests at the Lord’s table! The benediction was all that can be imagined of religious and magnificent. What singing, what alleluias, making one think of those of the angels! Why do such days Benoni was out of himself with joy. The meditative Anna jumped about in her delight. The festivity was perfect, and, to crown it, news arrived which I will send you as my adieu. Margaret is at the summit of happiness, the Doux berceau qu’une main jalouse Orne et visite À chaque instant, Charme des songes d’Épouse Doux nid, oÙ l’espÉrance attend. has received the little stranger sent by Heaven. Let us bless God, dear Kate! Alleluia! Christ is risen! Happy they who live and die in his love! Alleluia! April 16, 1868. Thanks, dear sister! I have translated Mgr. Dupanloup at Saint-Euverte for Isa. Lizzy is better; they had been too much alarmed about her, but they are expecting us there. Lord William sends us the most pressing and affectionate appeals. Sarah also writes to me, gravely this time: “My sister’s marriage will separate her from us. Two sisters will henceforth be wanting to this family group; the one, and that the happiest, enkindled with love for the Best-Beloved of her soul, left the world for God and his poor, and, shortly afterwards, the poor for eternity; the other is going into Spain.” Imagine Margaret’s joy! Dear, sweet friend, how, with her, I bless God! “No baptism without Georgina.” Oh! how I long to embrace the dear little creature, to whom I send my guardian angel a hundred times a day. I am so anxious he should live! Walk in the country, alone with RenÉ, who read me some letters from Karl, George, and Amaury; the latter will write to their uncles no more. What detachment! RenÉ read to me also this beautiful passage from Madame Swetchine from the notes of HÉlÈne: “The day of the Lord is not of those days which pass away. Wait for it without impatience; wait, that God may bless the desires which lead you toward a better life, more meritorious and less perilous; wait, that he may give abundant work to your hands from henceforth laborious, for the opportunity of labor is also a grace by which the good-will of the laborer is recompensed. Let not your delays and miseries trouble you; wait, learn how to wait. Efforts and will, means and end—submit all to God.” It is not Monsignor who will preach the panegyric. The great bishop waits until next year. It appears that various beatifications are about to be taken under consideration, amongst others those of Christopher Columbus and Joan of Arc. The first discovered a world, the second saved France by delivering it from a foreign yoke—living as a saint and dying as a martyr; the former, a marvellous genius, was tried and persecuted, like everything which is specially marked with the seal of God in this world. I have seen persons smile when any one spoke before them of the possibility of the canonization of Joan of Arc. What life, however, was more extraordinary and more miraculous? Would this shepherdess of sixteen years old, so humble, gentle, and pious, have quitted her hamlet and her family for the stormy life of camps, without the express will of God, manifested to her by the voices? Poor Joan! How Adrien has given me the history of Christopher Columbus in English. You are aware that this son of Genoa, this heroic discoverer, wore the tunic and girdle of the Third Order when he landed on that shore, so long dreamed of, which gave a new world to the church of God. It is said that this great man had at times ecstasies of faith and love. What glory for the family of the patriarch of Assisi! Edouard assured me yesterday that Raphael and Michael Angelo were also of the Third Order. This austerity appears naturally to suit the painter of the Last Judgment, but I cannot picture to myself the young, brilliant, and magnificent Sanzio in a serge habit. What centuries were those, my sister, when power and greatness and splendor sought after humility as a safeguard, and followed in the footsteps of the chosen one of God, who, in the lofty words of Dante, had espoused on Mount Alverna noble Poverty, who had had no spouse since Jesus Christ had died on Calvary! Poetry was not wanting to the crown of the Seraph of Assisi, himself so admirable a poet. Lopez de Vega was also of the Third Order. Adrien says that our age has had its Francis of Assisi in the heavenly CurÉ d’Ars, who is perhaps the greatest marvel in this epoch, fertile as it is in miracles. How much we regret not having seen him, especially as we passed so near! Picciola has the measles. This pretty child is attacked by a violent fever; it is sad to see her, but she will not suffer herself to be pitied. “Our Lord suffered much more,” she says. “What is this?” You see, sister, that hereabouts the children of the saints have not degenerated. Anna, who had the measles last year, faithfully keeps the sick child company. I overheard them talking just now. “Would you like to get well quickly?” asked the Italiana. “Oh! no, I am not sorry to suffer a little to prepare for my First Communion.” “For my part, though, I pray with all my heart that you may soon get up; it is too sad to see you so red under your curtains, whilst the sun is shining out there.” “Listen to me, dear: ask the good God to help me to suffer well, without my mother being troubled about it. We are not to enjoy ourselves in this world, as M. l’AbbÉ says, but to merit heaven.” I slipped away, lest my tears should betray me: I am afraid that Picciola may also leave us. Pray for your Georgina, dear Kate. April 22, 1868. The wish of this little angel has been granted: her measles torture her; there are very large spots which greatly perplex the doctor. She is as if on fire, but always smiling and thoughtful, and so grateful for the least thing done for her! What an admirable disposition she has! Last night the femme de chambre, whose duty it was to watch by her, went to sleep, and the poor little one was for six hours without drinking; the doctor having ordered her to take a few spoonfuls of tisane every quarter of an hour. It was the sleeper who told us of this; and when I gently scolded the darling Picciola, she whispered to me: “Dear aunt, I heard you mention what the good gentleman said What do you say to this heavenly science, this perfect love, in a child of twelve years old? O my God! is she too pure for this world? They assure me that there is no danger, but my heart is in anguish. Kate, I do so love this child! It is to-day that Betsy becomes madame. What a day for her! Yesterday she was still a young girl, to-morrow will begin her life as a wife; she will begin it by sacrifice. Oh! why must we quit the soft nests which have witnessed our childhood and our happiness? Why comes there an hour when we must bid adieu to those who, with their love and care, protected our first years? Poor mothers! you lose your much-loved treasures; they will some day belong to others. PÈre Gratry was received at the Academy on the 26th of March. On his reception he made a magnificent discourse. He was presented by Mgr. Dupanloup. “Gentlemen,” said the father on beginning his address, “it is not my humble person, it is the clergy of France, the memories of the Sorbonne and the Oratory, which you have intended to honor in deigning to call me to the seat occupied by Massillon. “Voltaire, gentlemen, who occupied the same, thus finds himself, in your annals, between two priests of the Oratory, and his derision of mankind is enclosed between two prayers for the world, as his century itself will also be, one day in our history, enclosed between the great seventeenth century and the age of luminous faith which will love God and man in spirit and in truth.” Kate, dearest, amica mia, pray for us. April 26, 1868. She is better; the ninth day was good. God be praised! Last night, while watching by the sweet child, I turned over Marcella’s manuscript. How the thorns have wounded her! Oh! it is a nameless grief, at the age of twenty years, when the soul is overflowing with life and love, to be forced to shrink within one’s self, to hide one’s sufferings and joys, and repress all the ardor of youth which is longing to break forth. Everywhere in these rapidly-written pages I find this prayer: “Lord, grant me the love of the cross; give me the science of salvation! St. Bonaventure used to say that he had learnt everything at the foot of the crucifix; St. Thomas, when he did not understand, was wont to go and lean his powerful head against the side of the tabernacle; and Suarez, who devoted eight hours a day to study and eight to prayer, loved to say that he would give all his learning for the merit of a single Ave Maria. My God, my God! will the desires which thou hast implanted within me never be realized? Must I lead always a wandering and isolated existence, beneath distant skies, mourning my country and my mother, and seeing around me nothing which could in some little measure replace these two blessings? Must the sensitiveness of my thoughts and feelings be hourly wounded? Lord, thy will be done! And if this is to be my cross, then give me strength to bear it lovingly, even to the end, until the blessed time when thy merciful Providence shall reunite me to my mother!” My beloved Kate, RenÉ is writing to you, and I send this sheet God guard you, my second mother! April 30, 1868. Complete and prosperous convalescence—laus Deo! I sent you a few words only, dear Kate, on the morning of the 26th. This was a most happy day. Heard three Masses; received, with deep joy, him who is the Supreme Good. It was the Feast of the Adoration. The cathedral was splendid. Sermon by M. Berthaud on the Real Presence. It contained some admirable passages, especially on Luther and the Mass of the Greeks. On the 27th was at the Benediction. Heard a Quid Retribuant and Regina Coeli which carried one away. In the evening RenÉ read with me a page of HÉlÈne’s journal; I should like to enshrine all the thoughts of this exquisite soul. Last year, at Paris, she wrote the following: “Was present this morning at the profession of Louise de C——. Sermon by the PÈre G——. I was much moved when the sisters sang the De Profundis whilst Sister St. Paul, prostrate under the funeral pall, consecrated to God for ever her being and her life; then the priest said aloud: ‘Arise, thou who art dead! Go forth from among the dead!’ Happy death! Henceforth Louise lives no more for the world; it is no longer anything to her. She is here below as if alone with God, and with God alone. Happy, says Pope, the spotless virgin who, ‘the world forgetting,’ is ‘by the world forgot.’ O religious life! how admirable and divine. I remember that a few years ago, in the youthful and poetic ardor of my enthusiastic soul, I wondered that the world was not an immense convent, that all hearts did not burn with the love of Jesus, and thought it strange that any should affiance themselves to man instead of to Christ. What disappointments and misery are in all terrestrial unions! Even in such as are sanctified and blessed is there not the shadow which, on one side or another, darkens all the horizon of this world? No union could be ever more perfect than that of Alexandrine and Albert, and Alexandrine had ten days of perfect happiness, of unmixed felicity—ten days; and afterwards, how many tears for this admirable wife by her suffering Albert, and, later, over his tomb! O joys of this world! do you deserve the name? “My family has been greatly privileged hitherto, so united, so happy! But I am going away, mixing wormwood with the honey in my mother’s cup. How Aunt Georgina will also suffer! O grief to cause so many griefs! This evening I went to Ernestine’s with mamma. The mother and two daughters were magnificent—just ready to go to the ball. What a contrast! This morning the Virgin of the Lord, this evening the world and its pomps. Mme. de V—— looked like a queen; my two friends were in clouds of tulle. May all the angels protect them! Are there angels at a ball? Oh! it is there above all that we need to be guarded. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God!” Dear Kate, you can understand how such reading as this consoles Gertrude. Oh! how good God is. We are going to have great festivities. The Concours RÉgional Good-night, dear Kate; I have studied so much to-day that my head feels heavy. Adieu, my dear heart, as Madame Louise used to say. May 3, 1868. The month dear to poets, and still dearer to pious hearts, is come. Three Masses, visits, a walk on the Mall, a family concert after the month of Mary—this, dearest, is my day. Yesterday RenÉ set out at dawn on an excursion with Adrien. They have a passion for these long walks through the woods. While waiting until Marcella could receive me, I plunged into the History of St. Paula, which my mother-in-law has given me. This beautiful book is written by M. l’AbbÉ Lagrange. A disciple of the great bishop is easily recognizable in these magnificent pages. St. Jerome, whom M. de Montalembert calls the lion of Christian polemics, is there fully portrayed. “This ardent soul which breathes of the desert.” Remarked this passage in the introduction: “God has not bestowed all gifts upon them” (women), “nor spared them all weaknesses; but it is the privilege of their delicate and sensitive natures that the faith, when it has penetrated them, not only enlightens but enkindles them—it burns; and this sacred gift of passion and enthusiasm carries them on to wondrous heights of virtue.” And elsewhere: “Will not the accents of St. Jerome, filled as they are, according to the expression of an illustrious writer, with the tears of his time, wonderfully impress souls wearied by the spectacles with which we are surrounded, and which have within them, as the poet says, the tears of all things? For those who have other sadnesses and other tears, inward sorrows, hidden wounds, some of those sorrows of which life is full—these, at least, will not weary of contemplating a saint who has herself suffered so much, and who was transfigured in her sufferings because she had the secret of knowing how to suffer, which is knowing how to love.” Do you not seem to hear Mgr. Dupanloup in this? “There are times when a struggle is necessary, and when, in spite of its bitterness and dangers, we must plunge into it, cost what it may. No doubt that, as far as happiness is concerned, tranquillity and repose would be far preferable—repose, allowable for timid hearts incapable of defending a cause and holding a flag, or of comprehending a wide range of view, or the generosity of militant souls; but we ought to know how to respect and honor those who engage in the combat—often at the price of unspeakable inward sorrows, and even at times giving evidence of weakness and human passion—in the cause of truth and justice.” How fine it is! I want to read this book with RenÉ. Reading is a delightful relaxation. I sometimes read to my mother, who finds herself more solitary since I became so studious, and since the house is changed into an academy. Highly educated herself, she takes much interest in our studies, but is quickly fatigued. What pleasure it is to sit at her feet on a footstool which her kind hands have worked for Picciola is pressing me to go out. Good-by, dearest. May 8, 1868. What splendid festivities, dear sister! Sumptuous carpets and hangings of velvet have been sent from the crown wardrobe. The cathedral resembled the vestibule of heaven; and yet I prefer the austere grandeur of the bare columns to all this pomp. It was a beautiful sight, nevertheless, with the paintings, the banners, the escutcheons. It was imposing, but the presence of the Creator was forgotten in the vanities of earth; people were talking and laughing in this cathedral, usually full of subdued light and of silence. The panegyric was equal to the occasion. I was delighted. What eloquence! It was the AbbÉ Baunard, the gentle author of the Book of the First Communion and of the Perseverance, who pronounced it. This quiet city is in a state of agitation not to be imagined; the streets are encumbered with strangers, and there is noise enough to split one’s head. Last year there was a general emulation to point out to me the minutest details of the fÊte; to-day Marcella was the heroine. I like to see her, radiant, enchanted, eager, while the delicate Anna clings to my arm, her large eyes sparkling with pleasure. We are so numerous that we divide, in order to avoid in some degree the looks of curiosity. My dear Italians are much disputed for. The twins care no more to be here. Brittany has for them an invincible attraction. Happy souls, who are about to live their fairest day! Pray for them and for us, dear Kate! May 10, 1868. Dearest, the sovereigns are come and gone. Did I tell you about the Concours RÉgional? Every day I take the little people thither; there is a superb flower-show, orange-trees worthy of Campania, etc. M. Bougaud pronounced a discourse upon agriculture, and with admirable fitness quoted our Lamartine: “Objets inanimÉs, avez-vous donc une Âme, Qui s’attache À notre Âme et la force d’aimer?” But I shall see you soon—a happiness worth all the rest, dear Kate. Shall I own to you that I regret Orleans because of Sainte-Croix, Notre Dame des Miracles, and our poor, besides so many things one feels but cannot express in words? Benoni cries as soon as he hears us speak of going away. I observed in the Annales the following gloomy words by M. Bougaud: “Gratitude is in great souls, but not in the vulgar; and as the soul of human nature is vulgar, it is only allowable in childhood to reckon upon the gratitude of men; but when we have had a nearer view of them, we place our hopes higher, since only God is grateful.” May God preserve me from learning this truth by experience! Hitherto I have found none but good hearts, the poor of Paradise! Margaret presses me affectionately to make all diligence to go and embrace her baby. Isa is looking Dear Kate, the twins are just come to me as a deputation to say that I am waited for, to go in choir to the exhibition of the Society of the Friends of Art at the HÔtel de Ville; it appears that there is no one just now.… Later I will return to you. I will not conclude without giving you another quotation from M. Lagrange: “Great sacrifices, which touch all that is most delicate, tender, and profound in the heart, even to the dividing asunder of the soul, according to the words of Holy Scripture, possess a sternness which cannot be measured or even suspected beforehand. There is a strange difference between wishing to make a sacrifice and making it. In vain we may be ready and resolute; the moment of accomplishment has always something in it more poignant than we had thought; the stroke which cuts away the last tie always gives an unexpected wrench. Every great design of God here below would be impossible, if the souls whom he chooses were always to let themselves be stopped by human obstacles.” Kate, HÉlÈne, Ellen, Karl, Georgina, have felt this! Did I mention to you the impression made on me by a story in the Revue, “Flaminia”? It is singularly beautiful, and quite in agreement with my belief. Would you believe that here there are Jews and a synagogue, and also an “Evangelical Church”? They say that the minister is very agreeable, and that he goes into society. Protestants inspire me with so much compassion! A Protestant boarding-school was pointed out to me. What a pity that one cannot snatch away these poor young girls from a loveless worship! Good-by, dear Kate, until the day after to-morrow. RenÉ sends all sorts of kind messages. May 25, 1868. Our oasis is resplendent, dear sister. Your good angel Raphael has sweetly protected us; not the smallest inconvenience; the delicious sensation that our sister-souls are more united than ever. To be alone with RenÉ, who is worth a thousand worlds—what delight! The air was pure, the country bright with fresh verdure, the birds joyous. Charming journey! At Tours a letter from Gertrude apprises me that all the W—— family is in villeggiatura at X——. We hasten thither, and are received like welcome guests. What a happy meeting!—an enchantment which lasted two days, at the end of which we bade a tearful adieu. But the arrival here—oh! what heart-felt joy! Everybody out to meet us, with flowers, shouts, and vivats. Dearest Kate, earth is too fair! Marcella is in love with Brittany, our coasts and wild country-places. Everything around us is budding or singing; the children run about in the fields of broom. We read, we play music; and our poor are not forgotten. The twins are preparing themselves with great earnestness. M. l’AbbÉ gives them sermons, to which we all listen with much profit. Kate, do you remember my First Communion? Good-by, carissima. May 28, 1868. RenÉ is gone away to see his farms. Why am I so earthly that a single hour without him should When will heaven be ours, that the joys of meeting again may never end? We are preparing some beautiful music for Sunday. Why are not you to be there with your sweet voice, dear sister? My mother would have liked to see you, but she made the sacrifice of not doing so that we might have the pleasure of a tÊte-À-tÊte. What do you think of that! Dear, kind mother! Do you know she had a charming and idolized daughter, who died at the age of sixteen? She died here, where everything speaks of her; and it is for this reason that Mme. de T—— likes to return hither, and goes daily to the cemetery. I am told that I resemble her, this soul ascended to heaven, and every one finds it natural that there should be the perfect intimacy which exists between my mother and myself. Marcella and Greek are waiting for me. Long live old Homer, long live Brittany, long live Kate! Evening.—It is ten o’clock, and RenÉ is not come in. Adrien and Edouard are gone to wait for him, while I am dying of anxiety. Prayers without him seemed to me so sad! My mother also is uneasy. Where is he? Oh! where can he be? 29th.—The night has been a long one. Adrien and Edouard came back after having sought for him in all the neighborhood. The servants were sent out in different directions. I went in and out, listening to the slightest noise.… Nobody! My mother sent every one away and was praying. Impossible to remain in any one place. I was full of the most terrible conjectures. At last, at four o’clock in the morning, I hear a carriage. It is he! it is RenÉ—poor RenÉ, covered with dust, more anxious than we, on account of our alarm. Would you like to know the cause of this delay? It is like the parable of the Good Samaritan. RenÉ met with a poor old man who had hurt himself in cutting wood, and, after binding up the wound with some herbs and a pocket-handkerchief, he put him in the carriage and took him back to his cottage, which was at a great distance off. There he found a dying woman, who asked for a priest. To hasten to the nearest village and fetch the curÉ was RenÉ’s first thought. There was no sacristan, so RenÉ took the place of one, and passed the whole night between the dying woman and the wounded man. The good curÉ had other sick to attend to, but at two o’clock he arrived, and relieved God’s sentinel You may imagine whether I am not very happy at this history. And yet I suffered very much; I feared everything, even death. Love us, dear Kate. TO BE CONTINUED. “Soft cradle which a jealous hand Adorns and visits every hour, Charm of the wife’s imaginings, Soft nest, whereby hope waits.” Several articles have been published in The Catholic World on the subject of which this paper is to treat—the condition of the Sovereign Pontiff consequent on the seizure of Rome, which thereby became the capital of the kingdom of Italy. As these articles marked the successive stages in the novel relations of the Head of the church, they could not fail to excite the interest of our readers. We look to a like interest, and invite it, for the present article, because it tells of new phases, and of the logical results of the schemes which their authors were bold enough to say were initiated “to secure the spiritual independence and dignity of the Holy See.” With this cry the attempts against Rome were begun, were carried on, and their success finally secured. So familiar, in fact, is this profession of zeal for the welfare of the Sovereign Pontiff, that we do not stop to cite one of the thousand documents in which it appeared, from the letter of Victor Emanuel, presented to Pius IX. by Count Ponza di San Martino, down to the instructions of the ministers to their subordinates or the after-dinner speeches of Italian politicians. Nor need we persuade ourselves that no one believed such an assertion any more than did those who first uttered it, nor than do we, who know what a hollow pretext it was and what fruit it has produced. Twenty years of revolution in Italy, and a vast ignorance of political matters, of the relations between church and state, rendered many in Italy and elsewhere ready dupes of the cunning devisers of Italian independence and clerical subjugation. These went with the current; and though not a few have had their eyes opened, and now deplore the excesses against religion they are doomed to witness, they are impotent to remedy what they aided in bringing about, and behold their more determined and less scrupulous companions hurry onward with the irresistible logic of facts. Now and then some voice even among these latter is heard above the din, asking: Dove andiamo?—Whither are we going? That is a question no one can answer. The so-called directors of revolutionary movements often look with anxiety at the effects of the raging passions they have let loose; but as for guiding them permanently, that is out of the question, for they have a way of their own. The skilful manipulators of revolution ride with the tide; they now and then see a break by which the waters may be diverted, and they succeed in making them take that course, but stop them they cannot. They can only keep a sharp look-out for what comes next, and trust to fortune to better matters for themselves or others. And so it is just now with the state of Italy. Things are taking their logical course, and every one who can lay claim to a little knowledge of politics and a moderate share of common sense will say what Cavour, in perhaps more favorable circumstances, remarked: “He is a wise statesman who can see two weeks ahead.” We propose, therefore, to confine our remarks to the condition of the Sovereign Pontiff at the present moment; to the consequent necessary examination of the relation of the state with the church; and to a look into the future, as far as events will justify us. What is the condition of the Pope? Is he a prisoner or is he not? We had better start out with establishing what the word prisoner means; otherwise some misunderstanding may arise. Webster gives us a triple meaning of it. According to him, it means “a person confined in prison; one taken by an enemy; or a person under arrest.” Ogilvie, besides the above, adds as a meaning “one whose liberty is restrained, as a bird in a cage.” Let us see if any of these meanings apply to the condition of the Pope; for if any one of them do, then the Pope is a prisoner. The Holy Father, in his letter to the bishops immediately after Rome was taken by the Italian army, declared himself to be sub hostili dominatione constitutus—that is, subjected to a power hostile to him. And this is the fact; for friendly powers do not come with an army and cannon to batter down one’s gates and slay one’s faithful defenders. Any one who is taken by a power that, like the Italian government, did batter down walls and kill his defenders, it seems to us, looking at the matter calmly, would be declared by thinking people everywhere sub hostili dominatione constitutus—subjected to a hostile power. After a course like this one might as well say that Abdul Aziz was made to abdicate his throne, and put out of the way—suicided, as the phrase goes—to farther his own interests, as to assert that Pius IX. was dethroned and deprived of the free exercise of the prerogatives he lays claim to in order to secure his independence and protect his freedom of action. Under this title, then, of “having been taken by an enemy,” Pius IX. is a prisoner. But it is said Pius IX. is not in a prison; he is in the splendid palace of the Vatican, with full liberty to come out when he will. With due respect to the sincerity of many who say this, we beg leave Again, a further effect of Pius IX.’s leaving the Vatican would be trouble in the city. Had we not facts to prove this, there might be many who would doubt it. On occasion of the Te Deum, on the recurrence of the anniversary of his elevation and coronation, in June, 1874, the Sovereign Pontiff, who had been present, unseen, in the gallery above the portico of St. Peter’s, on reaching his apartments chanced momentarily to look from the window at the immense crowd in the piazza. His figure, clad in white, against the dark ground of the room behind him, attracted the attention of some one below and excited his enthusiasm. His cry of Viva Pio Nono, Pontifice e Re! had a magical effect. It was taken up by the thousands present, whose waving handkerchiefs produced the effect, to use the words of a young American poet present, of a foaming sea. In vain the agents of the government scattered through the mass of people—gend’armes and questurini—did their best to stop the demonstration and silence a cry guaranteed by law, but discordant to the liberal ear, and significant of opposition to their views. They could not succeed. They had recourse to the soldiery. A company of Bersaglieri was called from the barracks near by, who, after giving with their trumpets the triple intimation to Having thus shown that Pius IX. is a prisoner, we can safely draw the inference that the place in which circumstances oblige him to remain is his prison—prisoner and prison being correlative terms. He is “a prisoner in his own house,” though certainly we know that house was not built for penal purposes. But we have more than inference, logical as it is. We have facts to show that the same precautions were and still are used that it is the custom to adopt with regard to ordinary prisons. For example, it is well known that in the beginning of the Italian occupation of Rome the utmost surveillance was kept up on all going into or coming out from the Vatican. One met the Piedmontese sentinel at the entrance, and by him the government police; people were occasionally searched; and the guards had orders not to allow persons to show themselves from the windows or balconies of the palace. The lamented Mgr. de Merode, almoner to the Sovereign Pontiff, a soldier by early education, could hardly give credit to the facts that proved this. Full of indignation, he went himself to the spot, and from the balcony looked down upon the street below where the sentinel stood. He was at once saluted with the words, “Go back!” Again the command was repeated, and then the levelled rifle admonished the prelate that further refusal to obey was imprudent. The affair made a good deal of noise at the time, and the guards were removed from close proximity to the palace, remaining only a few hundred feet away. All things, then, considered, Pius IX. is a prisoner and the Vatican is his prison. But not only is the liberty of the Sovereign Pontiff directly interfered with in this way; he is trammelled also in purely spiritual matters. The Pope, the rulers of Rome say, may talk as he pleases in the Vatican, as we cannot prevent him, and he will not be put down; nay, he may even promulgate his decrees, encyclicals, and constitutions by putting them up as usual at the doors of the basilicas of St. Peter and St. John Lateran; but any one who dares to The first instance of this is the exaction of the royal exequatur. We cannot do better than cite the words of the able legal authority, Sig. A. Caucino, of Turin, who has lately written a series of articles on the law of guarantees, passed by the chambers and confirmed by the king, of which we are speaking. On this subject of the exequatur he writes: “After the discourse of the avvocato Mancini, on the 3d of May, 1875, and the ‘order of the day’ by the deputy Barazzuoli, no one wonders that the nature of the application of the law of guarantees has been changed, and that all the promises solemnly made when it was necessary to forestall public opinion, and promising cost nothing, have been broken. From that time to this the bishops named by the Pontiff, but not approved of by the royal government, have been put in the strangest and most unjust position in the world. It is hardly needful to recall that the first and principal guarantee in the law of May 13, 1871, was that by which the government renounced, throughout the whole kingdom, the right of naming or presenting for the conferring of the greater benefices (bishoprics, etc.) Well, after May, 1875, the bishops who were without the exequatur were treated with two weights and two measures: they are not to be considered as bishops with respect to the Civil Code and the code of civil procedure, of equity—and logically; but they are to be looked on as such with regard to the Penal Code, the code of criminal procedure, and the whole arsenal of the fiscal laws of the Italian kingdom.” Incredible, but true. Let us see the proofs. Mgr. Pietro Carsana, named Bishop of Como, instituted a suit against the Administration of the Demain to have acknowledged as exempt from conversion into government bonds, and from the tax of thirty per cent., a charitable foundation by the noble Crotta-Oltrocchi, assigned to the Bishop of Como for the time being, that the revenues of it might be used for missions to the people and for the spiritual retreat or exercises of the clergy. The Demain raised the question as to whether Mgr. Carsana had the character required for the prosecution of such a cause before the tribunal. The tribunal of Como was for the bishop; but the Court of Appeal of Milan decided in favor of the Demain, for It needs no great acumen to perceive how the Sovereign Pontiff is thus hampered in his jurisdiction. His chief aids are his bishops; but they are not free unless they subject themselves, against conscience, to the civil power. Every exequatur is an injustice to the church, no matter whether exacted by concordat or no. The church may submit under protest to the injustice, but the nature of the act of those requiring such submission does not change on that account. Hence it is clear that the Pope is at this moment most seriously hampered in the exercise of his spiritual jurisdiction. If to this fact of the exequatur we add the election of the parish priests by the people, favored by the government, the case becomes still clearer. But of this we shall speak fully at the end of the article. To the impediments put in the way of the exercise of the Sovereign Pontiff’s spiritual jurisdiction are to be added those of a material nature, resulting from the heavy pecuniary burdens he, his bishops, and his clergy are obliged to bear. The scanty incomes of the clergy of the second order are in many cases reduced to two-thirds, while living costs one-fifth more than it did before Rome was taken. The very extensive suffering, from poverty, stagnation of business, the necessity of supporting the schools of parishes and institutions established to supply the place of those suppressed by the government, or whose funds have gone into the abyss of public administration—all have the effect of keeping the people from giving as largely to the clergy as they used to give, although Besides this direct action on the Head of the church and on her pastors that interferes with their freedom, there are other modes of proceeding which we hardly know whether we are justified in styling indirect, so sure and fatal are their effects on the spiritual jurisdiction and power of the Pope. The first of these is the claim on the part of the state, enforced by every means in its power, to direct the education of the young. No education is recognized except that given by the state schools. Without state education no one can hold office under the government, no one can practise law or medicine, or any other liberal profession. Moreover, every youth, boy or girl, must undergo an examination before examiners deputed by the state. It stands to reason that no one can teach unless he have a patent or certificate from the state. Now, what does this mean? It means simply that the most powerful engine for moulding the mind of man, poisoning it, prejudicing it, giving it the bent one wants, is in the hands of the avowed enemies of the church; moreover, that those who are so acted on by this mighty agency are the spiritual subjects of Pius IX.; and that this is being done not only in all Italy, but especially in Rome. The most strenuous efforts are being made to remedy this evil, with a good deal of success; and the success will be greater farther on. But in the meantime a vast harm is done and a generation is perverted. The next of these indirect means is the conscription, which seizes on the young men even who have abandoned the world and embraced the ecclesiastical life. At first sight one may be inclined to think the damage done not so extensive, as only a certain percentage after all will be taken. Even were this so, the injustice done to the persons concerned, and the harm to the church, would not the less be real. The fact is that this course of the government affects a comparatively small number in time of peace; but in time of war the number remains no longer small. Besides, the uncertainty of being able to pursue their career must have a bad effect on young men, while the associations which they are obliged to see around them, if they undertake the year of voluntary service to escape the conscription, must often have a A late measure of the government has also a tendency to diminish the fervor of attachment in the people to their religion, and that measure is the prohibition of public manifestation of their belief outside the churches. A circular letter from the Minister of the Interior to the prefects of Italy forbids religious processions in the public streets. This in a Catholic country is a severe and deeply-felt blow at the piety of the people. Processions have always been one of the most natural and favorite ways of professing attachment to principles, and this is particularly true of religious processions. They have a language of their own that goes straight to the heart of the people. The discontinuance of them will have a dampening effect, on those especially who are a little weak; while those who go to church as seldom as possible, or rarely, will be deprived of a means of instruction that constantly served to recall to their minds the truths of religion; and instead of the enjoyment that came from beholding or assisting at some splendid manifestation of their faith, and from the accompanying festivities never wanting, will be substituted forgetfulness of religion and religious duties, the dissipation of the wine-shop and saloon, and those profane amusements, often of the most questionable character, that are beginning to be so frequent on days of obligation, offered to the masses at hours conflicting with those of religious ceremonies. What has especially shocked every unprejudiced person, even liberals and non-Catholics, is the prohibition of the solemn accompaniment of the Blessed Sacrament. Besides the ordinary carrying of the Viaticum to the sick, and occasional communion to those unable to come to the church, some three or four times a year the Blessed Sacrament was borne to the bedridden with much solemnity, the most respectable people of the parish taking part in the procession or sending those who represented them. It was always an imposing and edifying spectacle to Catholics. This has been put a stop to. In Frascati, where, after prohibition of public processions had been notified to all, the Blessed Sacrament was carried to the sick with only the ordinary marks of respect, that there might be no violation of the unjust and illegal order, there was an exhibition of the animus of the authorities that almost exceeds belief. The people, to honor the Blessed Sacrament, were present in greater numbers than usual, and, as is the custom, prepared to follow it to the houses of the sick persons. The government authorities determined to prevent them. Hardly had the priest come out of the church, with the sacred pix in his hands, when he was accosted by the police officer, was laid hold of by him, and made to come from under the canopy, which from time immemorial is used during the day for the ordinary visits for the communion of the sick at Frascati. He was permitted to go with some four or five assistants. The people persisted in following, whereupon Such is the state of things in Italy with respect to the Sovereign Pontiff and the church over which he rules: persecution, oppression, hate, are the portion of Catholics and their Head; protection, favoritism, and aid, that of all who are adversaries of the church, from the latest-come Protestant agents of the Bible societies of England or America to the most avowed infidel and materialist of Germany or France. A Renan and a Moleschott are listened to with rapture; a Dupanloup or a Majunke are looked on as poor fanatics who cling to a past age. We do not wish to weary our readers with further instances of tyrannical action; though readily at hand, we may dispense with them, for the matter cited above is enough for our purpose, and certainly speaks for itself. We simply ask, What prospect lies before us? What is the promise of the future? On such a foundation can anything be built up that does not tell of sorrow, of trouble, and of ruin? Of a truth no one who loves virtue and religion can look upon the facts without concern; and that concern for an earnest Catholic will increase a hundred-fold, if he take into consideration the plans just now showing themselves for the warfare of to-morrow. These prove the crisis to be approaching, and that far greater evils are hanging over the Papacy than yet have threatened it, demonstrating more evidently and luminously than words what a pope subject of another king or people means. Any one who is even a superficial Sig. Giuseppe Toscanelli is a deputy in the Italian parliament, and a man of so-called liberal views, an old soldier of Italian independence, and an old Freemason. He has the merit of seeing something of the inconsistency and injustice of the action of the authorities, in parliament and out of it, with regard to the church, is a ready speaker, and has the courage to say what he thinks, thus incurring the enmity of his fellow-Masons, some of whom, in 1864, in the lodge at Pisa, declared him unworthy of their craft, and cast him out of the synagogue. We are not aware that he troubles himself much about the matter, nor that he looks on himself as any the less an ardent supporter of united Italy. When the law of guarantees for the Sovereign Pontiff was up for discussion, Toscanelli said: “Report has it that in 1861 some public men of Lombardy conceived the idea of a national church, which they made known to Count Cavour, and urged him to bring it about; and that Count Cavour decidedly refused to do so. In 1864 this idea showed itself again, and a bill in accordance with it was presented in parliament. The civil constitution of the church was most strongly maintained by the Hon. Bonghi. At present we see papers, some most closely connected with the government, printing articles professedly treating of a national church, even to the point of going to the extremes Henry VIII. reached.” But not only papers favor the project. We have heard lately of cabinet ministers using the same language. The head of the late ministry, Sig. Marco Minghetti, did so at Bologna in a public speech. Yet he was the leader of the so-called moderate party. It is therefore not surprising that the recognized prince of Italian lawyers, Sig. Stanislas Mancini, the Minister of Public Worship of the present radical cabinet, should speak in the same style. We have a letter of his to a notorious person, Prota Giurleo, President of the Society for the Emancipation of the Clergy, vicar-general of the national church, in the LibertÀ Cattolica of August 2, 1876. It is worth translating: “It is scarcely necessary for me to say that I remembered very well the expressions used by me on that occasion, because they give faithful utterance to an old, lively, and deep feeling of my soul. “As minister I maintain the ideas and the principles I defended as deputy. Still, I did not conceal the fact that the greatest and most effectual measures were to be obtained only by way of legislation, without omitting to say, however, that by way of executive action something might be done. To-day, then, faithful to this order of ideas, I have no difficulty in opening my mind on each of the questions recapitulated in the memorandum. “1st. The first demand of the worthy society over which you preside was made to the Chamber of Deputies, in order that steps might be taken to frame a new law to regulate definitively the new relations between the state and the church, in accordance with the changed condition of the political power and of the ecclesiastical ministry. On this point I am happy to assure you that this arduous problem constitutes one of the most important cares, and will form part of study and examination, to which the distinguished and competent men called by me to compose the commission charged with preparing the law reserved by the eighteenth article of the law of May 13, 1871, for the rearrangement and preservation of ecclesiastical property, will have to attend. “2d. In the second place, this memorandum asks the revindication, for the clergy and people, of the right to elect their own pastors in all the grades of the hierarchy. You are not ignorant that such a proposition made by me in parliament, during the discussion of the above-mentioned law of May 13, 1871, relative to the nomination of bishops, did not meet with success, nor would there be reasonable hope, at present, of a different legislative decision. It results from this, therefore, that efforts in this direction must be limited to preparing by indirect ways the maturity of public opinion, which is wont, sooner or later, to influence the deliberations of parliament. The manifestation of the will of the people in the choice of ministers and pastors, that recalls the provident customs and traditions of the primitive church, to which the most learned and pious ecclesiastics of our day—it is enough to name Rosmini—earnestly desire to return, must first be the object of action to propagate the idea, in the order of facts, by spontaneous impulse, and by the moral need of pious and believing consciences; and afterward, when these facts become frequent and general, it will be the duty of the civil power to interfere to regulate them, and secure the sincerity and independence of them, without prejudice to the right of ecclesiastical institution. “Already some symptoms have shown themselves, and some examples have been had, in certain provinces of the kingdom, and I deemed it my duty not to look on them with aversion and distrust, but at the same time to reconcile with existing discipline regarding benefices all such zeal and the protection that could be given to the popular vote and to ecclesiastics chosen by it, not only by providing for these the means needed for the becoming exercise of their ministry, but also to benefit at the same time the people by works tending to their instruction and assistance. I will not neglect opportunities of aiding by other indirect measures the attainment of the same end. The future will show whether this movement, a sign of the tendencies of the day, may be able to exercise a sensible influence on religious society and claim the attention of the legislator. “3d. The same commission referred to above will be able to examine how, by means of opportune expedients, some of the dispositions of the forthcoming law on the administration of the ecclesiastical fund may be made serve to relieve and encourage the priests and laymen belonging to associations the aim of which is to fulfil scrupulously at one and the same time the duties of religion and of patriotism. Still, despite the fact “4th. In the fourth place, by this memorandum the demand is presented that one of the many churches in Naples, once conventual, be assigned to the society, endowing it with the property acquired by the laws affecting the title to such property of February 17, 1861, July 7, 1866, and August 15, 1867. On this point I have to say that many years ago there was brought about a state of things which certainly is not favorable to the granting of the demand; for the twenty-fourth article of the law of February 17, 1861, was interpreted in the sense that churches formerly conventual should be subject, as regards jurisdiction, to the archiepiscopal curia. Notwithstanding this, and although I intend to have examined anew the interpretation given to Article 24, seeing in the meantime that this state of things be not in the least changed for the worse, I will immediately put myself in relation with the prefect of the province, to know whether, keeping in view the facts as above, there be in your city a church we may dispose of that presents all the conditions required, in order that it may be given for the use of the society. It is hardly necessary to speak of the absolute impossibility of assigning an endowment from the property coming from the laws changing the title to such property, because, even apart from any other reason, the very laws themselves determine, in order, the use to which the revenues obtained by the consequent sale of the property are to be put. “5th. Finally, as regards guaranteeing efficaciously, against the arbitrary action of the episcopate, the lower clergy who are loyal to the laws of the country and to the dynasty, I do not deem it necessary to make any declarations or give any assurances, because my principles and the first acts of my administration are a pledge that, within the bounds allowed me by law, and urging, if needful, the action of the courts, in accordance with the law of May 13, 1871, I shall not fail to show by deeds that the government of the king is not disposed to tolerate that good ecclesiastics of liberal creed should be subject to abuse on the part of their ecclesiastical superiors, when the legal means are in their power to prevent it. “Be pleased to accept, honored sir, the expression of my esteem and consideration. “The Keeper of the Seals, We shall adduce only one other document as prefatory to what we are going to say, and that is the letter of a certain Professor Sbarbaro, who is a prominent writer of extreme views, possessing a frankness of character that makes him attack the government at one time, even in favor of the church, though through no love of it, at another launch forth against it an amount of invective and false accusation that would warrant us in looking on him as the crater of the revolutionary volcano. This personage has written quite recently one of his characteristic letters, in which he uses all his eloquence against the church, recommending everywhere the establishment of Protestant churches and schools; because, he says, this is the only way to destroy the Catholic Church, the implacable enemy of the new order of things. Every nerve must be strained to effect this. There can be no peace till it be accomplished, and the edifice of Italian unity and With the express declaration of the deputy, Sig. Giuseppe Toscanelli, the letter of his Excellency the Keeper of the Seals and that of Professor Sbarbaro, before our eyes, we are prepared to see some fact in accordance with the ideas and sentiments therein expressed. The fact is at hand; it is a movement set on foot to obtain adhesion and subscriptions to the scheme of electing, by the people, to their positions ecclesiastics even of the highest grade. The Sovereign Pontiff himself alluded to this in his discourse to the foreign colleges, July 25, 1876, when he warned them that steps were taking to prepare the way to a popular election, “a tempo suo, anche al maggior beneficio della chiesa”—“at the proper time, to even the first benefice of the church”—in other words, the Papacy. It is worth while examining this question, because the agitation having begun, specious arguments having been advanced, and illustrious names, such as that of Rosmini—who, it is well known, retracted whatever by overzeal he had written that incurred censure at Rome—having been brought forward to support such views, it is not unlikely that elsewhere we may hear a repetition of them. Say what people may, Rome is the centre of the civilized world; the agitations that occur there, especially in the speculative order, are like the waves produced by casting a stone in the water: the ripples extend themselves from the centre to the extreme circumference. So thence the agitations strike France and Germany and Spain, extend to England, Russia, the East, and finally reach us and the other extra-European nations. The errors on this subject of popular election in the church, where they are not affected, come from a confusion of ideas and a want of knowledge of what the church is. Protestantism has had the greatest part in misleading men; for it completely changed the essential idea of this mystic body of Christ. Our Lord, when founding his church on earth, spoke of it continually as his, as his kingdom, as his house, as his vineyard. He told his disciples that to him all power had been given in heaven and on earth. Nowhere do we see him giving to any one a title that would make him a sharer in that power; the unity of command signified by the idea of the kingdom, the absolute power of imposing laws, is his, his alone, and is entrusted to those he selected to continue his work. His words to his apostles were: “As the Father hath sent me, I send you”—the fulness of power I have I bestow upon you, that you may act in my name, in such a way that “he who hears you hears me; and he who will not hear you, let him be to you as the heathen and the publican.” He makes the distinction between those who are to hear and those who are outside his church; he constitutes in his kingdom, his church, those who are to command with his authority and those who are to obey: the apostles and their successors—the Sovereign Pontiff with the bishops—and the people or the laity. The duty of the laity is to obey, not to command, not to impose, not to exact, much less to name those who are to hold positions in the church—an act proper of its nature only to those who hold power of command, just as in a kingdom the naming to offices resides with the king or with those “Can. XII. The apostolic and synodical canons wholly forbidding promotion and consecration of bishops by the power and command of princes, we concordantly define, and also pronounce sentence, that, if any bishop have received consecration to such dignity by intrigue or cunning of princes, he is to be by all means deposed as having willed and agreed to possess the house of the Lord, not by the will of God and by ecclesiastical rite and decree, but by the desire of carnal sense, from men and through men. “Can. XXII. This holy and universal synod, in accordance with former councils, defines and decrees that the promotion and consecration of bishops are to be done by the election and decree of the college of bishops; and it rightly proclaims that no lay prince or person possessed of power shall interfere in the election of a patriarch, of a metropolitan, or of any bishop whatsoever, lest there should arise inordinate and incongruous confusion or strife, especially as it is fitting that no prince or other layman have any power in such matters” (Version of Anastasius). In the Roman Church, however, while the active interference of secular princes and nobles, despite the canons of the church, continued to be the rule during the middle ages, to the great harm of religion and dishonor of the See of Peter, to the intrusion even of unworthy occupants who scandalized the faithful, the popes and the clergy wished to have the people present as witnesses of the election, and consenting to it, that in this way there might be a bar to calumny, affecting the validity of it, and an obstacle to the ambition of the surrounding princes. Still, the election proper belonged to the clergy, the people consenting to receive the one so elected. Prior to the pontificate of Nicholas II. the people, so often the willing servants of the German emperors or of their allies, used not unfrequently to impose their will on the clergy, or made Rome the theatre of factional strife. To put a stop to this, Nicholas, having called a council of one hundred and thirteen bishops at Rome, published in it the following decree: 1. “God beholding us, it is first decreed that the election of the Roman Pontiff shall be in the power of the cardinal bishops; so that if any one be enthroned in the apostolic chair without their previous concordant and canonical election, and afterwards with the consent of the successive religious orders, of the clergy, and of the laity, he is to be held as no pope or apostolic man, but as an apostate.” In the centuries of contention between the lay powers and the ecclesiastical authorities, the discipline “The holy synod, moreover, teaches that, in the ordination of bishops, priests, and of the other grades, the consent, or call, or authority neither of the people nor of any secular power and magistracy is so required that without this it be invalid; nay, it even decrees that those who ascend to the exercise of this ministry, called and placed in position only by the people or lay power and magistracy, and who of their own rashness assume them, are all to be held, not as ministers of the church, but as thieves and robbers who have not come in by the door.” Can. vii. of this session condemns those who teach otherwise. We are, therefore, not surprised to find duly promulgated the following document referring to the “Italian society for the reassertion of the rights that belong to Christian people, and especially to Roman citizens,” under whose auspices the movement for election to ecclesiastical benefices by the people has been set on foot. The Sacra Penitentiaria is the tribunal to which cases of conscience are submitted for decision, and its answers are given according to the terms of the petition or case submitted. We give the case as submitted, and the reply: “Most Eminent and Reverend Sir: Some confessors in the city of Rome humbly submit that, at the present moment, there is in circulation in it a paper containing a printed programme, with accompanying schedules of association, by which the faithful are solicited to join a certain society, established or to be established to the end that, on the vacancy of the Apostolic See, the Roman people may take part in the election of the Roman Pontiff. The name of the society is: SocietÀ Cattolica per la rivendicazione dei diritti spettanti al popolo cristiano ed in ispecie al popolo Romano. Whoever gives his name to this society must expressly declare, as results from the schedules, that he agrees to the doctrines set forth in the programme, and contracts the obligation, before two witnesses, of doing all he can to further the propagation of these doctrines and the increase of the society. Wherefore, the said confessors, that they may properly absolve, when by the grace of God they come to the sacrament of penance, those who have been the promoters of this evil society, or have subscribed their names thereto, and other adherents and aiders of it, send a copy of the programme and schedules to be examined by the Sacred Penitentiary, and ask an answer to the following questions: “1. Whether each and all, giving their names to this society, or aiding it, or in any way abetting it, or adhering to it, by the very fact incur the penalty of the major excommunication? “2. And if so, whether this excommunication be reserved to the Sovereign Pontiff?” “The Sacred Penitentiary, having considered all that has been laid before it, and duly examined into the nature and end of this society, having referred the foregoing to our most holy lord, Pius IX., with his approbation, replies to the proposed questions as follows: “To the first, affirmatively. “To the second: The excommunication is incurred by the very fact, and is in a special manner reserved to the Roman Pontiff. “Given at Rome, in the Sacred Penitentiary, August 4, 1876. “R. Card. Monaco, for the “Hip. Canon Palombi, S. P. Such is the state of things we have to present to our readers as a Lake George, Sept. —, 1876. My Dear Friend: Not content with being told that we enjoyed our trip immensely, you demand a description—of, at least, the chief part of it. Now, an adequate description of any kind of scenery is by no means an easy thing. I have read since my return those Adventures of a Phaeton which your high praises made me promise to try. And, certainly, the author’s plan is admirably executed; his pages are fragrant with rural freshness; but can you aver that your mind carries away a single picture from his numerous descriptions? I have, as you know, the advantage over you of having visited some of the places through which he conducts the party, particularly Oxford and its vicinity; but I assure you, had I not seen old Iffley, for instance, with its church and mill, the strokes of his pen would have given me no idea of them. Poets understand description better than other writers. Lord Byron is the greatest master of the art in our language, and, I venture to say, in any. What is their secret? To go into the least possible detail—sketching but a few bold outlines, and leaving you to contemplate, as they did. I shall make no apology, then, for following in their wake. Well, the time we spent in the woods proper—or mountains proper, if you prefer it—was barely five days. It took us a whole day to voyage down Lake George and part of Lake Champlain, and then stage (or vehicle) it to a place with the euphonious name of Keene Flats. Lake George looked as lovely as it always does under a clear morning sky; and when the Minnehaha had finished her course, we found—something new to us—a railway station, and a train waiting to convey us to Lake Champlain. I cannot deny that the unromantic train is an improvement on the coach-ride of other days; for the old road was so absurdly bad, one had to hold on to the coach like grim death to avoid being jolted off. The journey was broken by having to change vehicles at Elizabethtown—a strikingly pretty place, and evidently popular. The drive thus far had been through a continuous cloud of dust, and the thickest of its kind I was ever in. The remaining fourteen miles were really delightful. While evening fell softly from a cloudless sky, the scenery grew bolder and wilder. The heights on either side took a deeper blue, the woods a darker green. And presently the chill air made us wrap ourselves against it. Very long seemed the drive, and weary; but many a violet peak beguiled us with its beauty, and the large star drew our thoughts from earth, till at last, as we descended into Keene Valley, the moon rose to light us to our rest. It was after nine o’clock when we alighted at Washbond’s. Mine host had gone to bed, but was not slow to answer our summons; and then his wife and daughter came down to get us supper. We did justice to the repast, which was simple but well served, and in the meantime made arrangements with Trumble, the guide, whom we were fortunate in finding at home. Our beds were in a new house Washbond had just built. Everything was clean and comfortable, and I need not say we slept. Breakfasting about eight next morning, we made preparations for our tramp through the woods. The guide was very useful to us in knowing what provisions to get. His younger brother, too—himself training for a guide—came along with us, for a consideration, to help carry our load. Taking one more meal at Washbond’s, we started in the heat of noon. A couple of miles brought us to the woods proper. Here the character of the road changed, of course, and the “pull” began. It was surprising how cool the air of the woods was when we stopped to breathe and sat down with our packs; whereas, wherever the sun got at us through the trees, he “let us know he was there.” But had the fatigue of those first miles through the woods been twice or ten times as great, it would have been more than repaid when, suddenly, a turn in the road brought us in view of the Lower Au Sable Lake. One of our trio, whom we called Colonel (for we thought it wise to travel incog.—the second being Judge, and myself Doctor), had run on ahead of the guides—a practice he kept up throughout the trip. We heard him shout as he came upon the lake, and he told us afterwards It was quite romantic to be told we had to navigate this lake. But first there were the Rainbow Falls to see. Our end of the lake (not included in the above view) was choked up with fallen timber. Crossing on some trunks to the other shore, we had but a few minutes’ walk before we came into a rocky hollow of wildest beauty, where, from a cliff some hundred and fifty feet high, leapt the torrent—scarcely “with delirious bound,” nor, of course, with the bulk it would have had in winter, yet with terrible majesty—into a channel below us. It did not wear the rainbow coronal, the time of day being too late. But the glen was well worth a visit, and deliciously cool from the spray. The boat we were to voyage in was the property of the guide—a light craft, and rather too crank to be comfortable, particularly with a load of five on board, to say nothing of the dog and the baggage; so that, in fact, our passage along the lake and between the giant slopes was not as pleasant as it might have been. After some difficult navigation at the other end of the lake, the crew was safely landed with the baggage, and the boat hidden in some bushes. Then a trudge through the woods again for a couple of miles at least (distances, by the bye, are peculiar in these regions), till we issued on the bank of the Au Sable River where it leaves the Upper Lake. It was during this march that the Colonel (who had brought his gun) got a shot at a certain bird, and knocked too many feathers from her not to have killed her, though neither he nor the dog could find her; and this was, positively, the only game he sighted the whole trip through. But here a second boat was found hidden and ready, and one a little larger than the first. And now came the scene of our excursion. We seemed to have entered an enchanted land—to be floating on a veritable fairy lake. The vision stole over us like a dream. Then, too, it was “the heavenliest hour of heaven” for such a scene: the sun set, and twilight just begun. The picture, as a whole, will ever remain in my memory as, of its kind, the loveliest it has been my happiness to see. But, my dear friend, it “beggars all description.” I can only ask you to imagine it, while I jot down a few points of detail. The Upper Au Sable differs strikingly from the Lower, although, of course, equally formed by, and a part of, the same river. It is less long, but also less narrow; and while to the left, as you glide up it, there stands but one mountain from shore to sky, to the right you behold other majestic summits towering above the wooded slope. So, again, on looking back, you see a gap of fantastic grandeur, and, fronting you, is a wide opening, relieved by a single peak. This peak, as we then saw it, wore the bewitching blue that distance and evening combine to “lend”—a charm which I, for one (and surely all lovers of nature), can never enough feast my eyes upon. The summits to the right and behind us were also robed in various shades of “purple,” which deepened with the twilight. The glassy water was covered here and there “That clear obscure, So softly dark, and darkly pure.” Along the right bank two campfires were burning brightly. Toward one of these our guide was steering. He knew that his camp (constructed by himself, and therefore his by every right) was occupied, but was bent on turning the intruders out. We found a guide sitting calmly by the fire, and awaiting the return of his party to supper. They had gone up “Marcy,” he said, and two of them were ladies, and it would be very hard for them to have to seek another camp after their day’s climb. He had supposed our camp would not be wanted. There was one of his own on the other side, just as good, and we could have that. Well, of course, we three, when we heard of ladies, used our influence with Trumble, who slowly relented, and then rowed us over to the other shore. Yes, the camp was as good, and all about it; but we were on the wrong side for seeing the moon rise, and felt not a little disappointed. While the guide was making the fire the Colonel proposed that we should row up the lake and look for deer. So we went; but not a sign of any such quadruped could we see. Our view of the lake, though, repaid us; and when we returned, we found a splendid fire and a savory supper. These fires are kept up all night. They are close in front of the camp. This species of “camp” is a hut or shed, built of logs and securely roofed with birch bark. Sloping upward from behind, it stands open to the air in front. The floor is strewed with spruce boughs, or some other equally suitable; and when over this covering a “rubber blanket” is placed, you have quite a comfortable bed. Did we sleep, though? Very fairly for the first night out. And here I am tempted to end this epistle; for no other day of our whole trip brought anything to compare with the exquisite surprises of this first day in the woods. But I know you will not be satisfied if I fail to take you up Mt. Marcy and round through Indian Pass. Well, then, we started for “Marcy” (as the guides call it) next morning, right after breakfast. Our breakfast, by the way, was unusually good for Friday. The Colonel and Trumble had risen early and caught a nice string of brook trout. The brook was near the head of the lake. We also supped on trout, which the Colonel and I got from Marcy Brook, a mountain stream we reached about noon. The ascent from the lake was decidedly a “pull,” the more so, no doubt, from the reluctance with which we took leave of the lake. We felt the climb that day more than any climb we had afterward. A mile, too, of this kind seems equal, in point of distance, to three or four miles on ordinary ground. Having rested by Marcy Brook for dinner, we pushed on in the afternoon for Panther Gorge, where we found a good camp unoccupied, which served us for the night. The Judge was very eager to scale Marcy that evening, in order to get the view from it by moonlight. We met a gentleman coming down, who said he had been on Marcy the night before, and described the moonlight view as the finest sight he had ever witnessed. We also met some ladies belonging to the Panther Gorge must have taken its name from that truculent animal having “infested” there (as Josh Billings would say). But the bounty set on beasts of prey current in these woods seems to have made them very scarce; for the only specimen we met with all the way was a dead bear rotting in a trap. The gorge itself is wild, but not particularly romantic. We got a view of it from a place called “The Notch,” near the summit of Mt. Marcy, where we rested to dine. There is a sort of camp at this spot, but a poor thing to pass a night in. There is also a most convenient spring. Indeed, we had reason to be very grateful for the springs and rills of delicious water which abounded all along our line of march. The ascent of Marcy is singularly easy for a mountain of such height—one of the highest, indeed, this side of the Rocky range. I confess I had rather dreaded the climb, from an experience of Black Mountain, on Lake George. I was therefore quite agreeably surprised. On the other hand, I was almost equally disappointed by the view from the Cloud-splitter’s top. (Tahawus—i.e., Cloud-splitter—is the old Indian name for the mountain. What a pity it was changed!—“nearly as barbarous as giving the name of one of Thackeray’s “Four Georges” to the beautiful Lac du Saint-Sacrement. Far better to have restored the Indian name—Horicon, Holy Lake.) It is rarely, I suppose, that a perfectly clear view is to be had from these mountains. We, probably, saw little more than half the horizon commanded by the height at which we stood. What we did see was worth seeing, certainly. Still, I, at least, remembered an incomparably finer view from the well-named Prospect Mountain at the head of Lake George. Lake George we could not see, but only where it was. A number of small lakes were pointed out to us by the guide, among them the “Tear of the Clouds,” one of the reputed sources of the Hudson. This wretched little pond—for such it proved when we passed it on our way towards Lake Colden that afternoon—looked far from deserving of its poetical name, even at a distance; for we could see that it was yellow, being, in fact, a very shallow affair, and more like a stagnant marsh than a crystalline tear. They might as well have given some sidereal appellation to the sun-reflector which Mr. Colvin has erected on the exact apex of Marcy—a few sheets of tin, some of which had been torn off; for when, three days later, we were many miles away, we beheld this apparatus glittering like a star in the rays of the setting sun. But here let me moralize a moment. Those to whom “high mountains are a feeling,” as they were to the “Pilgrim poet,” will not scale them purely for the view they afford, much less for the sake of vaunting a creditable feat. They will understand the longing so nobly expressed by Keats: “To sit upon an Alp as on a throne, And half forget what world and worldling meant.” That is, they will feel at home on mountain-tops, because uplifted from the transitory and the sordid, and reminded what it is to belong to eternity. But then, on the other hand, unless, with Wordsworth, they “have ears to hear” “The still, sad music of humanity,” they will miss the real lesson which the “wonder-works of God and Nature’s hand” are meant to teach—to wit, the infinitely greater worth and beauty of a single human soul, even the lowest and most degraded, as a world in which are wrought, or can be wrought, the “wonder-works” of grace. The love of Nature never yet made a misanthrope. The poet who could write “To me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities torture,” had been stung into misanthropy before he “fled” to Nature, and would rather have found in Nature’s bosom a sublime and tender love of mankind, had he not possessed (as some one has well said of him) “the eagle’s wing without the eagle’s eye,” so that “while he soared above the world” he “could not gaze upon the sun of Truth.” Such having been my cogitations as I stood on Mt. Marcy, you will not think it pedantry that I record them here. Descending, we returned to the camp at the Notch, where we had left our baggage, then struck into the trail for the Iron-Works (of which anon). This trail, though well worn, is very tiresome, owing to the number of trees that have fallen across it, obliging you to crawl a good deal. But we were glad to have seen the “Flumes” of the “Opalescent”—another poetic name, which obviously means “beginning to be opal,” or resembling that hue. But, unfortunately, there are various kinds of opal; and since the water had nothing of a milky tinge, the bestower of the name must have meant the brown opal, an impure and inferior sort. I therefore deem the name infelicitous. The only color-epithet for clear and shallow waters, whether running or still, is amber. Witness Milton, in Paradise Lost: “Where the river of bliss through midst of heaven Rolls o’er Elysian flowers her amber stream.” And again, in Comus: “Sabrina fair! Listen where thou art sitting Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, In twisted braids of lilies knitting The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair!” The “Flumes” are fine—too fine to be called flumes, according to the dictionary sense of the term. They are chasms of considerable depth and length. But I must hasten on, like the river by which we are loitering. Our camp that night was on the shore of Colden Lake—quite a pretty little lake of its kind. But all lakes seemed (to me, at least) apologies for lakes after the Upper Au Sable. From our camp we could see where Lake Avalanche lay—not a mile, we were told, from Colden. The Judge and Colonel made an agreement with the guide to visit Lake Avalanche next morning early: but, when the time came, they found slumber too sweet, as I had anticipated they would. I had no hankering to accompany them, because, for one thing, they would have had to trudge through a regular swamp, the guide said—a kind of walking I particularly dislike; while, for another thing, it was easy to imagine the lake from the sloping cliffs that shut it in. These reminded It was a matter of necessity now to push on to the Iron-Works. Our provisions had run out; so we made the seven miles that Sunday morning, and reached our destination in good time for dinner. The trail was the best we had seen yet. We passed “Calamity Pond,” so called from a Mr. Henderson, one of the owners of the Iron-Works, having shot himself there accidentally. He laid his revolver on a rock near the pond, and, on taking it up, discharged it into his side. On this rock now stands a neat monument erected by filial affection. As we entered the deserted village still called the Iron-Works (though said works have been abandoned twenty years), a shower of rain fell—the first we had met. (Such a run of fine weather as we had been favored with is very rare in the Adirondacks.) The only occupied house belongs to a Mr. M——, who, while disclaiming to keep an inn or public-house of any kind, accommodates passing tourists, and even boarders. The table was good enough, especially after our frugal meals in the woods; but I cannot say as much for the beds in comparison with the camps. He had to put us for the night in another house belonging to him, but which had not been used, he said, this year, and looked as if it had not been used for several years. The bedsteads, too, surprised us by not breaking down in the night; and two of us had to occupy one bed. However, we contrived to sleep pretty well, and rose next morning quite ready for “Indian Pass.” Fortunately, Mrs. M—— was able to let us have enough provisions for the remainder of our tramp; but when we came to “foot” the bill, it was unexpectedly “steep.” People must “make,” you see, in a place like this. Starting after breakfast that Monday morning, we took the shorter route by way of Lake Henderson. We were not sorry to get a good view of this lake, but our voyage on it was far from pleasant. A guide from M——’s came with us. He had two boats: one a sort of “scow” with a paddle, the other a boat like Trumble’s, only lighter and smaller. Trumble and brother, dog and baggage, went in the scow; we three in the other, with the guide for oarsman. Our boat was loaded to within three inches of the water’s edge, and, there being a slight breeze, it was the greatest risk I ever ran of an upset. Had the breeze increased, we must have gone over. All three of us could swim; but to risk a drenching with its consequences, and under such circumstances, seemed to me the most provoking stupidity. One of us might easily have gone in the scow. The guide was to blame, for he knew the boat’s capacity. However, through the favor of Our Lady and the angels, under whose joint protection our excursion had been placed, we were safely landed, and soon found ourselves in the woods once more, and on a trail that seemed made for wild-cats. But now our fears of rain were verified. The menacing west had not hindered us from setting out; but we found the shelter of trees inadequate, and, of course, they kept dripping upon us after the shower had passed over. In short, we got wet enough to feel very uncomfortable; and the sun could not The trail became more perilous to eyes and ankles than any we had followed yet. Indeed, it was a constant marvel that we met with no sprain or fracture. Such an accident would have been extremely awkward, remote as we were from the habitations of men, to say nothing of surgical aid. But, of course, we took every care, and the prayers of friends, together with our own, drew Heaven’s protection round us. At last we came in sight of the gigantic cliff which forms the western side of the pass—very grand, certainly, but not what we had anticipated from the glowing accounts of brother-pilgrims. Then, too, we saw but that one side; being on the other ourselves, and not between the two, as we had supposed we should be. When we reached “Summit Rock,” we stopped for dinner. The view that met our retrospection from this rock repaid our climb. In fact, it was this view alone that made us think anything of “Indian Pass.” “Summit Rock,” though, is not easy to scale; and I, having taken the wrong track, in turning to descend had the narrowest escape from a very serious fall. I shall always feel grateful for that preservation when I recall our Adirondack experiences. How forcibly and consolingly the words of the Psalmist came to me then, as they do now: “Quoniam angelis suis mandavit de te, ut custodiant te in omnibus viis tuis. In manibus portabunt te, ne forte offendas ad lapidem pedem tuum” (Ps. xc. 11, 12. We camped that afternoon, and for the night, at a spot about “half way”—that is, half way between the Iron-Works and North Elba (a distance of eighteen miles); for the pass proper is of no great length. The camp there is excellent. We reached it in time for the Judge and myself to get a capital bath, while the Colonel caught a string of trout, before supper. We did not cook all the fish for that meal, but kept a supply for the morrow’s breakfast. The trout thus reserved were hung upon a stump about fifteen yards from the camp, at the risk of having them stolen in the night by some animal. And, sure enough, some animal was after them in the night, for the dog got up and growled, and went outside; but this scared the marauder away, for we found the fish untouched in the morning. Tuesday dawned serenely, and we lost no time after breakfast in Fortunately, they had room for us. Very pleasant people. And they got us up a first-rate dinner, the most delectable feature whereof was (to me, at least) some rashers of English bacon. This and the farm itself, with its look of peace and honest toil, took me back to long ago—to my first English home; for the pretty little parsonage where I was born was close to two farmhouses. But farm, dinner, and all were nothing to the view commanded by this spot—the most exquisite panorama of mountains it had ever been my happiness to contemplate. Facing us, as we turned to look back on the wilderness we had escaped from, was Indian Pass, the true character of which is best seen from this distance. To the left of us stood Marcy in majestic silence. Between him and the pass were the “scarpÈd cliffs” of Avalanche. From south to west was a lower line of heights, apparelled in a thick blue haze. And when, an hour later, we saw the sun set along this line, the evening azure settled on the other peaks around us, and Marcy’s signal gleamed and flashed like a red star. And here I must bid you adieu, my dear friend. However poorly I have complied with your request, it has been no small pleasure to me. I hope you will catch a fair glimpse of the Adirondacks, which is all I pretend to give. But I must add that when we three travellers got back to this dear old lake, we were unanimous in declaring that, after all we had seen, there was nothing to surpass Lake George, nor anything that would wear so well. Vale. A HISTORICAL ROMANCE. FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON. XV.As the night wore away the bonfires lighted in the public places were extinguished. Quiet and silence succeeded the tumult, the shouts, dances, and the surging waves of an excited populace rushing wildly through the streets of the capital. The ladies had deposited their borrowed charms upon the ebony and ivory of their solitary and hidden toilets. Themselves wrapped in slumber within the heavy curtains of their luxurious couches, their brocade robes and precious jewels still waited (hanging up or thrown here and there) the care of the active and busy chambermaids. Of all the sensation, triumphs, and irresistible charms there was left nothing but the wreck, disorder, and faded flowers. And thus passes everything appertaining to man. Beauty lives but a day; an hour even may behold it withered and cut down. The sun had scarcely risen when a number of carts, mounted by vigilant upholsterers, were driven up, in order to remove the scaffolds, the triumphal arches, and strip them of their soiled drapery and withered garlands. The avenues of the palace were deserted, and not a courtier had yet appeared. One man, however, all alone, slowly surveyed the superb apartments of the Tower. He paused successively before each panel of tapestry, examining them in all their details, or he took from their places the large chairs with curved backs, that he might inspect them more closely; he then consulted a great memorandum-book he held in his hand. “Ah! Master Cloth, you are not to be cheated. It is not possible that Signor Ludovico Bonvisi has sold you this velvet at six angels the piece; and six hundred pieces more, do you say? But I will show you I am not so easily duped as you would think by the thieving merchants of my good city. The rascals understand very well how to manage their affairs; but we will also manage to clip some of their wings.” And Henry VIII. gave a stroke with his penknife through the column he wished to diminish; it was in this way he made his additions. “The devil! This violet carpet covering the courtyard is enormously dear. “Mistress Anne, your reception here has ruined me. We must find some means of making all this up. These women are full of whims, and of very dear whims too. A wife is a most ruinous thing; everything is ruinous. They cannot move without spending money. It has been necessary to give enormous sums right and left—to doctors of universities, to Parliament; and all that is an entire loss, for they will clamor none the less loudly. There are men in Parliament who will sell themselves, and yet “This fringe is only an inch wide; it cannot weigh as much as they say it does here. I counted on the rest of the cardinal’s money; but nothing—he had not a penny, or at any rate he has been able to hide his pieces from me, so that I could not find a trace of them. “Northumberland has written me there was nothing at Cawood but a box, where he found, carefully tied up in a little sack of red linen, a hair shirt and a discipline, which have doubtless served our friend Wolsey to expiate the sins I have made him commit.” And as these reflections were passing through his mind, the king experienced a very disagreeable sensation at the sight of a man dressed in black, who approached him on tiptoe. Henry VIII. did not at all like being surprised in his paroxysms of suspicion and avarice. “What does that caterpillar want with me at this early hour?” he said, looking at Cromwell, who was in full dress, frizzled, and in his boots, as though he had not been to bed, and had not had so much to do the day before. The king endeavored to conceal the memorandum he held in his hand; but who could hide anything from Cromwell? He was delighted to perceive the embarrassment and vexation of his master, because it was one of his principles that he held these great men in his power, when favor began to abate, through the fear they felt of having their faults publicly exposed by those who had known them intimately. He therefore took a malicious pleasure in proving to the king that his precautions had been useless, and that he knew perfectly well the nature of his morning’s occupation, for which he feigned the greatest admiration. “What method!” he exclaimed. “What vast intellect! How is your majesty able to accomplish all that you undertake, passing from the grandest projects to the most minute details, and that always with the same facility, the same unerring judgment?” Henry VIII. regarded Cromwell attentively, as if to be assured that this eulogy was sincere; but he observed an indescribable expression of hypocrisy hovering on the pinched lips of the courtier. He contracted his brow, but resolved to carry on the deception. “Yes,” he said, “I reproach myself with this extravagance. I should have kept the furniture of my predecessors. There are so many poor to relieve! I am overwhelmed with their demands; the treasury is empty, I cannot afford it, and I have done very wrong in granting myself this indulgence.” “Come!” replied Cromwell, “think of your majesty reproaching yourself for an outlay absolutely indispensable. Very soon, I suppose, you will not permit yourself to buy a cloak or a doublet of Flanders wool, while you leave in the enjoyment of their property these monks who have never been favorable to your cause. The treasury is empty, you say; give me a fortnight’s time and a commission, and I will replenish it to overflowing.” The king smiled. “Yes, yes, I know very well; you want me to appoint you inspector of my “A set of drones and idlers!” Cromwell burned to have this commission, of which he had dreamed as the only practicable means of enriching himself at his leisure, and making some incalcuable depredations; because how could it possibly be known exactly how much he would be able to extort by fear or by force? Having the king to sustain him and for an accomplice, he had nothing to fear. He had already spoken of it to him, but in a jesting manner, apparently; it was his custom to sow thus in the mind of Henry VIII. a long time in advance, and as if by chance, the seeds of evil from which he hoped ultimately to gather the fruits. At the moment this idea appeared very lucrative to the king; but a sense of interior justice and the usage of government enlightened his mind. “This,” said he, “is your old habit of declaiming against the monks and convents. As for idleness, methinks the life of the most indolent one among them would be far from equalling that which yourself and the gallants of my court lead every day in visits, balls, and other dissipations. Verily, it cannot be denied that these religious live a great deal less extravagantly than you, for the price of a single one of your ruffs would be sufficient to clothe them for a whole year. All these young people speak at random and through caprice, without having the least idea of what they say. I love justice above all things. Had you the slightest knowledge of politics and of government, you would know that an association of men who enjoy their property in common derive from it much greater advantages, because there are a greater number to partake of it. These monks, who are lodged under the same roof, lighted and warmed by the same fire, nursed, when they are sick, by those who live thus together, find in that communion of all goods an ease and comfort which it would be impossible to attain if they were each apart and separated from the other. If, now, I should drive them from their convents and take possession of their estates, what would become of them? And who would be able so to increase in a moment the revenues of the country as to procure each one individually that which they enjoyed in common together? And, above all, these monks are men like other men; they choose to live together and unite their fortunes: I see not what right I have to deprive them of their property, since it has been legally acquired by donations, natural inheritance, or right of birth. ‘These church people monopolize everything,’ say the crack-brained fools who swarm around me; and where would they have me look Cromwell felt deeply humiliated by the contempt Henry VIII. continually mingled with his favor in recalling incessantly to his recollection the fact of his being a parvenu, sustained in his position only by his gracious favor and all-powerful will, and then only while he was useful or agreeable. He hesitated a moment, not knowing how to reply; but, like a serpent that unfolds his coils in every way, and whose scales fall or rise at will at the same moment and with the same facility, he said: “Your Majesty says truly. I am only what you have deigned to make me; I acknowledge it with joy, and I would rather owe all I am to you than possess it by any natural right. I will be silent, if your majesty bids me; though I would fain present a reflection that your remark has suggested.” “Speak,” said the king, with a smile of indulgence excited by this adroit admission. “I will first remark that your majesty still continues to sacrifice yourself to the happiness and prosperity of your people; consequently, it seems to me that they should be willing, in following the grand designs of your majesty, to yield everything. Thus they would only have to unite the small to the greater monasteries, and oblige them to receive the monks whose property had been annexed to the crown. The treasury would in this way be very thoroughly replenished, and no one would have a right to complain or think himself wronged.” “But,” said the king, “they are of different orders.” However, he made this objection with less firmness; and it appeared to Cromwell that his mind was becoming familiarized with this luminous idea of possessing himself of a number of very rich and well-cultivated ecclesiastical estates, which, sold at a high price, would produce an enormous sum of money. Cromwell, observing his success, feared to compromise himself and make the king refuse if he urged the matter too persistently; promising himself to return another time to the subject, he said nothing more, and, adroitly changing the “Oh!” said the king, “that enthusiasm affects me but little! The people are like a flea-bitten horse, which we let go to right or left, according to circumstances; and I place no reliance on these demonstrations excited by the view of a flagon of beer or a fountain of wine flowing at a corner of the street. There are, nevertheless, germs of discord living and deeply rooted in the heart of this nation. Appearances during a festival day are not sufficient, Cromwell. Listen to me. It is essential that all should yield, all obey. I am not a child to be amused with a toy!” And he regarded him with an expression of wrath as sudden as it was singular. “Think you,” he continued with gleaming eyes, “that I am happy, that I believe I have taken the right direction? It is not that I would retract or retrace my steps; so far from that, the more I feel convinced that it is wrong, the more resolved am I to crush the inspiration that would recall me. No! Henry VIII. neither deceives himself nor turns back; and you, if ever you reveal the secret of my woes, the violence and depth of your fall will make you understand the strength of the arm you will have called down on your head.” Cromwell felt astounded. How often he paid thus dearly for his vile and rampant ambition! What craft must have been continually engendered in that deformed soul, in order to prevent it from being turned from its goal of riches and domination, always to put a constraint upon himself, to sacrifice in order to obtain, to yield in order to govern, to tremble in order to make himself feared! “More,” he said in desperation. “More!” replied the king. “That name makes me sick! Well, what of him now?” “Sire,” replied Cromwell vehemently, “you speak of discords and fears for the future; I should be wanting in courage if I withheld the truth from the king. More and Rochester—these are the men who censure and injure you in the estimation of your people. There are proofs against them, but they are moral proofs, and insufficient for rigid justice to act upon. They refuse to take the oath, and it is impossible to include them in the judgment against the Holy Maid of Kent. They would be acquitted unanimously. However, you have heard it from her own lips. You know that she is acquainted with them, has spoken to them; this she has declared in presence of your majesty. They were in the church; she had let them know she was to appear at that hour. Well, it is impossible to prove anything against them; they will be justified, elated, and triumphant. Parliament, reassured, encouraged by this example of tenacity and rebellion, will recover from the first fright with which the terror of your name had inspired them. They will raise their heads; your authority will be despised; they will rise against you; they will resist you on every side, and compel you to recall Queen Catherine back to this palace, adorned by the presence of your young wife. And then what shame, what humiliation for you, and what a triumph for her! And this is why, sire, I have not been able to sleep one moment last night, and why I am the first to enter the palace this morning, where I expected to wait until your majesty “Recall Catherine!” cried the king, who, after this name, had not heard a syllable of Cromwell’s discourse; and he clenched his fists with a contraction of inexpressible fury. “Recall Catherine, after having driven her out in the face of all justice, of all honor! No, I shall have to drink to the dregs this bitter cup I have poured out for myself; and coming ages will for ever resound with the infamy of my name. Though the earth should open, though the heavens should fall and crush me, yet Thomas More shall die! Go, Cromwell,” he cried, his eyes gleaming with fury; “let him swear or let him die! Go, worthy messenger of a horrible crime; get thee from before my eyes. It is you who have launched me upon this ocean, where I can sustain myself only by blood. Cursed be the day when you first crossed my sight, infamous favorite of the most cruel of masters! Go, go! and bring me the head of my friend, of the only man I esteem, whom I still venerate, and let there no longer remain aught but monsters in this place.” Cromwell recoiled. “Infamous favorite!” he repeated to himself. “May I but be able one day to avenge myself for the humiliations with which you have loaded me, and may I see in my turn remorse tear your heart, and the anger of God punish the crimes I have aided you in committing!” He departed. Henry VIII. was stifled with rage. He crushed under his foot the upholsterer’s memorandum; he opened a window and walked out on the balcony, from whence the view extended far beyond the limits of the city. As he advanced, he was struck by the soft odor and freshness which was exhaled by the morning breeze from a multitude of flowers and plants placed there. He stooped down to examine them, then leaned upon the heavy stone balustrade, polished and carved like lace, and looked beyond in the distance. The immense movement of an entire population began in every direction. There was the market, whither flocked the dealers, the country people, and the diligent and industrious housewives. Farther on was the wharf, where the activity was not less; soldiers of the marine, cabin boys, sailors, ship-builders, captains—all were hurrying thither. Troops of workmen were going to their work on the docks, with tools in hand and their bread under their arms. The windows of the rich alone remained closed to the light of day, to the noise and the busy stir without. There they rolled casks; here they transported rough stones, plaster, and carpenter’s timber. Horses pulled, whips cracked—in a word, the entire city was aroused; every minute the noise increased and the activity redoubled. “These men are like a swarm of bees in disorder,” said Henry VIII.; “and yet they carry tranquil minds to their work, while their king is suffering the keenest tortures in the midst of them; yet is there not one of them who, in looking at this palace, does not set at the summit of happiness him who reigns and commands here. ‘If I were king!’ say this ignorant crowd when they wish to express the idea of happiness and supreme enjoyment of the will. Do they know what it costs the king to accomplish In the depths of his narrow prison there was another also who had sought to catch a breath of the exhilarating air with which the dawn of a beautiful day had reanimated the universe. It was not upon a balustrade of roses and perfumes that he leaned, but upon a miserable, worm-eaten table, blackened by time, and discolored by the tears with which for centuries it had been watered. It was not a powerful city, a people rich, industrious, and submissive, that his eyes were fixed upon, but the sombre bars of a small, grated window, whose solitary pane he had opened. He sat with his head bowed upon one of his hands. He seemed tranquil, but plunged in profound melancholy; for God, in the language of holy Scripture, had not yet descended into Joseph’s prison to console him, nor sent his angel before him to fortify his servant. And yet, had any one been able to compare the speechless rage, the frightful but vain remorse, which corroded the king’s heart, with the deep but silent sorrow that overwhelmed the soul of the just man, such a one would have declared Sir Thomas More to be happy. And still his sufferings were cruelly intense, for he thought of his children; he was in the midst of them, and his heart had never left them. “They know ere this,” he said to himself, “that I shall not return. Margaret, my dear Margaret, will have told them all!” And he was not there to console them. What would become of them without him, abandoned to the fury of the king, ready, perhaps, to revenge himself even upon them for the obstinacy with which he reproached their father? Whilst indulging in these harrowing reflections he heard the keys cautiously turned in the triple locks of his prison; and soon a man appeared, all breathless with fear and haste. It was Kingston, the lieutenant of the Tower. He entered, and, gasping for breath, held the door behind him. “My dear Sir Thomas,” he cried, “blessed be God! you are acquitted, your innocence is proclaimed. The council has been assembled all night, and they have decided that you could not in any manner be implicated in the prosecution. Oh! how glad I am. But the Holy Maid of Kent has been condemned to be hanged at Tyburn. Judge now if this was not a dangerous business! I have never doubted your innocence; but you have some very furious and very powerful enemies. A gleam of joy lighted the heart of Sir Thomas. “Can it be?” he cried. “Say it again, Master Kingston. What! I shall see my children again? I shall die in peace among them? No, I cannot believe in so much happiness. But that poor girl—is she really condemned?” “Yes,” cried Kingston; “but here are you already thinking of this nun. By my faith, I have thought of nobody but you. And the Bishop of Rochester has also been acquitted.” “He has, then, already been in the Tower?” cried More. “Just above you—door to the left—No. 3,” replied Kingston briefly, in the manner of his calling. “What!” cried Sir Thomas, “is it he, then, I have heard walking above my head? I knew not why, but I listened to those slow and measured steps with a secret anxiety. I tried to imagine what might be the age and appearance of this companion in misfortune; and it was my friend, my dearest friend! O my dear Kingston! that I could see him. I beg of you to let me go to him at once!” “Of what are you thinking?” exclaimed Kingston—“without permission! You do not know that I have come here secretly, and if they hear of it I shall be greatly compromised. The order was to hold you in solitary confinement; it has not been rescinded, and already I transgress it.” “Ah! I cannot see him,” repeated Sir Thomas. “I am in solitary confinement.” And his joy instantly faded before the reflection which told him that the real crime of which he was accused had not been expiated. Penetrated by this sentiment, he took the keeper’s hand. “My dear Kingston,” he said, “you are right—you would surely compromise yourself; for my case is not entirely decided yet. As you say, I have some very powerful enemies. However, they will be able to do naught against me more than God permits them, and it is this thought alone that animates and sustains my courage.” “Nay, nay, you need not be uneasy,” replied Kingston; “they can do nothing more against you. I have listened to everything they have said, and have not lost a single word. You will be set at liberty to-day, after you have taken an oath the formula of which they have drawn up expressly for you, as I have been told by the secretary.” “Ah! the oath,” cried Sir Thomas, penetrated with a feeling of the keenest apprehension. “I know it well!” “Fear naught, then, Sir Thomas,” replied Kingston, struck by the alteration he observed in his countenance, a moment before so full of hope and joy. “They have arranged this oath for you; they know your scrupulous delicacy of conscience and your religious sentiments. This is the one they will demand of the ecclesiastics, and you are the only layman of whom they will exact it. You see there is no reason here why you should be uneasy.” “Oh!” said Sir Thomas, whose heart was pierced by every word of the lieutenant, “you are greatly mistaken, my poor Kingston. It is to condemn and not to save me they have done all this. The oath—yes; it is that oath, like a ferocious beast, which they destine to devour me. Ah! why did the hope of escaping Sir Thomas paused, overcome by his feelings, and was unable to utter another word. “My dear Sir Thomas,” said Kingston, amazed, “what means this? Even if you refuse to take this oath they will doubtless set you at liberty. Cromwell has said as much to the secretary. But what should prevent you from taking it, if the priests do not refuse?” “Dear Kingston,” replied Sir Thomas, “I cannot explain that to you now, as it is one of the things I keep between God and myself. I know right well, also, that these prison walls have ears, that they re-echo all they hear, and that one cannot even sigh here without it being reported.” “You are dissatisfied, then, with being under my care!” exclaimed Kingston, who was extremely narrow-minded, and whose habit of living, and still more of commanding, in the Tower had brought him to regard it as a habitation by no means devoid of attractions. “You may very well believe, Sir Thomas,” he continued, “that I have not forgotten the many favors and proofs of friendship I have received from you; that I am entirely devoted to you; and what I most regret is not having it in my power to treat you as I would wish in giving you better fare at my table. Fear of the king’s anger alone prevents me, and I at least would be glad to feel that you were satisfied with the good-will I have shown.” More smiled kindly: for the delicate sensibility and exquisite tact which in an instant discovered to him how entirely it was wanting in others never permitted from him other expressions than those of a pleasantry as gentle as it was refined. “In good sooth, my dear lieutenant, I am quite contented with you; you are a good friend, and would most certainly like to treat me well. If, then, I should ever happen to show any dissatisfaction with your table, you must instantly turn me out of your house.” And he smiled at the idea. “You jest, Sir Thomas,” said Kingston. “In truth, my dear friend, I have nevertheless but little inclination to jest,” replied More. “Well, all that I regret is not having it in my power to treat you as I would wish,” continued Kingston in the same tone. “I should have been so happy to have made you entirely comfortable here!” “Come,” said Sir Thomas, “let us speak no more of that; I am very well convinced of it, and I thank you for the attachment you have shown me to-day. I only regret that I cannot be permitted to see the Bishop of Rochester for a moment.” “Impossible!” cried Kingston. “If it were discovered, I should lose my place.” “Then I no longer insist,” said Sir Thomas; “but let me, at least, write him a few words.” Kingston made no reply and looked very thoughtful. He hesitated. “Carry the letter yourself,” said Sir Thomas, “and, unless you tell it, no person will know it.” “You think so?” said Kingston, embarrassed. “But then my Lord Rochester must burn it immediately; for if they should find it in his hands, they would try to find out how he received it; and, Sir Thomas, I know not how it is done, but they know everything.” “Well, well, haste, then; for it is time I should go. If they came and asked for me, and found me not, I would be lost.” Sir Thomas, fearing he might retract, hastened immediately to write the following words on a scrap of paper: “What feelings were mine, dear friend, on learning that you are imprisoned here so near me, you may imagine. What a consolation it would be to clasp you in my arms! But that is denied me; God so wills it. During the first doleful night I spent in this prison my eyes never once closed in sleep. I heard your footsteps; I listened, I counted them most anxiously. I asked myself who this unfortunate creature could be who, like myself, groaned in this place; if it were long since he had seen the light of heaven, and why he was imprisoned in this den of stone. Alas! and it was you. Now I see you, I follow you everywhere. What anguish is mine to be so near you, yet not be able to see or speak to you! Rap from time to time on the floor in such a manner that I may know you are speaking to me; my heart will understand thine. It seems to me the voice of the stones will communicate your words. I shall listen night and day for your signals, and this will be a great consolation to me.” “Hasten, Sir Thomas,” said Kingston. “I hear a noise in the yard; they are searching for me.” “Yes, yes,” replied Sir Thomas. “My friend, they hurry me. Do you remember all you said to me at Chelsea the night you urged me not to accept the chancellorship? O my friend! how often I have thought of it. And you—you also will be a victim, I fear. They hurry me, and I have so many things to say to you since the time I saw you last! I fear you suffer from cold in your cell. Ask Kingston for covering; for my sake he will give it you. Implore him to bring me your reply. A letter from you—what happiness in my abandoned condition; for they will not permit Margaret to visit me. I am in solitary confinement. They will probably let me die slowly of misery, immured within these four walls. They fear the publicity of a trial; and men so quickly forget those who disappear from before their eyes. God, however, will not forget us, and we are ever in his keeping; for he says in holy Scripture: ‘I carry you written in my hand, and a mother shall forget her child before I forget the soul that seeks me in sincerity of heart.’ Farewell, dear friend; let us pray for each other. I love and cherish you in our Lord Jesus Christ, our precious Saviour and our only Redeemer. “Thomas More.” Meanwhile, Rumor, on her airy wing, in her indefatigable and rapid course, had very soon circulated throughout the country reports of Henry’s enormities. The great multitudes of people who prostrated themselves before the cross, carried it with reverence in their hands, and elevated it proudly above their heads, were astonished and indignant at these recitals of crime. Princes trembled on their thrones, and those who surrounded them lived in constant dread. Thomas More, the model among men, the Bishop of Rochester, that among the angels—these men cast into a gloomy prison, separated from all that was most dear to them, scarcely clothed, and fed on the coarse fare of criminals—such outrages men discussed among themselves, and reported to the compassionate and generous hearts of their mothers and sisters. Will, then, no voice be raised in their defence? Will no one endeavor to snatch them from the tortures to which they are about to be delivered up? Are the English people dead and their intellects stultified? Do relatives, friends, law, and honor no longer exist But if this mass of human beings, always so indifferent and so perfectly selfish, felt thus deeply moved, what must have been the anguish of heart experienced by the faithful and sincere friend, what terror must have seized him, when, seated by his own quiet fireside, enjoying the retreat it afforded him, the voice of public indignation came to announce that he was thus stricken in all his affections! For he also, a native of a distant country, loved More. He had met him, and immediately his heart went out toward him. Who will explain this sublime mystery, this secret of God, this admirable and singular sympathy, which reveals one soul to another, and requires neither words nor sounds, neither language nor gestures, in order to make it intelligible? “I had no sooner seen Pierre Gilles,” said More, “than I loved him as devotedly as though I had always known and loved him. Then I was at Antwerp, sent by the king to negotiate with the prince of Spain; I waited from day to day the end of the negotiations, and during the four months I was separated from my wife and children, anxious as I was to return and embrace them, I could never be reconciled to the thought of leaving him. His conversation, fluent and interesting, beguiled most agreeably my hours of leisure; hours and days spent near him seemed to me like moments, they passed so rapidly. In the flower of his age, he already possessed a vast deal of erudition; his soul above all—his soul so beautiful, superior to his genius—inspired me with a devotion for him as deep as it was inviolable. Candor, simplicity, gentleness, and a natural inclination to be accommodating, a modesty seldom found, integrity above temptation—all virtues in fact, that combine to form the worthy citizen—were found united in him, and it would have been impossible for me to have found in all the world a being more worthy of inspiring friendship, or more capable of feeling and appreciating all its charms.” In this manner he spoke before his children, and related to Margaret how painful he found the separation from his friend. Often during the long winter nights, when the wind whistled without and heavy snow-flakes filled the air, he would press his hand upon his forehead, and his thoughts would speed across the sea. In imagination he would be transported to Antwerp, would behold her immense harbor covered with richly-laden vessels, her tall roofs and her long streets, and the beautiful church of Notre Dame, with the court in front, where he so often walked with his friend. Then he entered the mansion of Pierre Gilles; he traversed the court, mounted the steps; he found him at home in the midst of his family; it seemed to him that he heard him speak, and he prepared to give himself up to the charms of his conversation. The cry of a child, the movement of a chair, came suddenly to blot out this picture, dispel this sweet illusion, and recall him to the reality of the distance which separated them. An expression of pain and sorrow would pass over his features; A close correspondence had for a long time sweetened their mutual exile; but since the divorce was set in motion the king had become so suspicious that he had all letters intercepted, and one no longer dared to write or communicate with any stranger. Thus they found themselves deprived of this consolation. Eager to obtain the slightest intelligence, questioning indiscriminately all whom he met—merchants, strangers, travellers—Pierre Gilles endeavored by all possible means to obtain some intelligence of his friend Thomas More. Whenever a sail appeared upon the horizon and a ship entered the port, this illustrious citizen was seen immediately hastening to the pier, and patiently remaining there until he had ascertained whether or not the vessel hailed from England; or else he waited, mingling with a crowd of the most degraded class, until the vessel landed. Alas! for several months all that he could learn only increased his apprehensions, and he vainly endeavored to quiet them. He had already announced to his family his intention of making the voyage to England to see his friend, when the fatal intelligence of More’s imprisonment was received. Then he no longer listened to anything, but, taking all the gold his coffers contained, he hastened to the port and took passage on the first vessel he found. “O my friend!” he cried, “if I shall only be able to tear you from their hands. This gold, perhaps, will open your prison. Let them give you to me, let my home become yours, and let my friends be your friends. Forget your ungrateful country; mine will receive you with rapturous joy.” Such were his reflections, and for two days the vessel that bore him sailed rapidly toward England; the wind was favorable, and a light breeze seemed to make her fly over the surface of the waves. The sails were unfurled, and the sailors were singing, delighted at the prospect of a happy voyage, while Pierre Gilles, seated on the deck, his back leaning against the mast, kept his eyes fixed on the north, incessantly deceived by the illusion of the changing horizon and the fantastic form of the blue clouds, which seemed to plunge into the sea. He was continually calling out: “Captain, here is land!” But the old pilot smiled as he guided the helm, and leaning over, like a man accustomed to know what he said, slightly shrugged one shoulder and replied: “Not yet, Sir Passenger.” And soon, in fact, Pierre Gilles would see change their form or disappear those fantastic rocks and sharp points which represented an unattainable shore. Then it seemed to him that he would never arrive, the island retreated constantly before him, and his feet would never be permitted to rest upon the shores of England. “Alas!” he would every moment say to himself, “they are trying him now, perhaps. If I were there, I would run, I would beg, I would implore his pardon. And his youthful daughter, whom they say is so fair, so good—into what an agony she must be plunged! All this family and those young children to be deprived of such a father!” Pierre was unable to control himself for a moment; he arose, walked forward on the vessel; he saw Already the night wind was blowing a gale and the sea grew turbulent; a flock of birds flew around the masts, uttering the most mournful cries, and seeming, as they braved the whirlwind which had arisen, to be terrified. “Comrades, furl the sails!” cried the steersman; “a waterspout threatens us! Be quick,” he cried, “or we are lost.” In the twinkling of an eye the sailors seized the ropes and climbed into the rigging. Vain haste, useless dexterity; their efforts were all too late. A furious gust of wind groaned, roared, rent the mainmast in twain, tore away the ropes, bent and broke the masts; a horrible crash was heard throughout the ship. “Cut away! Pull! Haul down! Hold there! Hoist away! Let go!” cried the captain, who had rushed up from his cabin. “Bravo! Courage, there! Stand firm!” “Ay, ay!” cried the sailors. A loud clamor arose in the midst of the horrible roaring of the winds. The sailor on watch had fallen into the sea. “Throw out the buoy! throw out the buoy!” cried the captain. “Knaves, do you hear me?” Impossible; the rope fluttered in the wind like a string, and the tempest drove it against the sides of the vessel. They saw the unfortunate sailor tossing in the sea, carried along like a black point on the waves, which in a moment disappeared. “All is over! He is lost!” cried the sailors. But the howling winds stifled and drowned their lamentations. In the meantime Pierre Gilles bound himself tightly as he could to a mast; for the shaking of the vessel was so great that it seemed to him an irresistible power was trying to tear him away and cast him whirling into the yawning depths of the furious element. “The mizzen-mast is breaking!” cried the sailors; and by a common impulse they rushed toward the stern to avoid being dragged down and crushed by its fall. The gigantic beam fell with a fearful crash, catching in the ropes and rigging. “Cut away! Let her go!” cried the captain. He himself was the first to rush forward, armed with a hatchet, and they tried to cut aloose the mast and let it fall into the water. But they were unable to succeed; the mast hung over the side of the ship, which it struck with every wave, and threatened to capsize her. Every moment the position of the crew became more dangerous. The shocks were so violent that the men were no longer able to resist them; they clung to everything they could lay hold of; they twined their legs and arms in the hanging ropes. All efforts to control the vessel had become useless, and, seeing no longer any hope of being saved, the sailors began to utter cries of despair. Pierre Gilles had fastened himself to the mainmast. “If this also breaks,” he thought, “well, I shall die by the same stroke—die without Looking around him, Pierre saw the miserable men tossing their arms in despair; for the night was advancing, their strength nearly exhausted, while the vessel, borne along on the crest of the waves, suddenly pitched with a frightful plunge, and the water rushed in on every side. The captain had stationed himself near Pierre Gilles; he contemplated the destruction of his ship with a mournful gaze. “Here is this fine vessel lost—all my fortune, the labor of an entire life of toil and care. My children now will be reduced to beggary! Here is the fruit of thirty years of work,” he cried. “Sir,” he said to Pierre Gilles, “I began life at twelve years; I have passed successively up from cabin-boy, mariner, boatswain, lieutenant, captain finally, and now—the sea. I shall have to begin anew!” “Begin anew, sir?” said Pierre Gilles. “But is not death awaiting us very speedily?” “That remains to be seen,” answered the captain, folding his arms. “I have been three times shipwrecked, and I am here still, sir. It is true there is an end to everything; but the ocean and myself understand each other. We shall come out of it, if we gain time. After the storm, a calm; after the tempest, fine weather.” Here he attentively scanned the heavens. “A few more swells of the sea, and, if we escape, courage! All will be well.” “Hold fast, my boys!” he cried; “another sea is coming.” He had scarcely uttered the words when a frightful wave advanced like a threatening mountain, and, raising the vessel violently, swept entirely over her; but the ship still remained afloat. Other waves succeeded, and the unfortunate sailors remained tossing about in that condition until the next morning. However, as the day dawned, hope revived in their hearts; the horizon seemed brightening; the wind allayed by degrees. Pierre Gilles and his companions shook their limbs, stiffened and benumbed by the cold and the water which had drenched them, and thought they could at last perceive the land. They succeeded in relieving the vessel a little by throwing the mast into the sea. Every one took courage, and soon the coast appeared in sight. There was no more doubt: it was the coast of England. There were the pointed rocks, the whitened reefs. They were in their route; the tempest had not diverted the ship from its course. On the fourth day they entered the mouth of the Thames. The poor vessel, five days before so elegant, so swift, so light, was dragged with difficulty into that large and beautiful river. Badly crippled, she moved slowly, and was an entire day in reaching London. Pierre Gilles suffered cruelly on account of this delay, and would have made them put him ashore, but that was impossible. Besides, he wished to arrive more speedily at London, and that would not hasten his journey. From a Suddenly, however, he caught the terrible words, “His trial has commenced”; and, uncertain whether it was the effect of his troubled imagination or a real sound, he turned around and saw a group of women carrying fish in wicker baskets, and talking together. “At Lambeth Palace, I tell you. He is there; I have seen him.” “Who?” said Pierre in good English, advancing in his Flemish costume, which excited the curiosity and attention of all the women. “Thomas More, the Lord Chancellor,” answered the first speaker. “Thomas More!” cried Pierre Gilles, with a gesture of despair and terror which nothing could express. “Who is trying him? Speak, good woman, speak! Say who is trying him? Where are they trying him? Conduct me to the place, and all my fortune is yours!” The women looked at each other. “A foreigner!” they exclaimed. “Yes,” he replied, “a stranger, but a friend, a friend. Leave your fish—I will pay you for them—and show me where the trial of Sir Thomas is going on.” The fisherwoman, having observed the gold chain he wore around his neck, his velvet robe, and his ruff of Ypres lace, judged that he was some important personage, who would reward her liberally for her trouble; she resolved to accompany him. She walked on before him, and the other women took up their baskets, and followed at some distance in the rear. Meanwhile, Pierre Gilles and his conductress, having followed the quay and walked the length of the Thames, crossed Westminster Bridge, and he found himself at last in front of Lambeth Palace. A considerable crowd of people, artisans, workmen, merchants, idlers, began to scatter and disperse. Some stopped to talk, others left; they saw that something had come to an end, that the spectacle was closed, the excited curiosity was satisfied. The juggler’s carpet was gathered up, the lottery drawn, the quarrel ended, the prince or the criminal had passed; there was nothing more to see, and every one was anxious to depart—careless crowd, restless and ignorant, which the barking of a dog will arrest, and a great misfortune cannot detain! “Here it is, sir,” said the woman, stopping; “this is Lambeth Palace just in front of you, but I don’t believe you can get in.” And she pointed to a large enclosure and a great door, before which was walking up and down a yeoman armed with an arquebuse. Standing close to one of the sections of the door was seen a beautiful young girl, dressed in black, and wearing on her head a low velvet hat worn by the women of that period. A gold chain formed of round beads, from which was suspended a little gold medal ornamented with a pearl pendant, hung around her neck, and passed under her chemisette of plaited muslin bordered with narrow lace. She Pierre Gilles approached these two persons. “Margaret,” said Roper, “come.” “No,” said the young girl, “I will not go; I shall remain here until night. I will see him as he goes out; I will see him once more; I will see that ignoble woollen covering they have given him for a cloak; I will see his pale and weary face. He will say: ‘Margaret is standing there!’ He will see me.” “That will only give him pain,” replied Roper. “Perhaps,” said the young girl. “Indeed, it is very probable!” And a bitter smile played around her lips. “If you love him,” replied Roper, “you should spare him this grief.” “I love him, Roper; you have said well! I love him! What would you wish? This is my father!” Pierre Gilles, who had advanced, seeking some means of entering, paused to look at the young girl, and was struck by the resemblance he found between her features and those of her father, his friend, who was still young when he knew him at Antwerp. “Can this be Margaret?” murmured the stranger. “Who has pronounced my name?” asked the young girl, turning haughtily around. Pierre Gilles stood in perfect amazement. “How much she resembles him! Pardon me, damsel,” he said; “I have been trying to get into this place to see my friend, Sir Thomas More.” “Your friend!” replied Margaret, advancing immediately toward him. Then a feeling of suspicion arrested her. She stepped back and fixed her eyes on the stranger, whose Flemish costume attracted her attention. “And who,” she said, “can you be? Oh! no; he is not here. Sir Thomas More has no friends. You are mistaken, sir,” she continued; “it is some one else you seek. My father—no, my father has no longer any friends; has any one when he is in irons, when the scaffold is erected, the axe sharpened, and the executioner getting ready to do his work?” “What do you say?” cried the stranger, turning pale. “Is he, then, already condemned?” “He is going to be!” “No, no, he shall not be! Pierre Gilles will demand, will beseech; they will give him to him; he will pay for him with his gold, with his life-blood, if necessary.” “Pierre Gilles!” cried Margaret; and she threw herself on the neck of the stranger, and clasped him in her arms. “Pierre Gilles! Pierre Gilles! it is you who love my father. Ah! listen to me. He is up there; this is the second time they have made him appear before them. Alas! doubtless to-day will be the last; for they are tired—tired of falsehoods, artifices, and base, vile manoeuvres; they are tired of offering him gold and silver—he who wants only heaven and God; they are weary of urging, of tormenting this saintly bishop and this upright man, in order to extort from them an oath which no Christian can or ought to take. Then it will be necessary for these iniquitous and purchased judges to wash out their shame in blood. They must crush these witnesses to the truth, these TO BE CONTINUED. Sermons on the Sacraments. By Thomas Watson, Master of St. John’s College, Cambridge, Dean of Durham, and the last Catholic Bishop of Lincoln. First printed in 1558, and now reprinted in modern spelling. With a Preface and Biographical Notice of the Author by the Rev. T. E. Bridgett, of the Congregation of the Most Holy Redeemer. London: Burns & Oates. 1876. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.) After Father Bridgett’s beautiful work, Our Lady’s Dowry, we may be sure that whatever he puts forth, whether original or edited, will repay perusal. He has a penchant for forgotten treasures of England’s Catholic past, and spares himself no pains to give us the benefit of his researches. Not content with editing the present volume, he has gone to the trouble of a biographical notice, and quite a long one, of his author. We cannot do better than let him speak for himself in the opening lines of his preface: “Here is a volume of sermons, printed more than three centuries ago in black-letter type and uncouth spelling, and the existence of which is only known to a few antiquarians. Why, it will be asked, have I reprinted it in modern guise and sought to rescue it from oblivion? I have done so for its own sake and for the sake of its author. It is a book that deserves not to perish, and which would not have been forgotten, as it is, but for the misfortune of the time at which it appeared. It was printed in the last year of Queen Mary, and the change of religion under Elizabeth made it almost impossible to be procured, and perilous to be preserved. The number of English Catholic books is not so great that we can afford to lose one so excellent as this. “But even had it less intrinsic value, it is the memorial of a great man, little known, indeed, because, through the iniquity of the times, he lacked a biographer. I am confident that any one who will read the following memoir, imperfect as it is, will acknowledge that I have not been indulging an antiquarian fancy, but merely paying, as far as I could, a debt of justice long due, in trying to revive the memory of the last Catholic bishop of Lincoln.” Father Bridgett further explains that these sermons belong to the class which “are written that they may be preached by others.” Their author undertook to write them as a “Manual of Catholic Doctrine on the Sacraments,” and in compliance with the order of a council under Cardinal Pole in December, 1555. “Being intended for general preaching—or rather, public reading—these sermons are, of course, impassioned and colorless. We cannot judge from them of Bishop Watson’s own style of preaching. We cannot gather from them, as from the sermons of Latimer and Leaver, pictures of the manners and passions of the times. They scarcely ever reflect Watson’s personal character, except by the very absence of invective and the simple dignity which distinguishes them. As specimens of old English before the great Elizabethan era, they will be interesting to students of our language, especially as being the work of one of the best classical scholars of the day” (Preface, p. xii.). Father Bridgett characterizes these sermons as “eminently patristic.” “I have counted,” he says, “more than four hundred marginal references to the fathers and ecclesiastical writers; and I may say that they are in great measure woven out of the Scriptures and the fathers.” From what we have had time to read of these pages, we have been struck with at once the fulness and simplicity of the instructions they contain. The style, too, in our eyes, has both unction and charm. We thank Father Bridgett that he has “exactly reproduced the original, with the exception of the spelling.” “No educated reader,” he says, “will find much difficulty in the old idiom. The sentences, indeed, are rather long, like those of a legal document; yet they are simple in construction, and, when read aloud, they can be broken up by a skilful reader without the addition of a word.” We will only add that, perhaps, not the least attractive feature of these sermons (to the modern reader) is their brevity. The Constitutional and Political History of the United States. By Dr. H. von Holst, Professor at the University of Freiburg. Translated from the German by John J. Lalor and Alfred B. Mason. 1750-1833. State Sovereignty and Slavery. Chicago: Callaghan & Co. 1876. The efforts of Europeans to study and write upon the American Constitution and the political life of our people, though partial and somewhat prejudiced, have always been interesting and instructive. De Tocqueville, in his Democracy in America, studied rather to teach us than to learn from our theory of government and its practice, and this from his transient observations as a tourist. Professor von Holst resided in this country from 1867 to 1872, and thus may be supposed to have studied more profoundly our system, and to have seen more thoroughly our practice. No one, however, could rightly judge of our political history or the system of our government who had not seen and known us both before and after our civil war. De Tocqueville saw us before, and Von Holst after, that great crisis in our history. Hence we think that both authors should be read, in order to appreciate the efforts of learned and distinguished foreigners to comment upon a theme so difficult to any European. This is especially desirable now, as in this case the Frenchman and the German are not admirers of each other’s respective political systems. The present volume, however, is able, spirited, and well written, and shows a remarkable acquaintance with our history and institutions, and with the lives and characters of our public men. The author is not in love with our government, and yet is not without sympathy for it and for our people. He is, no doubt, more in sympathy with our present than with our past. From his vigorously-written pages Americans may learn something of their virtues and of their faults. The animus and style of the work might be inferred from the title of the second chapter: “The Worship of the Constitution, and its real Character.” We have often been accused of making the Constitution our political bible, and Washington our political patron saint. Such seems to be the impression of Professor von Holst. But it must be said that his able and interesting work is well calculated to promote the study of the American republican form of government; for we are certainly a terra incognita to most Europeans. Having ably studied his subject, he has ably and learnedly communicated his researches to his countrymen and to the world. His work will appear in a series of volumes, of which we have now only the first, and the English translation will hereafter appear in this country simultaneously with the original German publications. The work seems to deal exclusively with political questions, and handles them ably. We commend its perusal to our readers. Alice Leighton. A Tale of the Seventeenth Century. London: Burns & Oates. 1876. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. This story of the wars between Roundhead and Cavalier will prove an agreeable disappointment to the reader who contrives to wade through its first few pages, which are rather silly. We tremble for the fate of a story which in the very first page tells us of its youthful hero: “His brow was, however, clouded, Nothing could be more inauspicious than such a beginning; and yet as one reads on all this clap-trap disappears, and a very interesting story, though by no means of the highest order, unfolds itself. There is abundance of incident, battle, hair-breadth escape, varying fortunes, misery, ending with the final happiness of those in whom we are chiefly interested. Some of the characters are very well drawn, and the author shows a competent knowledge of the scenes, events, and period in which the story is laid. It affords a healthy and agreeable contrast to the psychological puzzles generally given us nowadays as novels. It looks to us as though the writer were a new hand. If so, Alice Leighton affords every promise of very much better work in a too weak department of letters—Catholic fiction. If the writer will only banish for ever that antiquated deus or dea ex machinÂ, the witch, especially if she speak with a Scotch accent, give much more care than is shown in the present volume to English, not force fun for fun’s sake, we shall hope soon to welcome a new volume from a lively, pleasant, and powerful pen. “My Own Child.” A Novel. By Florence Marryat. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1876. Florence Marryat has become, and deservedly, quite a popular novelist. She has, we understand, become something in our opinion very much better—a Catholic. We see no reason why her faith should interfere with the interest or power of her stories. On the contrary, it should steady her hand, widen her vision, chasten her thought, give a new meaning to very old scenes and types of character; and we have no doubt at all that such will be the case. My Own Child is neither her best story nor her worst. It is a very sweet and pathetic one, simple in construction and plot, yet full of sad interest throughout, lightened here and there by bits of lively description or pictures of quaint character. It is easy to recognize a practised hand in it. The chief characters of the story are Catholics. We have only one fault to find, but that a very serious one. It is too bad to make a young lady, and so charming a young lady as May Power is represented to be, talk slang. Where in the world did she learn it, this bright, beaming, Irish, Catholic girl? Certainly not from her mother, for she never indulges in it, and surely not from the good Sisters in Brussels by whom she was educated. Yet she bounds out of the convent perfect in—slang! For instance: “‘I’ll get some nice, jolly fellow to look after it [her property] for us, mother.’ ‘You’ll never get another Hugh!’ I exclaimed indignantly. ‘Well, then, we’ll take the next best fellow we can find,’ replied my darling.” The first “best fellow,” the Hugh alluded to, happened to be the “darling’s” dead father. The same darling, only just out of convent, is anxious to make her first appearance “with a splash and a dash.” It is only natural that she should discover her mother looking “rather peaky” when that lady is threatened with an illness that endangers her life. This is to be regretted. Young ladies are much more acceptable as young ladies than when indulging in language supposed to be relegated to “fast” young women. Slang is bad enough in men’s mouths, whether in or out of books; but, spoken by a woman, it at once places her without the pale of all that is sweet and pure and calculated to inspire that admiration and reverence in men which are the crown and pride of a Christian woman’s life. Miss Marryat is clever enough to dispense with such poor material. Meanwhile, what becomes of this slangy young lady the reader will discover for himself. THE |
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