Catholic World, Vol. 24, October, 1876, to March, 1877 / A Monthly Magazine of General Literature and Science

CATHOLIC WORLD. (5)

VOL. XXIV., No. 143.—FEBRUARY, 1877.

FREDERIC OZANAM.[148]

Ozanam’s name and writings were made known to the portion of the English-reading world interested in the Oxford movement by the brilliant pages of the British Critic more than thirty years ago, while he was still in the bloom of his youthful fame and success as a professor of the Sorbonne. The preface to his biography says that he is not widely known in England, and the same is probably true of America, speaking in reference to non-Catholics. Among Catholic scholars here, and we fancy in England also, his name and works are well known and in high repute. They deserve, nevertheless, to be better known and more highly honored. There is scarcely a purer or more brilliant career to be found recorded in the annals of Catholic literature in this century than his. He was the founder of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul—a sufficient title to honor and gratitude. He was a model of moral loveliness and Christian virtue, a type of the true Catholic gentleman, adorning a high sphere in society, and at the same time heartily devoted to the welfare of the humblest, the poorest, and even the most degraded and vicious classes. He was a thoroughly learned man in his own department, a captivating writer, a master of the minds and hearts of the studious youth of France, a knightly champion of the faith without fear and without reproach, an author of classical works of peculiar and enduring value. The charm of his private, personal character, as a child, a friend, a husband and father, a member of the social circle, equals the lustre of his public career. Spotless and fascinating from the beginning to the end of his life, the bright and winning grace of the figure which he presents in the history of his life receives dignity and pathos from the suffering which overshadowed and eclipsed his light before its meridian was attained. He was born in 1813; his professorship at the Sorbonne filled the space between his twenty-seventh and thirty-ninth years of life—that is, from 1839 to 1852—and he died the next year at the age of forty, after seven years of repeated attacks of illness and a continued decline. We will pass in rapid review the incidents of this brief but fruitful career, and endeavor to place before our readers a reduced sketch of the character and work of Frederic Ozanam, as faithfully and artistically portrayed by his accomplished biographer.

The family records of the Ozanams trace their origin to Jeremiah Hozannam, a Jew, who was prÆtor in Julius CÆsar’s thirty-eighth legion, and received the township of Boulignieux, near Lyons, as his share in the military partition of the conquered Gallic territory. His lineal descendant, Samuel Hozannam, was converted by St. Didier in the seventh century. The name was altered to Ozanam by the grandfather of the subject of the present notice. Dr. Ozanam, Frederic’s father, was a distinguished man, and both of Frederic’s parents were persons of remarkable virtue and piety. He was born in Milan, but educated at Lyons, every possible care being taken of his intellectual, moral, and religious culture. In childhood and youth he was delicate, precocious, exemplary in morals and religion, extremely diligent and successful in his studies, and every way admirable and lovable in character. At one time during his boyhood he was tormented by temptations against faith, which were so rife, and to a multitude of the studious youth of France so dangerous, at that epoch. To him they were not dangerous, but salutary; for they had no other effect except to stimulate him to a study of the rational evidences of the Catholic religion, and to leave in his heart a vivid and tender sympathy for the victims of doubt and error. After a very thorough course of classical study under an eminent teacher—the AbbÉ Noirot—which he completed at seventeen years of age, Frederic Ozanam was placed in a lawyer’s office at Lyons, where he remained one year, employing all his leisure time in linguistic and literary studies. Before completing his nineteenth year he was sent to study at the great Law-School of Paris, where he remained six years, after which, at the age of twenty-five, he was admitted to the bar and to the degree of Doctor in Letters, taking the next year his degree of Doctor of Laws. Ozanam had studied well his jurisprudence, and was perfectly competent to practise his profession, or even to hold a chair as professor in a law-school. This was not, however, his vocation, and he had little taste or inclination for such a life. His legal career was, therefore, very brief and only an episode in his life. In respect to his true vocation he had many doubts and anxieties. He was extremely averse to the thought of marriage, and, being so fervently religious, he naturally felt certain predispositions toward the sacerdotal or monastic state. He visited the Grande Chartreuse, corresponded with his friend Lacordaire, and held many consultations with his director. The final result was that he chose the profession of literature, and married, with the full and hearty approbation of his friend and counsellor, the AbbÉ Noirot. His chief end in choosing his profession was the advancement of the cause of religion and the church; and the generous aspirations, directed by the most elevated and enlightened views, which developed into so glorious and successful, albeit in time so brief a fulfilment, already preoccupied his mind and heart from the time that he was seventeen years old.

In point of fact, he had really found his vocation at that time, and, notwithstanding his apparent divergence to the legal profession and his various waverings of purpose, he actually began to prosecute it steadily by his studies and by such active efforts as his age and condition permitted, from that early but prematurely ripe period of his life. The programme of his studies and literary labors is laid down in a letter to a friend, written when he was seventeen years old. Without neglecting his professional studies, he was able, thanks to his wonderful mental gifts, his retentive memory, and his habits of intense, continuous application, as well as to the definiteness and unity of the scope and plan which he followed, to acquire that solid and accurate erudition which furnished the material fused and moulded into such beautiful forms by the fire of his eloquence and the constructive art of his imagination.

The state of things among men of science and letters, and the youth studying at the great schools, when Frederic Ozanam went to Paris, was, in a religious aspect, most dreary. His father had feared to send him there on account of the infidelity and immorality with which the whole atmosphere was poisoned, but had at last resolved to trust to the firmness of his principles and the purity of his character. His trust was fully justified. During his student-life Ozanam began, in concert with a few other young men like-minded with himself, that counter-revolution or crusade for the restoration of the old religion of France, among the young students and also among the working-men of Paris, which we devoutly trust will end in the fulfilment of De Maistre’s prophecy that within this present century France will be once again completely Christianized.

There is nothing more melancholy in all history, after the apostasy of Juda from the standard of her Lion, than the lapse of France from her fidelity to the cross and to the vows of that national baptism in the deepest, purest waters of Catholicity, from which she derived her life, her strength, and her unparalleled glory in Christendom. It is like the fall of Solomon, so beautiful, so wise, so royal in magnanimity and splendor, so favored of God, so renowned as the builder of the Temple and the palaces of Sion, degrading those later years which ought to have been crowned with a venerable majesty by turning his heart to strange women and to the abominations of the heathen. It is a grief almost without consolation, and accompanied by surprise and indignation, that a people like that of France, and especially its intelligent and educated portion, living amid the monumental glories of their Catholic history, could be insensible to their own honor, mock at all which makes their nation venerable, destroy the noble work of their ancestors, and, like the Israelites defiling themselves with the base heathen of Chanaan, turn away to the worship of the fetich of the Revolution. How much more deeply must the bosoms of those Frenchmen who are not degenerate be stirred by such emotions! There were always among the sons of Israel of old elect souls, the true children of the promise, such as Joseph, Gideon, Samuel, David, Isaias, Daniel, Judas Machabeus, who burned with zeal and holy enthusiasm for the cause of the God of their fathers; and they never ceased to rise up when they were most needed until the final apostasy of the nation. The people of France have never apostatized from Christ as a body, although a great multitude of apostates have deserted the faith and loyalty of their ancestors, and the revolution which they stirred up under the traitorous banner of Voltaire, “the wickedest, the meanest, and the most unpatriotic Frenchman of the last century,”[149] has swayed to a great extent the politics and education of France for a hundred years. Paris has gone far beyond France in this road of apostasy, but even there impiety has never gained a complete and lasting conquest. On the contrary, martyrdom, heroic charity, and intellectual valor in the sacred cause have made it their most illustrious palestra, and, we trust, have expiated the guilt of that peerless city, and averted the doom which would seem to await it if the divine justice should exact the due meed of retribution.

Among the Élite of the youth of France, the class most immediately and universally exposed to the deadly influence of impious literature and education and withdrawn from the control of the clergy, gifted and pure souls have arisen, filled with the inspiration of genius and religion, like Daniel and his companions in the captivity, who have escaped the violence of fire and stopped the mouths of lions. First among these is Chateaubriand, who in his old age honored Frederic Ozanam with his special friendship and was loved reverently by him in return. Notwithstanding a short period of defection from the faith, and considerable faults in his character and writings, Chateaubriand deserves to be called the father of the new generation of Catholic youth in France. There is no similar autobiography of more exquisite charm than the history of that childhood and youth in which this great man shows us how he was trained and formed to that peculiar type of genius which so captivated, and to a great extent re-formed in a Catholic mould, the intellectual and imaginative youth of France. Lamartine deserves a considerable meed of recognition, also, for services of the same general nature, though he was far less true and constant to his first loyalty. Victor Hugo promised in the beginning to devote a genius of a much higher order than either of these two eminent men possessed to the true welfare of his country and mankind, but unhappily was seduced by the fell spirit of the Revolution. Even he shows a reaction from the unmitigated, fanatical hatred of the Catholic past of France and Christendom which animates the worst section of the anti-Catholic sect. The moderates or liberals, the men of compromise between the revolutionary section and some kind of vague natural religion or philosophy under a spiritual or semi-Christian semblance, who have had the predominance at Paris in government, education, and the general leadership of the public affairs of France, since the time of the First Empire, have also belonged to a half-way party, in which the effect of resurging Catholicity is visible. They have been allied with the outside row of Catholics, who were either only nominally such, or, if really, inconsistent and weak in their allegiance to the church. Their position presented, therefore, a much weaker and more easily assailable front to Catholic aggression than one more extreme and openly revolutionary would have done. Nevertheless, the young world of Paris students were as effectually, and more quietly and irresistibly, alienated from real faith in the religion of their baptism, and every principle or duty of practical Christian morals and piety, by their utterly secular and free-thinking education in the public schools, so long as no counter-influence was brought to bear upon them, as if the Catholic religion had been proscribed by penal laws. It was possible, however, to bring this influence to bear upon them. The liberty granted to indifferentism, infidelity, and atheism might be made use of to the advantage of Catholicity. In the schools where free thought and free expression were a law, the possessors might be invaded and overthrown by intellectual and moral weapons, if there were found aggressors able to wield them and bold enough to enter the arena. On such a battle-ground, where the field is in the domain of history and philosophy, where reason is umpire, and where facts and arguments, eloquence and logic, appeals to the intellect and the heart, the lessons of the past and the examples of those men to whom the verdict of time—the most impartial of judges—has decreed an apotheosis, are the arsenal of the combatants, the Catholic cause must win, if its champions are worthy of their cause.

When Frederic Ozanam came to Paris the other side had the field to themselves, like the challengers of Ashby-de-la-Zouche on the morning of the tournament, before the young Ivanhoe rode into the lists. The venerable Sorbonne, that ancient shrine of sacred learning, had become a theatre, where shallow, rationalistic philosophers like Jouffroy declaimed against revelation and the Catholic Church. Ozanam soon found a small number of resolute, high-spirited young men like himself, who had been well trained at home in their religion and were determined to adhere to it faithfully. Under his leadership they began to send in objections to the statements and arguments of their infidel professors, which necessarily commanded some attention and respect and had influence with their fellow-students. Jouffroy himself, at the hour of death abjured infidelity, received the Sacraments devoutly, and declared that one half-page of the catechism was worth more than all the philosophical systems. It was at this time that Ozanam founded the Society of St. Vincent de Paul. The AbbÉ Lacordaire, the AbbÉ Gerbet, and other eminent priests of Paris, and even the archbishop, interested themselves in the band of young Catholic students, and under their guidance the career of their leader, Frederic Ozanam, became, during his whole student-life, a truly noble and successful apostleship. Thus the way was prepared for him to carry on the same work in a much more efficacious manner as a professor at the Sorbonne.

In the year 1839 Ozanam, being then twenty-six years of age, a professorship of philosophy at Orleans and one of commercial law at Lyons were offered him, and the latter appointment accepted. He resigned it, however, after one year, in order to accept the position of assistant-professor of foreign literature at the Sorbonne. At this time an additional professorship of foreign literature at Lyons was offered to him, which would have secured to him, together with the law-professorship, an income of $3,000 a year. He was just about to be married to a young lady of Lyons. Nevertheless, he chose the position of assistant to the profesor of foreign literature at the Sorbonne, although it was a precarious one, and brought him an income of less than $500, in order that he might be better able to carry out the one noble purpose to which he had devoted his life. Together with his professorship at the Sorbonne he held also, for a few years, another at the CollÉge Stanislas, which he was obliged to relinquish when, in 1844, on the vacancy of the chair of foreign literature at the Sorbonne, he received the appointment to fill it from the government. For all these early and brilliant successes he was in great measure indebted to the warm friendship and patronage of M. Cousin and M. Villemain, a fact most honorable to these distinguished men, who, as is well known, were leaders of the rationalist school, yet nevertheless, like the eminent Protestant, M. Guizot, really carried out in respect to Catholics their professions of liberality. M. Ozanam continued to fulfil his duties at the Sorbonne during twelve years, with some considerable interruptions caused by illness. His published works are chiefly composed of the substance of the lectures which he delivered.

The great idea which was before the mind of Ozanam from the period of his early youth was, the justification of the Catholic religion by the philosophy of universal history. Eventually, he was led to concentrate his attention principally upon the period embraced between the fifth and fourteenth centuries, with especial reference to the German empire and to the mediÆval philosophy reflected in the poems of Dante, whose strong attachment to the German party in Italy is well known, though perhaps not so generally well understood. Frederic Schlegel has said: “It is pre-eminently from the study of history that all endeavors after a higher mental culture derive their fixed centre and support, viz., their common reference to man, his destinies and energies. History, if it does not stop at the mere enumeration of names, dates, and external facts; if it seizes on and sets forth the spirit of great times, of great men, and great events, is in itself a true philosophy, intelligible to all, and certain, and in its manifold applications the most instructive. Then history, if not in itself the most brilliant, is yet the most indispensable link in that beautiful chain which encompasses man’s higher intellectual culture; and history it is which binds the others more closely together. It is the great merit of our age to have renovated the study of history, and to have cultivated it with extraordinary zeal. Within the last two or three decades alone so much has been achieved and produced in this department, that historical knowledge has been perhaps as much extended in that short space of time as formerly in many centuries.”[150] The scope and solution of universal history are found in the history of Christianity viewed in connection with the Judaic and patriarchal epochs of revealed religion which preceded the advent of the Messias. The most important portion of Christian history is that which relates to Western Christendom, the European family of nations which grew up under the immediate spiritual and temporal authority of the popes. This was the true civiltÀ cattolica, the millenial kingdom of Christ on earth, whose rise, progress, and gradual decadence occupied the space between the fifth and sixteenth centuries, whose remnants are all that has any moral grandeur or value in the modern age, whose restoration and triumph under a new form are the only future hope of humanity.

The foundations of heresy and infidelity are laid in the falsification and perversion of history, and in the general ignorance of historical facts which opens the way for sophists to spin their webs of lies around the deluded minds of the multitude. To find some other source of the greatness, virtue, happiness, evolution in the line of its destiny, already actually exhibited in its history by the human race, especially its elect portion, and still possible in futurity, besides the revealed religion and Catholic church of God, is the problem of the anti-Catholic, anti-Christian, anti-theistic sophists. Germany is their principal territory, the Gath and Ascalon of the Philistines who defy the armies of the Living God with their weapons of erudition and reasoning that are like a weaver’s beam. From the days of the old secular and ecclesiastical princes of Germany who revolted against the supremacy of Rome, down to Luther, his associates and successors, even to our modern German sophists, apostates and persecutors; the pretence of an autochthonous culture has been set up for Germany with a degree of pride, arrogance, and insolence which has no parallel, and is frequently so offensive and boastful as to be ridiculous not only in the eyes of the rest of the world but in those of all sensible and catholic-minded Germans. Christianity is considered by men of this school as the cause of a decline from the autocthonous civilization. War with the Christianity of the Latin races, and a return to unalloyed Teutonism, are regarded as the conditions of a magnificent future development, political, scientific, and literary, which shall create a German empire in every respect supreme mistress of the modern world.

Ozanam’s chief object was to combat this claim by showing, not that Germany has nothing to be proud of and no greatness to aspire after, but that she is indebted for her past and present glory, and must be indebted for any fulfilment of a glorious destiny in time to come, to Christianity and Roman unity, without which the Germans would have remained always, and will again become, barbarians. We must refer the reader to Miss O’Meara’s interesting pages for a fuller account of the way in which Ozanam prepared himself for his task, and afterwards fulfilled it by his lectures on German history.

Schlegel had given him a brilliant example of the way in which history can be brought up to that high standard of scientific, ethical, and literary excellence which is set forth in the quotation we have made above from his lectures. The value and practical utility of the ideas there presented and illustrated so nobly by the literary career of Ozanam cannot be too much insisted upon. History is emphatically the modern field most necessary and advantageous for Catholic polemics. The history of particular epochs, of special classes and orders in society, of individual men of mark, of institutions, of branches of science, art, or learning—in a word, of every kind of topic which can be made distinct and interesting by being localized, limited in respect to time, or otherwise so brought within clear and defined boundaries that it becomes vivid and real to the intellect and imagination—is that which we have specially within our intention. Moreover, the charms of style are essentially requisite. Happily, we have begun to supply the dearth of such books in the English language, partly by such as are originally written in English, partly by translations. John Henry Newman has given us a certain quantity of historical writing worthy of comparison with “Livy’s pictured page,” and justly meriting for him the title, so felicitously invented by an Italian critic, of “the Claude Lorraine of English literature.” The accomplished authoress of Christian Schools and Scholars is another skilful miner in the gold-fields of Catholic history; and Mrs. Hope, also, has shown in her volumes on the conversion of the Teutons and Anglo-Saxons how specially adapted to labor successfully in this department are cultivated women. Montalembert’s Monks of the West is an unrivalled masterpiece, as all know; and if we were to catalogue all the various pieces of historical composition on similar topics to be found in recent European literature, enough of them would be found to make a small library. All books of this kind in the English language would, however, make but a small collection, merely enough for a nucleus of a library of Catholic historical literature. The educated and reading classes in England and the United States have been, within a very recent period, shockingly ignorant of the history of all except a few nations during a few epochs, in regard to which they have received a certain amount of information from popular works, mixed up with a great amount of error and misrepresentation. There has doubtless been an improvement slowly taking place for the last thirty years, and becoming continually more rapid as it advances. Yet, rating this improvement at the highest value it can possibly be imagined to have, the amount of knowledge, especially in regard to the real, genuine history of Christendom, which is current among the readers of only English books, or even accessible to them, is lamentably small. Even the most of those who are supposed to know something of foreign literature may, without injustice, be taxed with the same lack of information. We consider, therefore, that the example of Ozanam is one which has a special fitness in it to allure and stimulate those whose vocation it is to give instruction, by lectures or writings, to a zealous imitation. There are Australian and Californian mines waiting for those who will work them, in which those who have not the ability to dig out great masses of the golden ore may find nuggets and gold-dust in abundance to increase the common treasure in general circulation. Historical works of original and thorough research are wanted. Where translations from German, French, and Italian works suffice, let them suffice, and original authors take up new topics. Would that, even by the easy method of translation from foreign languages, our English historical literature might be enriched, and that the taste for solid reading were sufficiently diffused to enable enterprising publishers to employ the hundreds of persons able and willing to undertake this work! Besides these more extensive historical works, there is a great need for others of lesser magnitude, for which the materials already exist in abundance. All that is necessary to make these rich materials available is, that they be worked up by those who possess the art of conveying instruction and imparting delight to inquisitive minds by the skilful use of their vernacular idiom in a way suited to the capacity and taste of their listeners or readers. Teachers in colleges and schools who are able to lecture to their pupils will, in our opinion, stimulate their minds to thought and study much more easily and efficaciously by lectures on topics of this kind than by adhering exclusively to the mere class routine. And we venture to suggest also to those who give lectures to literary associations or general audiences, that they would do well to exchange their usually trite and abstract topics of vague and general declamation for specific and individual subjects taken from the historical domain. We may say the same to those who undertake to write books, or articles for the periodicals. And here it occurs to our memory to refer to certain historical and biographical articles which have appeared in some of our magazines as specimens and illustrations. The CiviltÀ Cattolica has published a long series of brief but remarkably accurate and graphic historical sketches of the lives and reigns of the Sovereign Pontiffs, under the title of I Destini di Roma. The Month has repeatedly given short articles of the same kind, either singly or serially, which are perfect models of the popular historical style. Our children and young people, and indeed all people whatever who can be induced to hear or read anything instructive, with the exception of a small class of severely-disciplined minds, must be charmed in order to be taught. Truth must be made visible; in concrete, distinct, and brilliant pictures, images, representations of actual realities, living examples; as a splendid form in symmetrical figures. This is the reason why works of imaginative genius are so keenly relished by the multitude, and especially those fictitious narratives called novels and romances, whose particular form is most easily apprehended by the common imagination. Fiction, in so far as it is constructed according to the rules of true art, is but a shadow of real life. The reality is far more interesting. Compendiums and textbooks must indeed be dry, and they are necessary, as grammars and dictionaries are both extremely dry and extremely necessary. But, besides these dry skeletons of history, we need other books in which the epic and lyric harmony and dramatic life of man’s variegated action on the earth are reproduced—works which bear the same relation to dry annals that the Æneid or the Cid sustain to Latin and French grammar. They should be composed with such a charm of style that an intelligent boy or girl would eagerly take them under a tree of a fine summer-day, and beguile delightfully a long afternoon in their perusal, if they are for juvenile readers; and if they are of a more ambitious aim, that they allure their readers to burn the midnight oil over their pages. Nor would we exclude historical romances from the category of useful and instructive literature, if they are constructed in conformity to the truth of history and inculcate wholesome moral lessons.

It is an error to consider literature as merely a means of instruction for a secular purpose or of transitory pleasure, and to confine the effort at cultivating the spiritual faculties in view of the soul’s everlasting destiny, to the use of means directly religious. This is one form of the erroneous doctrine that the temporal order ought to be separated from the spiritual order, and therefore education be secularized. If there are any who think that the clergy have no interest in any but their own technical, professional studies, and that catechisms, didactic sermons, ascetic books, and biographies of saints written in that formal method which is so inexpressibly unnatural and tedious, with virtues tied up in separate bundles and commonplace dissertations overloading the narrative, are the only and sufficient means of salvation, we might say to them: Look at the Bible, and study the method which the divine Wisdom adopted. It is a book of history, poetry, eloquence; with little of professedly abstract, didactic instruction. It is an inspired literature, and the sermons of our Lord even are thrown into a popular and concrete form which addresses the imagination more directly than the understanding. The Bible, as well as nature, reason, and experience, teaches us the practical lesson that for the young and for the multitude object-teaching is the proper and only successful method. The divine philosophy, as well as the human, must be taught by example, and history is philosophy teaching by examples. In the history of Christendom, both public and private, the sacred history of the Old and New Testament is continued. The church is the spouse of Christ. The Evangelists paint the picture of the bridegroom, and Catholic historians of the bride. To win admiration and love for her, it is enough to represent her as she is.

Frederic Ozanam was inspired with this idea, which was infused into his soul by the Holy Spirit who consecrated him to his high vocation. He devoted himself to his literary and historical labors as a professor at the Sorbonne, not for the sake of science, fame, or any earthly advantage or emolument, but as an apostle of the Catholic religion; that he might win the studious youth of Paris to love Catholic truth and return to the church of their ancestors. For fifty years no Catholic lecturer, speaking as a Catholic, had been heard in that ancient, desecrated temple of the Christian philosophy of the glorious days gone by of France. The voice of Ozanam was heard, without the slightest flattening of its Catholic tone, with no timid reticence of his Catholic principles, and it captivated that crowd of turbulent, unbelieving youth by its magic eloquence. His biographer tells us:

“No man in his position was ever so much beloved in Paris; it was almost an adoration. After hanging upon his lips at the Sorbonne, bursting out every now and then, as if in spite of themselves, into sudden gusts of applause, and then hushing one another for fear they should lose one of the master’s words, his young audience would follow him out of the lecture-hall, shouting and cheering, putting questions, and elbowing their way up for a word of recognition, while a band of favored ones trooped on with him to his home across the gardens. They never suspected what an additional fatigue this affectionate demonstration was to the professor, already exhausted by the preceding hour and a half’s exertion, with its laborious proximate preparation. No matter how tired he was, they were never dismissed; he welcomed their noisy company, with its eager talk, its comments and questions, as if it were the most refreshing rest. There was, indeed, only one reward that Ozanam coveted more; this was when some young soul, who had come to the lecture in doubt or unbelief, suddenly moved by the orator’s exposition of the faith, as it was embodied or shadowed forth in his subject, opened his eyes to the truth, and, like the blind man in the Gospel, cried out, ‘giving thanks.’

“One day, on coming home from the Sorbonne, the following note was handed to him: ‘It is impossible that any one could speak with so much fervor and heart without believing what he affirms. If it be any satisfaction—I will even say happiness—to you to know it, enjoy it to the full, and learn that before hearing you I did not believe. What a great number of sermons failed to do for me you have done in an hour: you have made me a Christian!… Accept this expression of my joy and gratitude.’ You have made me a Christian! Oh! let those who believe and love like Ozanam tell us what he felt, what joy inundated his soul when this cry went forth to him.”[151]

Ozanam’s authority over the students was never more strikingly manifested than on the occasion of the excitement caused by the public announcement which the celebrated historian Lenormant made of his conversion to Christianity. He had been an infidel, then a waverer between scepticism and faith, for years before he declared himself on the Catholic side. The leaders of the infidel party stirred up the students who attended his course of historical lectures to violent demonstrations of hostility. Ozanam espoused his cause with the most chivalrous courage, and took his place by the side of M. Lenormant in the lecture-hall. When the storm of yells, hisses, hootings, and blasphemous outcries burst forth in a deafening tumult, he sprang to his feet beside the lecturer with an attitude and a glance of indignant defiance which evoked at once from the fickle mob of youths a counter-storm of violent applause. A scornful gesture hushed them into a sudden silence, broken only by the thunder of Ozanam’s invectives and the eloquence of his appeals to their honor and the principles of liberty which they professed to respect, but had so grossly violated. He mastered them completely, and M. Lenormant then proceeded to deliver his lecture without interruption. The next day, however, through the influence of those consistent advocates of toleration, Michelet and Quinet, the course was closed by an order of the government.

The active labors of Ozanam were by no means restricted to his department of duty as a professor. He was a zealous leader in Catholic associations, a frequent contributor to the journals, an untiring workman in the cause of practical charity and all undertakings for the improvement of the class of artisans and laborers. It is impossible to make any accurate estimate of the actual results of his efforts in the cause of religion and humanity. In the words of his biographer: “The work that he accomplished in his sphere will never be known in this world. God only knows the harvest that others have reaped from his prodigal self-devotion, his knowledge, and that eloquence which so fully illustrated the ideal standard of human speech described by FÉnelon as ‘the strong and persuasive utterance of a soul nobly inspired.’ For Ozanam was not merely a teacher in the Sorbonne—he was a teacher of the world; and his influence shone out to the world through the minds and lives of numbers of his contemporaries who did not know that they were reflecting his light.”

What is awaiting France we know not. The world, but especially all Catholics throughout the whole extent of the church’s domain in the world, have watched with intensest interest the events which have occurred in France since the reign of Pius IX. began under such unwonted and marvellous auspices, and has continued so much beyond the period of human expectation. They have never ceased to pray for France, to sympathize with the heroic efforts of genuine French patriots, the true children of Charlemagne and St. Louis, and to watch anxiously for the time when the prognostic of the learned and eloquent Dr. Marshall shall be fulfilled: “When France falls upon her knees, let the enemies of France begin to tremble.” The blood of three martyred archbishops of Paris, the blood of Olivaint and his noble fellow-victims, the blood of Pimodan and those generous youth who fell at Castelfidardo, the chivalry of LamoriciÈre and La Charrette, the vows of the pilgrims of Lourdes and Paray-le-Monial, the valiant struggles of the champions of the faith, the prayers and sacrifices of that crowd of the noblest daughters of France which fills her renovated cloisters, cannot surely remain for ever powerless to lift the dark cloud which overhangs the kingdom of the fleurs-de-lis. There has been enough of the blood of the just poured out in France within the last century to redeem not only France but Christendom. If Christendom is to be regenerated, France must first come forth renewed out of her second baptism in blood and fire. The cry of anguish, though not of despair, which she sends up to heaven by the mouth of her eloquent spokesman, the bishop of the city of Joan of Arc, “OÙ allons nous?” must be answered: “We go to victory over traitors within and enemies without, and our triumph shall be that of the Catholic Church.”

Frederic Ozanam had once said to the young men of a literary circle: “Let us be ready to prove that we too have our battle-fields, and that, if need be, we can die on them.” In point of fact, he did really sacrifice his own life in the fulfilment of his task. Such a delicate physical constitution could not naturally long survive the intense, continuous strain to which it was subjected by a spirit which exercised a relentless despotism over the body. In a letter to his brother Charles he tells him, by way of encouraging him to follow his example, that in 1837, when he was preparing his examination for the higher degrees, he had, during five months, worked regularly ten hours, and during the last month fifteen, daily, without counting the time spent in classes. With much more naÏvetÉ than good sense, he observes that “one has to be prudent, so as not to injure one’s health by the pressure; but little by little the constitution grows used to it. We become accustomed to a severe active life, and it benefits the temper as much as the intellect.” Notwithstanding the remonstrances of friends, he continued almost the same extent of application to study, until his health gave way entirely; and even during the journeys he was obliged to take for relaxation he rather varied the kind of labor in which his restless mind engaged than exchanged it for rest and recreation. His first severe illness attacked him only four years after he began lecturing at the Sorbonne. This was followed at intervals by other attacks, and a general failure of health which obliged him to intermit his courses and take several journeys in France, Italy, England, and Spain, during which he gathered the materials of some of the most delightful of his minor works. It is a curious and characteristic incident of his visit to England, worth recording, that he was turned out of Westminster Abbey by the pompous beadle, whom all tourists must well remember, for kneeling down to pray at the tomb of Edward the Confessor. His last lecture at the Sorbonne was given some time during the spring of 1852. It was a dying effort. He had persisted in dragging himself to the lecture-hall while a remnant of strength remained, in spite of the entreaties of friends and medical advisers. At length he had been forced to take to his bed, exhausted with weakness and consumed by fever. His cruel and unreasonable pupils clamored at the deprivation of the intellectual banquet to which they had been accustomed, and, with the inconsiderate spirit of youth, accused him of neglecting his duty through self-indulgence. Ozanam heard of this, and, in spite of all remonstrances, he rose from his bed, was dressed and taken in a carriage to the Sorbonne. Pale and haggard, unable to walk without support, but with an eye blazing with unwonted fire, and a voice clear and shrill as a silver clarion, he sang his death-song amid enthusiastic applause.

As the peroration of his last speech and of his life he exclaimed: “Gentlemen, our age is accused of being an age of egotism; we professors, it is said, are tainted with the general epidemic; and yet it is here that we use up our health; it is here that we wear ourselves out. I do not complain of it; our life belongs to you; we owe it to you to our last breath, and you shall have it. For my part, if I die it will be in your service.” With ardent but foreboding congratulations and applauses, which all felt to be farewells, the students of the Sorbonne heard and saw the last of Ozanam. The finale of his career had been reached; his coursers touched the goal, and the wreath and palm were decreed by acclamation to the hero who bore them away to die. The next morning it was feared that he might not survive ten days. He lived, however, about sixteen months longer, wandering in company with his wife and little daughter, from Eaux-Bonnes to Biarritz, from Biarritz to the Pyrenees, to Spain, and at last to Italy, then to Marseilles, where he closed his earthly life on the Feast of the Nativity of Our Lady, 1853, surrounded by his relatives and friends, and by his brothers of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul. His published works fill eleven volumes of considerable size, and for a just appreciation of their character and value we refer the reader to the twenty-fifth chapter of Miss O’Meara’s biography.

We have endeavored to excite rather than to allay the curiosity of our readers, by merely designating the salient points of a life which is crowded with a great variety of traits and incidents such as make up a subject worthy to be handled by a skilful artist in the painting of character. We have not by any means exhausted the material furnished by the intelligent and graceful narrator of Ozanam’s life, or even touched upon those personal and private details of his domestic history which lend so poetic a charm to the story of his public career. Those in whom we have awakened an interest for one who presents the living ideal of a perfect Catholic layman in an exalted sphere of action, will defraud themselves grievously if they fail to make themselves more fully acquainted with it by the perusal of his biography. The author, although she now appears for the first time under her own proper name, is already known by her Life of Bishop Grant, published under the nom de plume of Grace Ramsay, and is a daughter of Dr. O’Meara, the author of Napoleon in Exile; or, a Voice from St. Helena. Her contributions to the pages of this magazine have been numerous and always considered as among the best of our literary articles. In the work we are reviewing she has done justice to the high estimate we had previously formed of her merit as a writer, and to her subject, the one most suited to call forth her power which she has thus far attempted. Besides a full knowledge of her subject; that ardent glow of admiration for the hero of her story which is so requisite, and is one of the special charms of portraits of noble men drawn by a feminine hand; and graphic power regulated by delicate and correct taste in delineation and description, the author has shown remarkable tact and good sense in respect to all those questions which have caused division and discussion between different Catholic parties in France. Without suppressing any part of the history of M. Ozanam and his period, or attempting to throw a veil over any of his opinions which involved him in the domestic controversies then existing, and not yet settled, respecting the relations of the Catholic cause and national politics, she has judiciously avoided taking the part of an advocate, and preserved the quiet, impartial attitude of a historian. We have occasionally noticed some evidences of haste, and neglect to put the last finishing touches upon the construction of sentences or the details of the narrative. We are also at a loss to understand the author’s motive for using certain French words, such as angoisse and dÉcouragement, rather than the corresponding Englishman terms. For the incorrect title on the back of the cover, Life and Works of F. Ozanam, we suppose the publisher is accountable; for the author has entitled her own work very properly on the title-page, Frederic Ozanam, Professor at the Sorbonne: His Life and Works—a phrase whose meaning is essentially changed by the inversion of its parts, and made to convey the impression that the complete works of Ozanam are contained in one small volume, together with his life. Apart from this blemish, which can be easily corrected, the mechanical execution of the work is neat and tasteful. The Life of Ozanam is another gem added to our small cabinet of treasures by the skill and industry of a gifted, cultivated woman. We trust the success of Miss O’Meara’s first appearance under her own name will encourage her to new efforts, and stimulate other women similarly gifted to follow her example by laboring in a department of literature for which they are specially competent. The example of Frederic Ozanam, mirrored in her clear, impartial pages, presents its own native, intrinsic beauty and splendor as a model for pure, disinterested, high-souled Catholic young men who aspire towards an ideal of true intellectual and moral greatness which is elevated and at the same time attainable in the laical state and a secular profession. It is to be hoped that the publication of this Life will make the Catholic students of England and the United States generally acquainted both with Ozanam’s beautiful character and with his thoroughly erudite, yet classically elegant and attractive, works on the history and literature of the middle ages.

[148] Frederic Ozanam, Professor at the Sorbonne: His Life and Works. By Kathleen O’Meara. Edinburgh: Edmonston & Douglas. 1876.

[149] Lady Georgiana Fullerton.

[150] Lectures on Modern History. Bohn’s Ed. pp. 1-3.

[151] P. 200.

Who has not heard of the Rock of Cashel—Cashel of the Kings? “The first object,” exclaimed Richard Lalor Sheil, “that in childhood I learned to admire was that noble ruin, an emblem as well as a memorial of Ireland, which ascends before us, at once a temple and a fortress, the seat of religion and nationality; where councils were held, where princes assembled; the scene of courts and of synods; and on which it is impossible to look without feeling the heart at once elevated and touched by the noblest as well as the most solemn recollections.” From whatever side the traveller approaches the ancient metropolis and residence of the kings of Munster, the first object to meet his eye is the Rock, which lifts itself above the surrounding country, as proud to wear its monumental crown. From the earliest times this hill seems to have been dedicated to religion. Its Round Tower, which is still entire, would lead us to associate it with the pagan rites of the ancient Irish; and the tradition which designates the Rock as the place where the kings of Munster were proclaimed confirms this view. It is certainly associated with the early dawn of Christianity in Ireland; for St. Patrick, St. Declan, St. Ailbe, St. Kiran, and other holy men held a synod in Cashel.

St. Patrick’s visit was in 448; he baptized Prince Ængus and held solemn feast in Cashel of the Kings “till all the land was clothed with Christ.” Here on the Rock he gave the shamrock its immortal fame:

“From the grass

The little three-leaved herb, stooping, I plucked,

And preached the Trinity.”

Without entering into the controversy concerning the origin of the Round Towers, we will take Cormac’s Chapel to be the most ancient Christian ruin on the Rock.

This stone-roofed church was built, as is generally supposed, by Cormac McCullenan, the famous king-bishop, who began to reign in the year 902. But Petrie is of opinion that we owe this chapel to Cormac MacCarthy, King of Munster, and that it is the Teampul Chormaic of whose solemn consecration by the archbishops and bishops of Munster, in presence of the priests, princes, and people, the Annals of Innisfallen make mention in 1134.

However this may be, all agree that the chapel is one of the most curious and interesting specimens of early Christian architecture in Ireland. Like all the stone-roofed chapels of the primitive Irish Church, it is divided into nave and chancel, with a tall, square tower at their northern and southern juncture. Within the southern tower, which on the outside is ornamented with six projecting bands, there is a stone staircase leading to apartments above the chapel said to have been occupied by King Cormac. These rooms receive the light through windows which are circular on the outside, but square within, and were heated by hot air, conveyed into them through flues in the wall—the first instance known to us of the use of a method of warming houses generally thought to be of very recent invention. The doorways leading into the chapel are in its northern and southern walls, and are richly adorned with columns, capitals, mouldings, and sculptured figures. On the lintel of the northern entrance there is a group in basso-relievo representing a Centaur in the act of shooting a lion which is about to devour some smaller animal that is crouching at its feet. This is supposed to represent the contest between paganism and Christianity for the possession of Ireland during the repeated invasions of the Danes.

The cathedral stands between the Round Tower and Cormac’s Chapel, embracing them in such way that they all seem to be but parts of one magnificent ruin. This church, which consists of a choir, nave, and transepts, with a square tower in the centre, was built by Donald O’Brien, King of Limerick, in the year 1169. Its greatest length from east to west is two hundred and ten feet, and the breadth of the transepts is a hundred and seventy feet. It is both a fortress and a church—true symbol of the perfect union of the national and the religious spirit in Ireland. The walls, which are of great thickness, are hollow, so as to afford a safe passage from one part of the building to another in case of danger. At the western end, instead of the great doorway usually found in churches, there is a massive square guard-tower of great height, resembling the fortified castles which are common throughout the kingdom.

This formerly contained a vaulted apartment having no exterior windows, and but one small entrance. Over this vault was the great room of state, which could be reached only by stairs within the walls, barely wide enough to admit one person. The roof was surmounted by battlements and a parapet. The monuments whose ruins crown the Rock of Cashel were all built before the Saxon had set foot in Ireland, and it is impossible to look upon them without admiration for the men who called them into existence. They certainly had little to learn, in architecture at least, from the rude Norman barons who, taking advantage of the internal feuds which distracted the people, overran and subjugated the country.

It was in the year 1101 that Murtogh O’Brien, King of Munster, convened a great assembly of the clergy and people of Ireland at Cashel, “and made such an offering as king never made before him—namely, Cashel of the Kings, which he bestowed on the devout, without the intervention of a laic or an ecclesiastic, for the use of the religious of Ireland in general.” We have a letter of St. Anselm to Murtogh O’Brien, in which he praises him for his excellent administration of the kingdom. His successor, Cormac MacCarthy, by whom the chapel was built, was the intimate friend of St. Malachi.

Driven from his throne by Turlough O’Conor, King of Connaught, he refused to take up arms to regain it, but withdrew from strife and placed himself under the direction of this great saint. In his society he led a penitential life, taking no nourishment but bread and water, and wholly absorbed in heavenly contemplation. After some years he was replaced upon the throne, and, in gratitude, built two churches at Lismore, where he had been the companion of St. Malachi, and one at Cashel of the Kings.

The most famous of the bishops of Cashel was Cormac McCullenan, who was at the same time King of Munster, and who has been considered as the founder of the chapel on the Rock which still bears his name. In his reign, which began in 902, the throne of Cashel had become almost in every respect the equal of that of Tara. No longer content with his own provincial resources, he put forth a claim to tribute from the whole southern half of Ireland. This involved him in war with the people of Leinster, who, supported by the supreme monarch, met Cormac in battle and routed his army. The king himself was slain, and his body was conveyed to Cashel for interment.

In the northern wall of the chapel there is a recess, once filled by a sarcophagus which is now in the cathedral. Upon the slab which covered this tomb the name of Cormac, King and Bishop of Munster, was inscribed in Irish characters. Within the tomb itself, when opened some years ago, there was found a bronze crosier with gilt enamel, of great beauty and exquisite finish, which from its form and style of workmanship there is good reason for believing to be as old as the chapel itself; and this has led Petrie and other Irish antiquarians to maintain that King Cormac MacCarthy was also a bishop, though the tradition is that the tomb is not his, but that of the great Cormac McCullenan.

After Murtogh O’Brien’s gift of Cashel to the church in the year 1101, its bishops gained in importance and power. In the latter half of the twelfth century the see was filled by Donald O’Heney, who was of the royal family of the Dalcassians. The Four Masters declare that he was the fountain of religion in the western part of Europe, that he was second to no Irishman of his day in wisdom and piety, and that in the Roman Law he was the most learned doctor in the whole kingdom. He took part in a council held in 1097, in which Waterford was erected into a bishopric, and died in the following year.

In 1152 Pope Eugene III. sent Cardinal Paparo as legate to Ireland with authority to confer the pallium upon four of the Irish prelates. One of these was Donat O’Lonargan, Archbishop of Cashel, during the lifetime of whose immediate successor Henry II. invaded Ireland. He landed at Waterford on the 18th of October, 1171, with five hundred knights and four thousand men-at-arms, and appeared rather as a protector than as an enemy of the Irish people. From Waterford he marched with his army to Lismore, and thence to Cashel. Early in the following year, by his order, a synod was held in Cashel for the purpose of regulating ecclesiastical matters in Ireland. The chief pretext, as is known, for the Norman invasion was the correction of abuses in the Irish Church, and it was ostensibly with a view to effect this that the council was called. Its decrees have been preserved by Giraldus Cambrensis, the eulogist of Henry and the enemy of the Irish, and, far from confirming the prevailing notion concerning the existence of grave disorders, they furnish the strongest argument in favor of the purity of the Irish Church at that time; and even had there been serious abuses, the murderer of St. Thomas of Canterbury was, one would think, hardly a fit instrument for doing away with them.

Giraldus himself, the avowed partisan of the English and the author of innumerable falsehoods relating to Irish history, was forced to admit that the clergy were faithful in the discharge of their spiritual duties, pre-eminent in chastity, and remarkable for their exceeding abstinence from food.

“The clergy,” he says, “of this country are very commendable for religion, and, among the divers virtues which distinguish them, excel and are pre-eminent in the prerogative of chastity. They attend also diligently to their psalms and hours; to reading and prayer; and, remaining within the precincts of the churches, do not absent themselves from the divine offices to the celebration of which they have been appointed. They likewise pay great attention to abstinence and sparingness of food; so that the greatest part of them fast almost every day until dusk, and until they have completed all the canonical offices of the day.”

As an off-set to this confession, drawn from him unwillingly, he accuses the Irish clergy of drinking at night more than is becoming (plusquam deceret), but does not go the length of saying that they drank to inebriation, which, indeed, would be altogether incompatible with the virtues which he is forced to admit they possessed. Felix, Bishop of Ossory, who was present when Giraldus made this statement, resented as false his allusion to the indulgence of the Irish clergy in wine. But, even taking the account of Giraldus in its full extent, we must admit that the Irish priests, at the time of the Norman invasion, had nothing to learn from the example of the ecclesiastics who had followed the conquerors from England; and we are inclined to hold with Lanigan that there was in that day no church in Christendom in which there were fewer abuses.

It was to Maurice, Archbishop of Cashel, who died in 1191, that Giraldus made the objection that Ireland had never had any martyrs. “It is true,” replied the archbishop; “for, though the Irish are looked upon as barbarous and uncultivated, yet have they always paid reverence and honor to priests; nor have they ever raised their hands against the saints of God. But now there is come amongst us a people who know how and are accustomed to make martyrs. Henceforth Ireland, like other nations, shall have her martyrs.”

Giraldus has himself recorded this retort as a sharp saying. His heart would have failed him could he have looked into the future and beheld the whole people weltering in their martyr-blood; the sword always uplifted ready to strike, the land made desolate, the populous cities empty, the solemn cathedrals in ruins, the monasteries sacked and burned, until Ireland, that made no martyrs for Christ, became, for him, the great martyr-nation of all time. Cashel itself was to have its martyrs, chosen some of them from among its archbishops. Maurice Fitzgibbon, of the noble family of the earls of Desmond, filled this see when Elizabeth ascended the throne. His birth was not more eminent than his virtue. Every effort was made by the queen to induce him to prefer honors to conscience. But in vain. He spurned the royal favor which could be obtained only by the sacrifice of his faith, was arrested for refusing to take the oath of supremacy, and thrown into prison in Cork, where, after years of suffering and cruel treatment, he died on the 6th of May, 1578. His successor was Archbishop O’Hurley, who, through his mother, Honora O’Brien, was descended of the house of Thomond. A wretched informer was set to watch him, but, through the timely warning of a friend, he escaped just as he was on the point of being delivered into the hands of the officers of the government, and found an asylum in the castle of Slane. His place of refuge was soon discovered, and Lord Slane was ordered under the heaviest penalties to bring the archbishop with the least possible delay to the Castle of Dublin. On his trial he was put to torture, in the vain hope that his excruciating sufferings might bring him to renounce his faith. In the midst of his torments his only sister was sent into his prison to add her prayers to the cruelties of his tortures. He implored her to fall upon her knees and ask pardon for so great a crime. As a last resort he was offered pardon with the promise of high honors if he would yield. The heroic martyr replied that when he had health to enjoy the world, such things had not power to move him; and now that he was weak and broken, it would be folly to deny his God for pleasures which he could not enjoy. Sentence was then passed upon him, and on the 6th of May, 1583, in the sixty-fifth year of his age, he was dragged to the place of public execution in Stephen’s Green, and there hanged. His head was then cut off, and his body quartered and placed upon the four gates of the city.

The first Protestant Archbishop of Cashel was the notorious Miler Magragh, who apostatized during the reign of Elizabeth, and whom Camden calls “a man of uncertain faith and credit, and a depraved life.” During the fifty-two years of his occupancy of this see he squandered its revenues, alienated its lands, and, lest the memory of his misdeeds should perish, took care to erect in the cathedral a monument to himself to recall to succeeding generations the lavish manner in which he spent the ill-gotten goods of apostasy and servility. The epitaph, which he wrote himself, records among other things that for fifty years he worshipped England’s sceptre and pleased her princes. When Donald O’Brien’s grand cathedral passed into the hands of Protestant bishops, it began to be neglected. In 1647 Lord Inchiquin, one of Cromwell’s generals, laid siege to it, and, after a severe bombardment, took it by storm. Twenty priests who had taken refuge in the castle retired into the vault, and the soldiers, not being able to break in the door, brought turf and made a fire, by which they were either roasted or suffocated. The western tower, which was directly exposed to the battery of Inchiquin, was greatly damaged, and after the capture the roof of the cathedral was blown off with cannon. When the troubled times of the Commonwealth had passed away, the choir was again fitted up and used for religious worship, until in 1749 the Protestant Archbishop Price abandoned this hallowed sanctuary altogether, leaving it to the mercy of time and the elements. The groined arch underneath the belfry was broken down, and the bells were carried off to Fethard and Clonmel. The interior of the church was filled with the fragments of the fallen roof, beneath which were buried tombstones, capitals, corbels, and pillars; and the noble Rock where for ages the heroes and saints of Ireland had dwelled and prayed, abandoned of men, was given up to the owl and the bat. In 1848, while the people were dying from hunger, the great tower, that had been battered by Cromwell’s cannon, opened, and the southern half fell to the ground with a terrific crash; but so excellent was the mortar which had been used in the building that it remained firm while the stones were shattered. The walls of the cathedral still stand firm and unshaken as the Rock on which they are built. There is no nobler ruin in Great Britain. The abbeys of Melrose, Dryburgh, and Holyrood are contemptible when compared with the Rock of Cashel. Even in its fallen state it has the lofty bearing of a king.

“They dreamed not of a perishable life

Who thus could build.”

When Cromwell beheld it he exclaimed: “Ireland is a country worth fighting for.”

A fairer country, in truth, could not easily be found than that which unfolds itself beneath the eye of the traveller who ascends the pentagon tower of the ancient castle of the kings of Munster. To the west the Golden Vale expands in tracts of emerald and gold; to the east rich pastures and well-cultivated uplands gradually rise towards the distant hills of Kilkenny; and on the north and the south the glorious prospect is bounded by the Slieve Bloom and Galty Mountains. In the distance, under the hill of Knockgrenagh, is the ruin which sheltered Sarsfield the night before he fell upon and destroyed the siege-train of William of Orange, which was on its way from Cashel to Limerick. In the vale under the Rock lies the noble ruin of Hore Abbey, originally founded by Benedictine monks, but transferred in 1272, by Archbishop McCarvill, to the Cistercians. He also united with it the hospital for lepers built by David le Latimer in 1230, the ruins of which may still be seen standing in a field on the road to Cahir. In 1561 Queen Elizabeth, having expelled the monks, gave the abbey with its appurtenances to Henry Radcliffe, and to-day only the roofless walls remain. While the Penal Code was in vigor no Catholic was allowed to dwell within the limits of the town of Cashel. At present, in a population of six thousand, there are but a hundred and eighty Protestants. Nevertheless, the venerable ruins of the Rock are still in the hands of the dignitaries of the Church of England. It is certainly a short-sighted and unwise policy which thus commits the ancient sanctuaries of Ireland, so dear to the hearts of her people, to the custody of those who look upon them as relics of a superstitious faith, and prize them only as trophies of conquest. The Irish people cling to memories and are governed more than others by their affections; and so long as the English government persists in maintaining a state of affairs which constantly places before their eyes the wrongs and outrages of which they have been the victims, so long will they be restless and dissatisfied.

To continue to allow an ecclesiastical establishment, which has never been and can never be anything else than a political contrivance for the humiliation and oppression of the Irish people, to retain possession of these shrines of religion, is a wanton insult to the double love they bear to their country and their faith. It was this twofold love, flowing in one channel, that upheld them in all the dark centuries of woe; and now that brighter days have come, England cannot fail to recognize the increasing strength of Irish patriotism and Irish faith.

Let the Rock of Cashel, with its holy ruins, its sacred tombs of kings and bishops, be given back to the people to whom it belongs. It is valueless except for its associations, and these associations are without value to the persons in whose hands it is allowed to remain. Let the glory of other days come back to these sacred walls. Millions of Catholics in the United States would consider it an honor and a privilege to be permitted to rebuild this sanctuary of God. Again on the holy mount let the lamp of Christ’s real presence burn as glowed the light that for a thousand years burned before St. Bridget’s shrine. Let the swelling notes of the deep-toned organ lift again the soul to God, while mitred bishops and surpliced priests, with all the believing throng, sing forth the song of thanks and praise. In the resurrection of a people, in the new rising of a faith, let this temple, given back to God and to Ireland, stand as a commemoration.

Seven miles north of Cashel, and three miles south of Thurles, on the banks of the river Suir, lie the ruins of the Abbey of Holy Cross. A convent was built on this spot at a very early period of the Christian history of Ireland. The fame of the sanctity of the monks attracted members to the community, and also pilgrims from a distance. In 1169, two years before the Norman invasion, Donald O’Brien, King of Limerick, accompanied by a brilliant retinue, visited the place, and was led by his devotion to found and endow the abbey. The charter of foundation, one of the witnesses to which was Maurice, Archbishop of Cashel, of whom we have already made mention, opens with these words: “Donald, by the grace of God, King of Limerick, to all kings, dukes, earls, barons, knights, and Christians of whatsoever degree, throughout Ireland, perpetual greeting in Christ.” This charter was afterwards confirmed by the English kings John, Henry III., Edward III., and Richard II. The abbey received its name from the possession of a portion of the true cross which was given in 1110, by Pope Pascal II., to Donough O’Brien, King of all Ireland and grandson of Brian Boru. Princes and bishops were eager to enrich this monastery, and the fame of the miracles wrought by the sacred relic drew to it crowds of worshippers. With increasing wealth, the buildings grew in splendor and extent. The church is built in the form of a cross, with nave, chancel, and transept. At the intersection of the cross there is a lofty square tower, and in the transepts two beautifully-groined chapels. In the monastery there were eight dormitories for the monks, besides numerous chambers for the entertainment of visitors attracted by devotion; for the laws of hospitality were never forgotten. The abbot, who was mitred, was a peer of Parliament and secular lord of the county of “The Cross of Tipperary.” When Henry VIII. suppressed the great abbeys of Ireland, he granted Holy Cross, with its temporalities and also the spiritual jurisdiction, to James, Earl of Ormond and Ossory, whom he regarded with special favor. Elizabeth confirmed this grant to Thomas, Earl of Ormond, who, though educated in the Anglican schism, became a Catholic several years before his death, and left his estates to Earl Walter, a stanch defender of the faith.

The monks who had been expelled from the abbey still lingered in its neighborhood, in the hope that they might somehow be permitted to return and end their days in the sacred cloisters in which they had given to God the best part of life. At times they met by night within the hallowed enclosure to offer up the divine Sacrifice; and when Mary ascended the throne, they once more took possession, but were again expelled by Elizabeth, and finally dispersed. The cells, dormitories, and guest-chambers, so long consecrated to meditation and all holy exercise, were converted into stables for the housing of cattle. The church, which contained the tombs of many noble families, escaped desecration, but not the ravages of time and neglect. From the year 1580 to the close of the century no priest dared appear in public throughout the province of Munster, and even the most careful disguises were not sufficient to hide them from the fury of their enemies; but in 1600 Hugh O’Neil turned his army towards the south of Ireland, and, proceeding by slow marches, finally encamped “at the gate of the monastery of Holy Cross.”

“They were not long there,” say the Four Masters, “when the holy Rood was brought to them, and the Irish gave large presents, alms, and offerings to its conservators and monks in honor of Almighty God; and they protected and respected the monastery, with its buildings, the lands appropriated for its use, and its inhabitants in general.”

The monks remained in possession of the abbey for several years, and for the first time since its suppression in 1536 an abbot of Holy Cross was chosen. The succession was kept up till the beginning of the eighteenth century, and expired in the first dark years of the Penal Code with Thomas Cogan, the last of the abbots of Holy Cross, who died on the 10th of August, 1700, and was buried in the choir of the old church, in the tomb where the bones of his predecessors are awaiting the day of resurrection.

O gray walls, sacred ruins of Holy Cross! ye have a spirit’s feeling, and work upon the soul till it forgets all glad and pleasant scenes to blend with the gloom and desolation that have come to abide with you. The gentle river still flows by, but where is the great strong life-current of faith and love that here was fed from God’s eternal fount? Cold are the burning lips of love that wore the pavement smooth; cold the great warm hearts that beat with highest impulse of divine charity. No more from their chalices mysterious monks drink deep love of God and men; no more at early morn is heard their matin song; no more to heaven ascends their evening hymn. Gone is the dim religious light that shone through mystic windows. The tapers are quenched, the belfries mute. No more floats on the breeze

“The heavenliest of all sounds

That hill or vale prolongs or multiplies.”

The dead only are here, and around them the silence they so loved and broken walls, which, if they mourn not, make others grieve.

“Once ye were holy: ye are holy still;

Your spirit let me freely drink and live.”

As a monastic ruin the Abbey of Holy Cross is, in the estimation of the people, second to no other in Ireland; and it owes this celebrity less to the beauty of its architecture than to the possession of the holy Rood.

The marble shrine in which this famous relic was preserved may still be seen in the southern transept of the church. The relic itself, at the time of the suppression of the abbey, passed into the hands of the Earl of Ormond, in whose family it remained for nearly a century, when Earl Walter gave it for safe-keeping to Dr. Fennell, who left it to James, second Duke of Ormond. It was finally deposited, in the early part of the present century, in a shrine in the chapel of the Ursuline Nuns at Blackrock, near Cork, where it is to remain “until such time as the church of the Holy Cross, with the monastery of Cistercian monks attached thereto, shall be rebuilt.”

Though Holy Cross is a ruin and in the hands of Protestants, the Cistercian Order still survives in Ireland in the monastery of Mount Melleray. It was, a few months ago, our privilege to pass a brief time in this sanctuary of religion, where the most unworldly life is made to subserve the highest social ends.

Mount Melleray is but a few hours’ ride from Cork. The excursion is made by railway to Youghal, an ancient town, once famous in Irish history, lying near the mouth of the Blackwater. At the entrance to its splendid and picturesque harbor, now almost entirely abandoned, there stands a ruined tower, which was formerly part of a convent of nuns who at night kept torches blazing in this lighthouse to enable vessels to enter port with safety. Near the town the house which Sir Walter Raleigh owned, and in which he lived for several years, is still pointed out to the traveller. In his garden here he planted in 1586 the first potatoes grown in Ireland.

A boat leaves Youghal twice a day and ascends the Blackwater as far as Cappoquin. The trip is made in about two hours. The scenery is unsurpassed even in Ireland. There is nothing finer on the Rhine. The river winds through fertile valleys with rich meadows and fields of waving corn, until a sudden turn brings us into the presence of barren mountains, which, in their desolation, seem to mock the smiling prospect below. From almost every jutting rock ruined castles or churches look down upon us. In these mountains above Cappoquin, and overlooking the Blackwater, lies the Trappist monastery of Mount Melleray.

Forty-five years ago a few poor monks, driven from their peaceful home, settled here in the midst of a dreary wilderness. They had obtained from the Protestant landlord of the place six hundred acres of mountain peat-land on a lease of ninety-nine years. No one but an Irish landlord would have thought of demanding rental for what had always been a desert, and, so far as he was concerned, might for ever remain a desert. The monks, however, paid him his price and set to work to make the desert bloom. On their land there was not a tree or blade of grass, and before they could begin to plough or dig they had to go over the ground and pick up the stones with which it was covered. But for them a life of solitude was to be a life of labor, and they were not discouraged. They knew that half the soil of Europe had been reclaimed and brought under cultivation by monks, whose lives were none the less consecrated to prayer and study. Half a century has not yet passed, and the barren waste is covered with rich fields of corn and green meadows. With their own hands the monks have built a large monastery and church, whose tall spire is seen from the whole surrounding country. In their gardens the finest vegetables grow, and in their dairy the best butter is made. A few years ago they opened a college, in which they give an excellent classical education to youths whose parents may not be able to pay the higher pensions of other institutions. The buildings are large and well provided with whatever is necessary to the health and comfort of the students; and the food, though plain, is of the best quality. A part of the monastery is fitted up for the accommodation of guests; and, as the hospitality of the monks is well known, they are rarely without visitors, drawn thither sometimes by curiosity, but oftener by the desire of spending a few days in solitude in communion with God. In the guests’ book we found the names of persons from almost every part of Europe and America. We have visited the monasteries of the Trappists in other countries, but nowhere else have we received the impressions made upon us at Mount Melleray. It was Edmund Burke who said that to his mind the Catholic Church of Ireland bore a closer resemblance than any other to the church of the apostles; and we could not help reflecting that these monks were more like the Fathers of the Desert than any men whom we had ever seen. How terrible is this place! How this life of honest religion lays bare the shams and pretexts with which weak and soft worldlings would hide the atheism of their faith! If God is all in all, and the soul more than the body, a Trappist is greater than a king. To these men the future world is more real than the present. The veil of time and space has fallen from their eyes; the immeasurable heavens break open, and God’s kingdom is revealed. Divine power of the love of Christ, which makes the desert beautiful, and solitude a perpetual feast! What heavenly privilege to forget the world and to be with God only; to turn from men, not in loathing or hate or bitterness, but with a heart as sweet as a child’s, and to follow Christ into the mount where the celestial glory encircles him! With St. Peter we exclaim: It is good to be here! A single day, O Lord! spent in thy tabernacles is more precious than a thousand years.

In this life in death is found a life the world dreams not of, as

“Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure

Thrill the deepest notes of woe”;

as in the presence of the dying we see only the blackness and the gloom, when the soul already hears God’s angels sing, and beholds the light that never fades.

The highest joy is of the soul, and the more it lifts itself from flesh and earth the greater is its delight. In these solemn walls, with their silent monks clad in white, it seemed to us that we were upon the threshold of another world, far away from the ebb and flow of men’s affairs. We felt no more the feverish throb of the great world’s pulse, nor heard the noisy hum of commerce or the nations’ angry battle-cry. The blatant shout of Progress no longer deafened us. We were in the mood to ask ourselves: Is it not, after all has been said, progress towards death that men speak of? Do not all the lines along which they advance converge until they meet in the grave? But we crave life, not death. Is there no hope? Must we join the rabble, the common herd, that stands in wonderment in the world’s great toy-shop, eagerly peering at stones and metals and skins of beasts, gazing at blank walls and rattling machinery, and shouting: Ha! this is progress? Is there no room for the soul, no hope of life? Is mechanism all in all, and is all progress mechanical? Here, at least, were men who believed in the soul; who, despising all the counsels of fear and cowardice, had turned from the world and set their faces towards the life that is and is to be. They never speak except in prayer and psalmody. They rise in the night and spend hours in the thought of God and the soul. Silently they go forth to their work, and in silence return to pray. Their bed is a board, their food bread and coarse vegetables. And so from day to day and from year to year in their hearts they make the ascent to God.

It is easy for us to deride the life which we have not the courage or the strength to lead. These, at least, are men with brave hearts and great thoughts. They are not the creatures of circumstance, the slaves of routine, the self satisfied and unconscious victims of the universal tyrant. They are not held by bonds of flesh and blood. No mean ambition moves them. A king’s crown is but a bauble, like the toy of a child; and whatever ceases to be has no kindred with the soul that was not born to die. They wage battle for the possession of the infinite, and in the divine struggle take on the heroic mood that makes all things possible. And we who stood for a moment on this heavenly battle-ground, a looker-on, unfit to take part in such celestial warfare, would fain have lingered on the hallowed spot, knowing full well that the world to which we turned again has no happiness even to promise like that which is found in this holy mountain where God is seen and loved.

Gold City they had called it in its palmy days, though even then it was a city in name only. It was known as Gomorrah now; and its few inhabitants gloried in the title, for Edverson had struck a vein of gold there in the first flush of the mining fever, and a crowd of fortune-hunters flocked to the place, only to discover, when it was too late, that the first “lucky find” was the last. Then the tide of population ebbed away, leaving behind it the refuse—those who were too poor, too discouraged, too sunk in idleness or sin, to try for anything better. The houses were no more than shanties, which the women made no attempt to keep tidy; children lived and died there who never heard God’s holy name except in curses; to most of them even the day of the week was unknown.

Three men ruled the place, one by fear, one by kindness, one because he was tavern-keeper. They were familiarly known as the Lawyer, the Doctor, and the Parson. One day, worthy to be marked with red ink joyfully in the sad annals of Gomorrah, the Lawyer—most evil soul there, and most dreaded—announced his intention of going to England, and, when the next day dawned, he had departed with no more warning and with no word of farewell. Men, women, and children drew a long breath of relief, yet spoke of him for weeks afterwards in whispers and guarded words, as if they feared at any moment to see his hated presence among them once again, and feel his heel of iron on their necks.

One afternoon, early in November, his two associates sat together in the door-way of the tavern, the only decent dwelling within sight. He who was known as the Parson was a short, stout man, who boasted a collegiate and theological education of some sort, no one knew what, and a pastoral charge of five years, no one knew where. But it was a fact undisputed, either by himself or others, that he was now the very minister of Satan. Both he and the Lawyer knew how to sin as deeply as any one, but kept a kind of control over themselves. The man who was their boon companion, and yet hated them both with an impotent hatred, had no such power.

He was far superior to them in most respects. Gentle born, with wealthy surroundings, he had received a superior education, and gave promise of superior excellence in his profession, but had never been taught to curb a single passion. From one level to another he fell, till in Gomorrah he hid himself from all who had known him or his in his brighter days. Yet no man there was so liked and did so much to help as he. The love of his profession clung to him through everything, and it was impossible for him to see disease and accident without trying to alleviate the trouble. Boys and girls playing and quarrelling in the streets would stop the maddest sport, the bitterest fight, to help the Doctor home as he came reeling from the tavern, or to cover his face from the hot sun as he lay like a log by the roadside; would do it with a grateful remembrance of the time when “he nursed me in the fever” or “he splintered my broken leg”; and often he was saved from a midnight carousal by a call to some forlorn bedside, where he waited on filthy wretches with as quick skill and attention as once he had served the finest ladies in his great city home. No one knew how he hated the place in which he lived, and above all the man with whom he sat that autumn afternoon; but he had lost all hope of better things.

Through their gloomy silence and the clouds of tobacco-smoke the Parson and the Doctor beheld a sight which had not been seen in Gomorrah for many a day—the white cover of an emigrant wagon.

“Tom Townsend, from High Bend,” exclaimed Syles, “the Lawyer’s old chum there. Who’s he got with him?”

The Doctor made no reply, but stepped forward to meet the strangers. Behind the driver sat a young man with a good, kindly face, but lacking in practicality and force. On his arm he supported a woman, whose broad forehead, square chin, and firm mouth bespoke strong character, if one was able to think of that in noticing the serene holiness of the eyes and expression. Her face was pale as death.

“You’re wanted here, Doctor,” called the driver. “Here’s a case of chills and fever that’s not a common one, and I’ve seen ’em by hundreds.”

“Are you the Doctor?” the young man asked with a look of relief, as if he had heard of him before; and together they carried into the tavern and laid upon the settle the powerless form of the woman.

“Not this place!” the man exclaimed, lifting his head when he had laid his precious burden down. “Where is Mr. Dalzell’s house?”

“Mr. Dalzell?” the Doctor repeated. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Why, surely—yes, we must be right. He came from here, he said.”

“Who? What?” his hearers asked, with a grim suspicion in their hearts. “Where are you from, sir?”

“I am Reuben Armstrong, from Suffolk, England. A Mr. Dalzell sold me his house and claim in Gold City. Where are they?”

The Doctor’s eyes fell, and Syles slunk into the shadow of the door. It was long before they could make him understand the truth; and when at last he comprehended it, Syles stole out of his presence with a sense of shame such as he had never felt before, leaving the Doctor to give the almost heart-broken fellow the only reason for courage that he knew how to give him—to bear up bravely for his wife’s sake.

It was but too easy to grasp the sad story. Armstrong had been a well-to-do gardener, with a pleasant little house and a snug sum of money in the bank; but, as the Doctor inferred even then, he had married a woman much his superior in character and station, whose friends looked down upon him, and thought he could never do anything worthy of her. When the Lawyer told his plausible story and showed his well-planned map—when he described his possessions, to be sold at a very low figure, because, as the evil owner dared to affirm, he must be with his aged parents in Nottinghamshire during their declining years—Reuben was only too ready to drop into the net.

They told his wife—his “poor Esther”—nothing that night. Indeed, she was too ill to notice that they moved her from the tavern to the cabin next door, which was their home. In that tavern Reuben declared she should not stay one hour.

That night the first snows fell, shutting off Gomorrah for the winter from any intercourse with the outer world, and for weeks the Doctor strove against all odds to save Esther Armstrong’s life. But for her Reuben would soon have sunk to the level of his neighbors—not in sin, but in inertia. He seemed to have no courage left to begin life over again; he was sure that Esther must die, and then there would be no use of his living. He spent his time in watching beside her, doing everything about the house for her that was possible; refusing all help save the physician’s, and only accepting that because he could not avoid it.

When the Doctor came in to see Esther on the morning after her arrival, Reuben had made the room as comfortable as he could with the furniture which they had brought from home, and Esther was lying in her bed, everything white about her, and she herself looking more pure and white than even the falling snow without.

“Am I very ill?” she asked calmly; and before the grave eyes bent upon him the Doctor could return no answer but the truth.

“You are a very sick woman, Mrs. Armstrong,” he said, “but I hope we may see you pull through bravely yet.”

“Will you ask the priest to come to me?” she said.

The Doctor started to his feet and made a rapid stride across the room. It brought him face to face with a crucifix, a picture, and a rosary.

“Madam,” he said reverently—she seemed to him like a saint as she lay there—“do you know what sort of a place you are in? We have no such beings as priests here.”

“Oh!” she replied serenely, “you must mistake. Mr. Lazell certainly told us that there was one. We would never have come else.”

The Doctor bit his lip to keep back the oath which rose. “Mr. Lazell, as you call him, lied, madam.”

She asked no questions, but her searching eyes drew the truth from him. Sooner or later she must know all. Before that holy calm a tempting desire came over him to try how deep her religious feeling really was.

“Madam,” he said, “you call this place Gold City, but we know it as Gomorrah. There is no priest within miles of us. God isn’t here at all.”

She pressed her hands hard against her heart. He felt that she shrank from him inwardly.

“Is there any woman who will come to me?” she asked.

“There is not one who is fit to touch you,” he replied—“not one. We do not know what goodness is. You have been deceived into coming here. Now, if you love your husband, live for him; for nothing else can keep him from being like the rest of us.”

“You are mistaken,” she said gravely. “You do not know my husband. But, Doctor, if I must die, will you promise me to send in time for a priest?”

The Doctor bit back an oath. If “Mr. Lazell” had been there at that moment, not even Esther’s presence could have saved him from the hatred of nine wretched years kindled that day into relentless fury. The Doctor had known enough of Catholics at home—God help him! but his had been Catholic baptism in his babyhood—to fear the effect on her of what he had to say. Had it been of any use, he would have lied to her; but the next neighbor entering would have revealed all.

“There is no priest near us,” he replied, “and it is impossible to get one in the winter.”

She put her hand quickly to her heart again. “God’s will be done,” she said slowly; “God’s will be done” over and over and over again. They could not stop her. Reuben begged her to hear him, to rest, to grow calm, but it was of no avail. All day long, and far into the night, she tossed in fever, delirious always, but her holy self even in her delirium. Now she sang snatches of hymns; and now an exquisite strain of some old chant, which the Doctor had heard in great cathedrals, rose upon Gomorrah’s tainted air; but oftenest she called for a priest, or said: “God’s will be done.” Late that night the fever abated a little, and she opened her eyes calmly; but it was only to hear the clamor upon the night air of stamping feet, ringing sounds like tankards dashed on table or floor, the twang and clash of noisy instruments, scraps of vile song, brawls and oaths and blows.

“What is it?” she cried. “Where are we? Oh! I know”; and then sank into delirium again.

So for a week it lasted; then the fever died away, leaving her like a shadow. She made no complaint, never asked again for a priest, never spoke again of death; yet the Doctor knew, as well as if he had seen it, that hers was a broken heart. But another life was bound up with her life, and for its sake, as well as for Reuben’s, she tried and prayed to live. It was plain that her affection for her husband was intense; no matter what his weakness and imprudence had made her suffer, no one ever knew her fail in her honor and her love, and he seldom saw her otherwise than outwardly cheerful for his dear sake. What she endured perhaps only the Doctor truly fathomed, and his sounding-line was far too short. Reuben was too engrossed in her to care much personally for what passed about them; but the Doctor judged by what the place had been and was to him, even in his degraded life. Fallen as he was, he loathed it from the very bottom of his heart; still, with every gentlemanly instinct that was left in him, he shrank from the outcasts whom he lived with daily, though knowing himself to be fallen yet lower than they. By his own suffering, from which he did not try to escape; by his own horror of the pit whose vileness sickened him while still he chose to sink even deeper in it, he knew something of what it must be to Esther’s pure heart to live in Gomorrah. Something—that was all.

He and Reuben strove to keep sight and sound of evil from her; yet all their care could not banish at times strange visitors from her bedside—haggard women, flaunting women, all of them with evil tongues; no care could keep the children always from door or window, and often she saw, by frosty dawn or at high noon or in the early twilight, wild, wolfish eyes staring at her, gaunt fingers pointing, and heard children’s voices speak of her in terms wherewith oaths and low epithets were mixed—not through malice, but because they knew no other way.

No one knew what hours she lay awake by day and night in one agony of intercession; and she herself, praying often and hoping against hope for the sacraments to prepare her soul for death, never knew here into what union with her Lord that passion of prayer for souls was bringing her, as hour by hour the awful days wore on.

The Doctor saw her face, as it grew more sharp and thin, grow more holy, till he often felt unworthy to look upon it, and wondered how Reuben Armstrong had ever won a treasure of which it seemed to him no mortal man was worthy.

A poor, weak soul was Reuben’s, truly, in man’s sight. But God and the angels must have loved it with a special love. God knew how earnestly that sorrowful heart implored that the light of its eyes might be taken from it, if so Esther might escape from suffering and enter into peace; and when night shut him in with her alone, the angels heard how he strove to drown the riot next door by prayers and litanies beside her, till often he slept exhausted on the hard floor by her bed.

But the children most of all weighed heavily upon Esther’s soul. Even when she could not see them she heard their voices; even when she could not hear them, she fancied how their lives were spent, though even her keen fancy did not reach the whole of the painful truth; and as the birthday of the Holy Child drew nearer, she felt more keenly their ignorance of all sacred things, shuddered to think of her own child being born in such an atmosphere, then came to love those little ones as if they were her very own, and to plead for them with a mother’s insatiable pleading.

Eight days before Christmas they laid her baby in her arms and saw her smile a happy mother’s smile. Eight days they lived in trembling hope. On Christmas morning the Doctor saw the dreaded, unmistakable sign of fever. She had wakened very bright, Reuben said, and very early, with words of Christmas joy, as if she had forgotten where they were, and fancied it was home. Then some sound from the tavern had brought back the truth; there had come the quick pain at her heart, and then delirium. All day long she talked—there was no possibility of silencing her. She, so tender of others, now with no control over herself, laid her whole heart bare; and they, who thought they had known and prized her well, knew as if for the first time what a saint of God had been among them—prayers for her husband and for her baby, but not for them alone: prayers for every soul in that place of death; people named by name of whom they would have supposed she had never heard, but for whom she pleaded as if for her own flesh and blood; eager, loving, most frequent supplication for the little children; prayers for the very man who had lured them from their happy home; intensest pleading for pity and pardon for his and all these souls.

“Didst thou not die for them, Jesus, my Jesus—for them as well as for me? Save them with me, save them with me—with me, my Jesus! By thy Sacred Heart that broke for us, save us, have mercy on us!” And then, over and over, as if with some peculiar, long-sustained intention or compact, “Remember, O most pious Virgin Mary! Remember, remember!”

And there was one frequent supplication in which no name was mentioned, as if it were borne so constantly from her heart to the Sacred Heart that she had ceased to need to speak the name: “Gain thyself that soul, my Jesus. By thy Cross, thy Heart, thy Mother, gain thyself that soul.”

They heard only one petition for herself, but that so anguished, so desperate, that the strong man broke into sobs to hear it: one hungry cry for God’s holy sacraments, for God’s anointed priest, to come to her before her death, yet never uttered without a more intense prayer still—“My God, my God, thy will be done, thy will be done”; and even that was entirely merged at last in her prayers for those who had made her life one long agony at its close.

Suddenly she sat straight up in her bed, her eyes blazing as if with an unearthly, reflected light, her cheeks brilliant with more than the fever flush.

“Hark, hark, hark!” she said, with a ring of ecstatic joy through every word. “Do you not hear the sacring-bell? Kneel, all of you. The priest comes—comes with my Lord at last.”

Her eyes were fixed upon the door that no hand opened, yet she seemed to watch some one enter, and to see some one draw nearer, nearer to her, and she folded her hands reverently, and bent her head as if in adoration. They understood: she believed a priest was there; and they, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, of what she evidently was sure she saw and heard—they who watched her fell down upon their knees and hid their faces as in some divine presence. The next words that broke the stillness were the words of a dying penitent alone with a priest of God: “I confess to Almighty God and to you, my father.”

Steadily, as if for weeks she had prepared her soul for this in faith and penance, Esther Armstrong made her dying confession, with a contrition sore as if she were the lowest sinner in Gomorrah’s depths of sin, and then craved absolution humbly and in tears. When there was silence, and they dared to look at her, she was lying back among her pillows, whispering, “Forgiven, forgiven!”

They moved to give her nourishment, and the movement roused her, though not to recognition. She started up once more, lifting her hand.

“Hark, hark!” she said again. “Do you not hear him? He is saying Mass, and they sing sweetly as angels.”

All round the world, that Christmas day, one song of praise was rising, one pure offering was offered up to Him who was born and given for us on that day. Grand cathedrals were ablaze with lights and rich with bloom; far down the choir the altar tapers shone like stars through clouds of incense waving upward to the fretted roof, and the full tide of chant swelled high to join the chant of angels; in lowly chapel as in great cathedral the priest of God and the people of God adored the Holy Babe upon his Mother’s breast. In Gomorrah, in a decaying chapel, while oath and brawl sounded without, one soul heard seraphic music which no other ear could hear; one soul beheld a Priest whom no other eye could see—joined in his offering of the tremendous Sacrifice. For an hour, upheld by superhuman strength, she knelt upright, rapt in an ecstasy of spiritual communion that grew too deep for prayer. When the clock struck twelve, she said slowly, “Ite missa est; Deo gratias”; then, with a long-drawn, rapturous sigh, lay down again, but not as if she knew or remembered husband or child or friend.

The Doctor left her then, but at the close of the day he was summoned hastily, to see now without mistake that the battle of her life was almost ended.

“Stay with her, Doctor,” Reuben pleaded. “It’s a sore struggle. Try something more.”

“I can’t stay, man,” he answered. “There is no more to do. I’d give my right hand to save her; but I can’t see her suffer and be unable to help her. She’s the only white soul here, and now she is going.”

He turned to the bedside, and stood silently looking at the face with the dread shadow on it. Suddenly opening her eyes, her gaze fell first on him, and, startled out of her usual composure, she gave an irrepressible shudder. He understood what it meant. She had treated him always with perfect courtesy and confidence as her physician and true friend; he knew—for there had not been wanting those to tell him of it—that she had silenced with dignified rebuke the evil tales that more than one had tried to tell her of him, not because they disliked him, but because they loved to talk. But he knew also, what they did not, that in her pure heart she shrank from him, that his very presence was loathsome to her; and there had been times when, in her bodily weakness, she had been unable to control her aversion to his slightest touch. He had borne it quietly, humbling as it was, but it was doubly bitter to bear at the very last.

“I will bid you good-night, Mrs. Armstrong,” he said, trying hard to steady his voice. “You will not want me any more this evening, I think.”

“Good-by, Doctor,” she said, and he saw that she knew all.

“You will not want me,” he repeated mechanically.

“I want you—there,” she answered with a great effort. “Promise me that you will be there.”

He did not speak.

“Promise,” she repeated, and the tone brought back the memory of her prayers that morning. “I am dying—dying; and yet I cannot die. Night and day I prayed it: ‘Gain thyself that soul, my Jesus. By thy Cross, thy Mother, thy broken Heart, gain thyself that soul.’ I prayed and prayed it; I am worn out with the praying, and yet I cannot die. Promise me to be there.”

The sweat stood on his forehead in great drops. “You do not know what you ask,” he cried. “There are sins enough upon me without adding that of a broken vow to you, and here. There is no saving a soul like mine.”

She did not answer him. She lifted up her eyes, away from him, away from earth, to God.

“Sacred Heart of my Jesus,” she prayed in agony, “win this soul, and let me die.”

For weeks he had kept himself sober and decent for her sake; now he had thought to rush out from her presence, to drown his grief in viler sin than ever; and, lo! she was still holding him, was binding eternal chains upon him, to draw him away from corruption unto God. As a physician he knew that it was a case where a mighty will alone was keeping life in a body nearly dead; it would have been an awful sight to see, even had he had no interest in it. She was living only to win him unto immortal life. Angels and devils may well have stood still before that struggle, where one dauntless soul at the point of death held Satan’s power at bay.

“I promise,” he said at last, as if the words were wrung from him. “But pray for me always.”

“The Mother of God prays for you,” she said with strange emphasis. “Call upon Jesus and Mary night and day. You will not need me.”

And then he saw that she needed him no longer, thought of him no longer, and he went away.

Reuben Armstrong shut and locked the door behind him. There was no more that science or skill could do. Now, for one brief hour, Esther was his alone. The eyes which the Doctor had seen grow dim to him lit up with untired affection as Reuben drew near the bed; a look of rest came over her, and she signed to him to lay her baby on her arm.

“My baby, my little Christmas baby,” she murmured tenderly. “Did the priest baptize her this morning, Reuben? Oh! how could you overlook it, dear? Then you must do it. Now—now!”

There was an excited ring in her voice, and Reuben hastened to do at once what he had felt from the first must soon be done; for the baby’s life evidently hung upon a thread. A few drops of water, a few divine words, and Esther’s eyes shone exultingly upon her child.

“She will never be anything but God’s child,” she said. “Oh! I am glad she cannot live. It is the other children, that are not his, that you must care for, Reuben.”

“No, no!” he cried. “No, Esther, I cannot live without you.”

“Listen, Reuben,” she said. Lying there with her child upon her arm, she looked like a vision of the Holy Mother herself, and when she spoke her voice had a tone in it which seemed divinely sweet. “Listen, Reuben. This place is God’s. He wants it. You must live and not die—for him.”

“O Esther!” he sobbed, “not without you—not without you.”

“Yes, Reuben, without me—all alone. My darling, my darling, save these little children’s souls for God.”

One greater than she spoke, on that holy night, through Esther’s lips, and touched and won her husband’s wounded heart.

“I will, Esther,” he sobbed. “I will try hard”; and even then, upon that solemn parting, as if to stamp the promise with an awful seal, the tavern clamor broke shrill and vile upon the Christmas air.

How long it was that she spoke no word—wrapped for the last time in her passion of intercession—Reuben did not notice; he only knelt on beside her, living upon every breath she drew. But, at the turn of the night, she looked full at him, clasped both his hands in hers, spoke so that the voice and the words rang in his heart through all his after-life—spoke not to him, but for him, and her words were those of the Memorare. Then, like one who has laid down for ever in most safe and tender keeping a heavy burden borne long and painfully, she crossed her hands upon her heart, but not now as if in pain; a look of glad surprise came upon her face.

“Hark!” she said. “He is coming again. My Lord and my God!”

When the Doctor entered Reuben’s cabin next morning, he found it in perfect order—the baby asleep in its cradle beside the hearth; Esther lying in a sort of funeral state, all done for her that could be done; and beside her knelt Reuben, whom the Doctor scarcely recognized at first for the change upon him. In that night he had become an old man, and his friend believed that but for the baby’s sake he would have died; yet, two days later, the baby died, and still Reuben lived.

* * * * *

“A poor fool!” people called him. He had lost all interest in temporal matters, seemed hardly to know the use of money, and barely supported himself by the odd bits of work which he did for the idle women from house to house. Soon, however, they discovered that he had one talent, and that was for managing children. A woman one day suggested to him that he should “bide at home, and mind some babies for ’em, to keep ’em out of harm’s way; and he might teach the five-year-olds their letters, too—being fit for naught else,” she added in a tone as clear as that she used for the other words; but Reuben did not mind.

The proposal met with general favor; the women promised to supply him with meals from their own poor tables, “better than he’d get hisself, anyhow,” they said; and that was all he needed to keep him through the winter.

It seemed at first sight a very forlorn life. Where others less careless and simple could have lived in comfort, he lived in cold and hunger; one by one everything which he had brought from his distant home disappeared—given away to people in distress, or yielded without question to exorbitant and unfounded demands. Yet that bare, poverty-stricken room grew to be the one fair place in Gomorrah. There, for long hours of the winter days, might be seen a cluster of children gathered about a man who seemed in some respects as much a child as any of them, and who taught them to be tidy and affectionate and good. A few learned their letters, but many learned their prayers, and the babies often said for their first word the name of Jesus, and all came to gaze lovingly upon the crucifix, and touch with pitying reverence the wounded hands and feet. Often the parents heard from childish lips the story of the Infant Saviour. No home now with a child in it where Sunday was not known. Men and women, large boys and girls, swore and fought in the streets still, but it soon became a rare sight to see a little child so forget itself; it would make Master Reuben sorry, and he said that it made the Heart of Jesus bleed. No one stopped him at such work; he was too poor a fool for them to mind him.

But he had another work with which they meddled much. The promise which the Doctor had made by Esther’s death-bed was not forgotten by him who made it, but it was broken again and again. His own lower nature which had ruled him all his life would have been enough, and more than enough, for such a man to struggle against; but, besides that, the fiends in human shape who peopled Gomorrah seemed leagued with invisible evil ones to work his utter ruin. They scoffed at his feeble efforts to do right; they lured him or they maddened him—it was all one to them—into the old haunts of temptation; and the very efforts which he made to escape, the very memory of Esther’s words and holy looks, the very thought of purity and self-control, seemed to make the evil deadlier and grosser, when, after sore struggle, he gave way.

And he did struggle, he did pray, poor soul! There were hours when he lay upon the earth in some cold hut or in the open air, fighting, it seemed to him, with no less than Satan’s self. But he had been a slave to self too long and too deliberately to be able to gain freedom easily. Scenes of the past rose before him; he knew himself in his true degradation. Sins about which a kind of lurid fascination can be thrown in books or real life for a time he saw more and more plainly in their actual shape and color, and it drove him mad with disgust and shame. Few were daring enough that winter to trust their sick folk to his skill. For days together he would join in riot and carousal, till delirium tremens followed, and then strong men fled in fear before him.

But when that time came, and houses were locked tight and no one else dared face him as he went raging about the town, falling on the uneven streets, bruising and wounding himself, there was one who did go out to meet him. A tottering, feeble creature went meekly forth, stood in his path, took blows and curses without resistance, and presently—no one knew by what magic spell—led him to his own poor cabin and locked himself in with him alone.

That was the reason why Master Reuben never did what his tender and lonely heart yearned to do—to make a home for the orphan children of Gomorrah. No one but himself must be allowed to see what passed in his cabin while the Doctor was there; no one else must be exposed to the dangers he had to meet. But the room where they had watched the mysterious joy of Esther’s Christmas feast saw far other sights and echoed to far other sounds than angel music as the winter wore away. There were mornings when no children came to Reuben’s house, when some woman more pitiful, some man more brave than the others, crept near and laid food on the threshold, then fled away to tell in trembling of the cries they had heard as of some wild beast mad with fury, or some lost soul shrieking in the torment of despair. Sometimes, too, they told of blows or noises like a heavy fall; and often, when Reuben came among them again, he bore marks that proved the stories true, but they never learned the cause from him.

And he—as the winter passed, the only truly happy faces that Gomorrah saw were Reuben Armstrong’s and little children’s. By and by they heard him sing sweet carols and hymns and chants; he taught the children to sing with him, and used to lead them down the streets, and into the snowy fields, and to visit Esther’s grave, to the sound of holy song. People stopped in many an evil deed or word to listen; then left the word unsaid, the deed undone. It came to be a fashion in Gomorrah to stroll to Reuben’s cabin of a Sunday to see how joyfully the children kept the day. Nay, it was even known that once a whole party at the tavern had left their drinking-cups, to stand for an hour at the next door, listening to the music. Truly, good and evil were in strange contrast that winter in the almost forgotten place which had no intercourse with the outer world. There was a world, unseen, in which it was remembered night and day.

At length they asked Reuben why he looked so happy, and he answered: “It is almost spring. Then the priest will come.” And when they laughed and asked him how he knew, he answered simply: “God will send him.”

When the snow began to melt and the streams ran gayly down the hillside, and grass was green, one week, remembered for years after in that region, the whole place rang with the story of a carousal which even Gomorrah wondered at; the whole place waited to see whether the Doctor or Reuben would ever come forth alive from their self-imposed prison. When Reuben opened his door again, and gathered his children round him, there was a look of peculiar expectation on his face. He greeted each child with special gladness, and told one of the mothers that he was quite sure the priest was coming very soon, “for we need him a good deal now,” he said.

That afternoon there came into Gomorrah a man wearing the religious habit, and asked at the tavern if a Mrs. Armstrong was living in that place.

Syles stared at him blankly. “What do you know of her?” he said.

“I met some one,” the priest answered, “while on my way to the States, who begged me, if I ever came this way, to find such a woman and give her a message from him. Is she here?”

“Dead,” said Syles briefly.

“She had a husband. Where is he?”

“Next door with a madman. We leave him alone such times.”

“No, no, Parson,” said a lounger near by. “Where’ve ye been that ye haven’t heard? Doctor’s out of his fit to-day, and Reuben’s got his school again. I’ll take ye there, stranger. It’s a sight we’re proud of in Gomorrah.”

Out of the tavern into the filthy street, followed by a dozen or more wretches, the priest went sadly with a load upon his heart. The horrors he had seen already were enough to sicken him; he wondered what new evils he would meet with now of which Gomorrah was proud.

“They’re used to spectators,” said his guide. “We watch ’em as we like. Door or window—’tan’t no difference to them; we an’t particular here.”

It was a bare, small room, with a table and some benches, an empty fireplace, beside it a powerfully-built man trembling and crying by himself, like one unnerved by some long illness; on one wall was a print of the Blessed Babe and the Holy Mother, and below this was a crucifix. Facing these was a band of twenty little children in soiled and ragged garments, but with clean hands and faces, too absorbed by what was being said to them to heed what passed without. All eyes were fixed on a small man with a great fresh cut across his forehead and a bruised and very simple face.

“Yes, children,” he was saying, “it was the blessed child Jesus who was born on Christmas night. He loves us all very much indeed, and of course we all want to love him. Some time he is going to send his priest here to baptize you; then what will you all be?”

“God’s little children.” The answer rose sweetly and with a kind of merriment from every lip, and Reuben’s face shone.

“Surely, surely,” he said. “Now we will sing, because we love him and want to thank him. Yes, I know the song you want—‘The Three Poor Shepherds.’”

“We were but three poor shepherds,

All keeping our flocks by night,

When Monseigneur the blessed angel

Came suddenly into sight—

“Came suddenly through the darkness,

While a glory round him fell;

I wot not if it were Michael

Or the Angel Gabriel.

“But his voice was like a trumpet,

So full, and glad, and true;

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘my children:

There is good news for you—’

“‘Good news for men and maidens,

A great, glad gift for them;

For the faire Sire Christ, the blessed,

Is born in Bethlehem.’

“Then a Gloria in Excelsis

They sang with glad accord;

Peace and good-will to all mankind

From the Sire Christ the Lord.

“And unto a lowly stable

Silently went we three,

And there the kine, each in its stall,

Was on a bended knee.

“And there was Messire St. Joseph;

And Mary the mother lay,

With the Holy Child in swaddling bands,

All on a cushion of hay.

“Each dumb beast looked in our faces,

But never unbent the knee;

Our sweet Ladye she raised her eyes

And smiled full tenderly.

“‘Ah! faire Sire Christ,’ all humbly

We cried with urgent plea,

‘Anneal us now of thy great mercie,

For that we are so glad of thee.’

“‘For that we are glad and joyful

That good days are begun,

That the great God for a blessing

Hath sent us his faire Childe Son.’

“Then Our Ladye the Holy Mary

Took some wood in her hand,

And crossed the pieces, and gave them,

That we all might understand.

“And we kissed the token humbly,

And bowed before the Childe;

For we knew, like Monseigneurs the angels,

That God had been reconciled.

“So joyfully and with gladness

All softly we went our way,

And with many an old Te Deum

We tell the tale to-day.”

Then once more, like a chorus which even the children just beginning to talk seemed to know in part:

“For that we are glad and joyful

That good days are begun,

That the great God for a blessing

Hath sent us his faire Childe Son.”

The door opened slowly and a voice which all ears could hear said reverently, “Pax vobiscum.” The good days were begun.

Strange how calmly they all received him! Reuben never asked him how he came there; he had looked for him and prayed for him a long while, and he was there at last. God, of course, had sent him. One by one he brought the children to speak with him, and to have him pronounce on their fitness to be made God’s children; and the tears stood in the priest’s eyes as he listened to their simple, fearless answers, that witnessed to what Reuben’s work of faith had been. When they were gone away to their homes, which were far less homes to them than Reuben’s cabin was, Reuben came to the priest as simply as any one of them had come, and asked to be allowed to make confession.

“You’ll stay here and be good, Doctor,” he said soothingly. “I shall only be in the other room, and I’ve locked the door hard.”

The Doctor made a sort of moaning assent.

“He’s just had a very sad time,” explained Reuben, “and he needs you very much, father. By and by please let him speak to you.”

How wonderful to listen, in that place of revenge and murder, to Reuben’s quiet, brief confession—no complaints, no bitterness, no anger, except that for one day he had felt hatred toward some one, against whom, however, he brought no accusation, and for this sin he felt especial contrition.

“I met lately,” the priest said slowly, when the confession was finished, and marking with care the effect his words would have, “a man known sometimes as Lazell.”

Reuben gave a start as of joyful surprise, and would have spoken, but the priest continued:

“I saw him die a felon’s death upon the gallows.”

“No, no!” cried Reuben in distress—one might have supposed he had been told of a brother’s shameful death. “Oh! no, father.”

“It was a just punishment,” the priest replied.

“No, no!” cried Reuben. “You do not know this place. They do not have helps here like other people, or like me. Oh! but God saved his poor soul at the last?”

“He spoke to me,” said the priest, “of a woman named Esther Armstrong, to whom he had done a great injury. Was not that true?”

“He did not understand,” said Reuben with sorrowful compassion—“I am sure he did not understand what harm he did, because, you know, he couldn’t have hurt her. And he did not see good women here; they have such hard times here, poor things.”

“He said he could not forget her—that something always reminded him of her. He begged me to find her out and ask her to forgive him.”

“She died,” said Reuben softly. “She forgave him. She prayed for him a great deal, I think.”

“God answered her, then,” the priest said. “I trust that he repented truly.”

A great light of joy woke upon Reuben’s face. “Then he will save the rest,” he exclaimed triumphantly.

“But you,” the priest asked—“do you forgive him?”

“I?” repeated Reuben with a puzzled look. “O father! it was very wrong of me; I was angry with him at first. But it was my fault, really, though Esther never blamed me; I was a poor fool, father, or I never should have brought her here.”

And so Reuben Armstrong took to himself his lifelong title humbly—so poor a fool, indeed, that he had forgotten that he had anything to forgive his fellow-men.

The next day Reuben saw his whole flock of little ones gathered into the Good Shepherd’s fold; and then the Holy Sacrifice was offered up, and Reuben’s soul was strengthened by the Divine Food.

The Doctor had sullenly refused to be present. Reuben found him, on his return, lying face downwards on the cabin floor, the picture of despair.

“There is no hope,” he said when Reuben knelt by him, and begged him to have recourse to confession. “I want drink—nothing but drink. I must have it. I cannot save myself.”

“That’s true enough,” said Reuben. “You can’t, and I can’t, but God can. You keep saying that I don’t know everything about you, and that nobody does, and that God will never forgive you. But he has sent his priest at last, and you need not be afraid to say anything to him. You must not hide anything, and he has the power to hear it and tell you what God says.”

Like one driven to a last resort, the Doctor turned to the waiting priest, and Reuben in the next room gave thanks and prayed, while, in the place where a saint had made her last confession, this man, who was indeed of “the scum of sinners,” made his first.

Truly, the Sacrament of Penance is a divine and awful thing. God grant that they who vilify and reject and misrepresent it know not what they do! The burden of souls which a missionary priest in the far West has to bear in the confessional is a tremendous one; this priest had been in prison-hulks of Australia, and through all the mining regions of California and Arizona, yet had never met a case so desperate as that before him now, where hope seemed so hopeless, the power for better things so nearly overcome. But the poor penitent, as one by one without reserve he revealed the sins so long kept secret, as well as those that were known of men and noised abroad, felt keen relief through all the degradation, tasted somewhat of the sweetness hid in this sacrament of blessed bitterness, won from it that strength which is a better thing to have than joy or consolation, met there and knew there Him “at whose feet Mary Magdalene came to kneel in the house of Simon the leper.”

“I am going away, Reuben,” the Doctor said that night, abruptly and sadly. “Yes,” seeing the other’s look of surprise, “there is hope for me, perhaps, but not here.”

“Away?” Reuben repeated. “Away from me? I thought I’d have you always, Doctor.”

“To be the hurt and the trouble I have been to you?” said the Doctor, deeply touched. “No, no, Reuben, I cannot keep my promise here. I must leave the past entirely, and the old associates, and go where I can repent—if I ever can. There is no such thing as an easy repentance for me.” And Reuben felt in his tender heart, once more to be bereaved, that the words were true.

When the priest left Gomorrah the next day, promising that it should not be forgotten, one went with him for whom no other hope remained but the total surrender of will and liberty, the total crucifixion of the flesh. Reuben heard from him once, in the course of his journey, then all tidings ceased; but he was too simple and too busy to wonder at it, too full of faith to doubt the final triumph. His character was not like Esther’s; the burden of souls could never be to him what it had been to her; God led him by a different path from that she trod in pain.

But in a lonely monastery, high up among frowning rocks and perpetual snows, a man who had come to it from far across the seas lived, for a few sad years, a life of deepest penance. Never by day or night did the battle with evil cease, yet over him there seemed to be by day and night a special heavenly care. That lonely cell was haunted constantly by visions of the past, by temptations that were maddening, by thoughts and words of evil import, which an increasing approach to holiness made flesh and heart shrink to recall. No sign of the cross, no prayer, no penance, could banish them. Pursued, haunted, tempted to the very end, yet to the very end he called on Jesus, Mary, and to the very end the answer came.

None but those whose lives were one of close union with the Sacred Heart of Jesus dared minister at that death-bed, learning there, in fear and trembling, new lessons of the hideousness of sin, and of the power which an evil life can give to Satan in the hour of death. But again and again they heard the poor lips whisper, “I deserve it, I deserve it; I thank God”; they saw the weak hands cling to the crucifix, the glaring eyes gaze in their anguish upon the Word made flesh; and he who endured to hear the last confession brought to him afterward, with awed and pitying reverence, the Body of the Lord. It was no saint, no life-long, scarred, victorious warrior of the Cross, whom they laid to rest at last, his hard fight done; yet over that body—which, even in their snow-clad region, they had to hurry to its burial—they dared to give God thanks in humble faith for another sinner ransomed.

Humbly and faithfully, in far-away Gomorrah, Reuben Armstrong lived to a good old age his poor fool’s life; and men and women came to look with gentle reverence upon the feeble form which went in and out among them on errands of daily mercy, never tiring. By and by the neighbors learned to know the place by a better name than the evil one which it grew to hate rather than glory in. “It cannot be so very bad,” they said, “when there are such good children in it.” And as from time to time a priest came there, he always found one more soul desirous for confession, or one more child or grown person ready for holy baptism, and Reuben never again knelt alone to receive holy Communion.

When the Doctor went away, Reuben opened his heart and home to the vagrant orphans, and there, some years after, he welcomed gladly the miserable Parson, more pitiably needy than any of them. “Master Reuben’s baby” they called him, and Reuben often told exultingly how good and obedient he was. No one envied him his charge—unless it was the angels, who share in such blessed work.

A railroad runs through the town now, and it is becoming a place of some importance—poor enough and bad enough, alas! but stamped outwardly and openly with the sign of the Cross. For over Esther’s grave loving hands have reared a little chapel—a constant token that the offering of her broken heart has been accepted, that her dying prayer has been remembered.

And there, troubled by no doubts and haunted by no fears, weak in body and weaker still in intellect, but very strong in his immortal soul, Reuben waits patiently and happily till his work is done.

We live in a time when scientific men seem to acquire celebrity almost in proportion as they succeed in perverting the conclusions of natural science so as to make them contradict revealed truth. At this we are not surprised; for the management of the interests of science has lately fallen, to a great extent, into the hands of an anti-Christian sect, which is either unable to understand or unwilling to recognize the testimony that nature bears to the existence, power, and wisdom of its Creator, and to the veracity of his word. To this sect Professor Huxley belongs. They call him “a great scientist” and “a great philosopher”; and people invite him to lecture; and a certain press hastens to publish his thoughts, that the world may learn how religious dogmas can be swept away by “scientific” discoveries, and especially by “scientific” reasonings. Unfortunately for Prof. Huxley, his lectures on the Evidences of Evolution, which are the last effort of his mind, are as deficient in logic as most of his other productions. In other words, the conclusions of the lecturer are not legitimate, and the premises themselves are not always exempt from objectionable features. We hardly need tell our readers that neither any Christian dogma has been swept away by these lectures nor any evolution established, except in so far as the lectures themselves may be considered as an evolution of sophistry.

In the first of his three lectures Prof. Huxley begins with a false statement of facts:

“It has taken long indeed, and accumulations of often fruitless labor, to enable men to look steadily at the glaring phantasmagoria of nature, to notice her fluctuations and what is regular among her apparent irregularities; and it is only comparatively lately, within the last few centuries, that there has emerged the conception of a pervading order and definite force of things, which we term the course of nature. But out of this contemplation of nature, and out of man’s thought concerning her, there has in these later times arisen that conception of the constancy of nature to which I have referred, and that at length has become the guiding conception of modern thought. It has ceased to be almost conceivable to any person who has paid attention to modern thought that chance should have any place in the universe, or that events should follow anything but the natural order of cause and effect.”

The truth is that “modern thought” has had no part whatever in the discovery of the constancy of nature. This discovery is as old as mankind. All ancient philosophers, even before Aristotle, knew the constancy of the natural laws, and this knowledge has never died away, that modern thinkers should claim the honor of reviving it. The same is to be said of “the conception of a pervading order and definite force of things,” as we find that old Greek and Latin books are full of this conception, which is likewise common to all our mediÆval writers, and, indeed, to all reasonable men. That “chance” could have no place in the universe was so well known to the ancients that Cicero emphatically declared any man to be silly who would suspect the possibility of the contrary.[152] Hence no person ever needed “to pay attention to modern thought” to conceive that chance could have no place in the government of the world. Finally, that events cannot but follow “the natural order of cause and effect” is the oldest of scientific truths, and the first principle of scientific reasoning. A lecturer who pretends that we owe these truths to “modern thought” shows no respect for his audience. On the other hand, if “modern thought” is so poor and barren that it envies the scientific claims of past generations, and stakes its reputation on fiction and plagiarism, what can we say of the wisdom of the modern thinker who affords a ground for arguing that “modern thought” stands convicted of dishonesty as much as of incapacity?

The professor a little later says:

“Though we are quite clear about the constancy of nature at the present time and in the present order of things, it by no means follows necessarily that we are justified in expanding this generalization into the past, and in denying absolutely that there may have been a time when evidence did not follow a first order, when the relations of cause and effect were not fixed and definite, and when external agencies did not intervene in the general course of nature. Cautious men will admit that such a change in the order of nature may have been possible, just as every candid thinker will admit that there may be a world in which two and two do not make four, and in which two straight lines do not enclose a space.”

This sentence shows that we are dealing rather with an empiricist than with a natural philosopher. Why should not the constancy of nature at the present time justify our conviction that nature has been no less constant in the past? Surely, if we proceed only empirically, the facts of the present will teach us nothing certain as to the facts of a remote and unknown past. But it is remarkable that this purely empirical method would leave us equally uncertain as to the facts of the future, though modern scientists assure us that “the future must be similar to the past.” The truth is that no valid induction can be made from mere facts without the aid of a rational principle as the ground of our generalization. If such a principle is certain, our inference is certain; and if the principle is only plausible, our inference will be plausible in the same degree. Now, have we not a certain principle from which the constancy of nature can be demonstrated with no reference to particular time? We have such a principle. We infer the constancy of nature from the constancy of the agencies by which the physical order is ruled. All elementary substances are permanent; their matter and their active power are never impaired; the law of their activity is as fixed and definite as their permanent constitution; and therefore they do not, and they cannot, act at present in a different manner from that in which they have acted from the beginning, or from that in which they will act as long as they last. This is the principle by which we are fully justified in extending the constancy of nature to all antiquity and to all futurity, and in averring that such a constancy is not an accidental result of circumstances, but a necessary consequence of the principle of causality.

But Mr. Huxley seems not to understand this principle. He imagines a time when the relations of cause and effect may not have been fixed and definite, and even conceives the possibility of a world in which two and two do not make four. This is modern thought indeed; for we do not believe that any indication can be found of a similar thought having ever been entertained in past ages. But we would ask: If in a certain world two and two did not make four, how could Mr. Huxley know that they make four in this world? And if the relations of cause and effect had at any given time remained vague and indefinite, how could he account for the fact that they are now definite and fixed? For the relation of cause and effect consists in this: that the impression produced by the cause is the exact equivalent of the exertion made in its production; and he who imagines a time when such a relation was not fixed and definite must assume that an effect can be greater than the exertion in which it originates, or that the exertion can be greater than the impression it produces. But if so, on what ground can the professor affirm that the relation of cause and effect has now become fixed and definite? We see the effect, but we cannot see the exertion; we see the fall of a body, but we cannot see the action of gravity. How, then, can Mr. Huxley ascertain that the action of gravity is neither greater nor less than the momentum impressed on the body? Thus the relation of cause and effect, in his theory, cannot be known; and mechanical science becomes impossible. In the same manner, if, in another world, two and two do not make four, mathematics are an imposition.

The lecturer says also that there may have been a time “when external agencies did not intervene in the general course of nature”; but we believe that this must be a lapsus linguÆ; for, as he does not admit that external agencies do now intervene in the general course of nature, to say that the case may have been exactly the same in all remote times is not to adduce a reason of the supposed disturbance of the relations of cause and effect, of which he is speaking, nor would it serve to limit, as he wishes, our “generalization.” The context, therefore, shows that what the lecturer intended to say was that there may have been a time when external agencies did intervene in the general course of nature. In fact, however, he said the contrary. Perhaps the professor, considering that he was speaking to an American audience with whose religious opinions he was little acquainted, thought it wise to give such a turn to his phrases as to avoid all profession of belief or disbelief in the existence of a Creator. But, however this may be, the idea that God’s intervention in the course of nature would disturb the relation of cause and effect is quite preposterous; for if God intervenes, his action carries with itself its proportionate effect, while the actions of other causes maintain their natural relations to their ordinary effects. When a man raises a stone from the ground, does he disturb the relation of cause and effect? or does he abolish gravitation? Certainly not. Gravity continues to urge down the body, while it is raised; but the effect corresponds to the combined actions of the two distinct causes. Now, the same must be said of God’s intervention with natural causes. The effect will always correspond to the combined causalities; and therefore the relation of the effect to its adequate cause remains undisturbed.

To assume, as the lecturer does, that at the present time God has ceased to intervene in the course of nature, is to assume something for which there is not the least warrant. God’s intervention in the course of nature is continuous; for without it nature can neither act nor exist for a single moment, as every one knows who is not absolutely ignorant of philosophy. But this is not all. God, seeing that men try to blind themselves to the fact of his intervention in the ordinary course of nature, gives us in his mercy not unfrequent proofs of his intervention by works so far above nature that no effort of scientific infidels can evade their testimony. These works are miracles. “Modern thought” denies miracles, as irreconcilable with the “constancy of nature”; but the history of the church is full of well-authenticated miracles, and there are to-day living in different countries thousands of unexceptionable witnesses who can testify that miracles are, even now, an almost daily occurrence among the Christian people. We, too, admit “the constancy of nature,” but we are not so dull as to interpret this constancy as modern thought strives to interpret it. It is the laws of nature that are constant, not the course of nature; the former alone are connected with the essence of things and are immutable; the latter depends on accidental conditions, and can be interfered with not only by God, but even by man, as daily experience shows. Hence the intervention of external agencies does not impair the constancy of nature, and the argument of modern thinkers against the possibility of miracles falls to the ground.

Mr. Huxley, after stating that the question with which he has to deal is essentially historical, affirms that “there are only three views—three hypotheses—respecting the past history of nature.” The first hypothesis is that

“The order of nature which now obtains has always obtained; in other words, that the present course of nature, the present order of things, has existed from all eternity. The second hypothesis is that the present state of things, the present order of nature, has had only a limited duration, and that at some period in the past the state of things which we now know—substantially, though not, of course, in all its details, the state of things which we now know—arose and came into existence without any precedent similar condition from which it could have proceeded. The third hypothesis also assumes that the present order of nature has had but a limited duration, but it supposes that the present order of things proceeded by a natural process from an antecedent order, and that from another antecedent order, and so on; and that on this hypothesis the attempt to fix any limit at which we could assign the commencement of this series of changes is given up.”

Of these three hypotheses, the first is discarded by the lecturer as untenable, because “circumstantial evidence absolutely negatives the conception of the eternity of the present condition of things.” In this we agree with him, not only on account of geological evidence, but also, and principally, because the world is mutable, and therefore contingent; which proves that it must have had a beginning. It is remarkable that he denies the eternity of the present condition of things, but does not deny the eternity of matter. Modern thought could not admit of such a denial; because, if matter is not eternal, the admission of a Creator becomes unavoidable.

The second hypothesis the professor calls the “Miltonic” hypothesis, and he proceeds to explain why he calls it so:

“I doubt not that it may have excited some surprise in your minds that I should have spoken of this as Milton’s hypothesis rather than I should choose the terms which are much more familiar to you, such as ‘the doctrine of creation,’ or ‘the Biblical doctrine’ or ‘the doctrine of Moses,’ all of which terms, as applied to the hypothesis to which I have just referred, are certainly much more familiar to you than the title of the Miltonic hypothesis. But I have had what I cannot but think are very weighty reasons for taking the course which I have pursued. For example, I have discarded the title of the hypothesis of creation, because my present business is not with the question as to how nature has originated, as to the causes which have led to her origination, but as to the manner and order of her origination. Our present inquiry is not why the objects which constitute nature came into existence, but when they came into existence, and in what order. This is a strictly historical question, as that about the date at which the Angles and Jutes invaded England. But the other question about creation is a philosophical question, and one which cannot be solved or approached or touched by the historical method.”

Then he gives his reasons why he avoids the title of Biblical hypothesis:

“In the first place, it is not my business to say what the Hebrew text contains, and what it does not; and, in the second place, were I to say that this was the Biblical hypothesis, I should be met by the authority of many eminent scholars, to say nothing of men of science, who, in recent times, have absolutely denied that this doctrine is to be found in Genesis at all. If we are to listen to them, we must believe that what seem so clearly defined as days of creation—as if very great pains had been taken that there should be no mistake—that these are not days at all, but periods that we may make just as long as convenience requires. We are also to understand that it is consistent with that phraseology to believe that plants and animals may have been evolved by natural processes, lasting for millions of years, out of similar rudiments. A person who is not a Hebrew scholar can only stand by and admire the marvelous flexibility of a language which admits of such diverse interpretations.” (At these last words the audience is said to have laughed and applauded.) “In the third place, I have carefully abstained from speaking of this as a Mosaic doctrine, because we are now assured upon the authority of the highest critics, and even of dignitaries of the church, that there is no evidence whatever that Moses ever wrote this chapter or knew anything about it. I don’t say—I give no opinion—it would be an impertinence upon my part to volunteer an opinion on such a subject; but that being the state of opinion among the scholars and the clergy, it is well for us, the laity, who stand outside, to avoid entangling ourselves in such a vexed question.”

Then the lecturer makes a short refutation of Milton’s hypothesis, and concludes his first lecture by promising to give in the following lectures the evidences in favor of the hypothesis of evolution.

It seems to us that the whole of the preceding reasoning is nothing but plausible talk, and that the explanations of the lecturer lack sincerity. First, he pretends that the “doctrine of creation” is a philosophical question, which cannot be solved by the historical method. Why can it not? Creation is no less a historical than a philosophical fact. The book in which we read it is a historical book, more than three thousand years old, whose high authority has been recognized by the wisest men of all past generations, and whose truthfulness has been confirmed by monuments of antiquity and by the study of profane histories. If, then, Prof. Huxley was truly anxious to follow the historical method, why did he not compare the details given in Genesis about the manner and order of the origination of nature with the manner and order suggested by geological discoveries? On the other hand, if the question was to be treated by the historical method, was it wise to appeal to a poet as the best interpreter of history?

As to the philosophical treatment of the doctrine of creation, we are glad to see that the professor has had the good sense of abstaining from it. This forbearance on his part was imperative for many reasons, and especially because, as appears from some expressions of his, he was quite incompetent to judge of the doctrine on its philosophical side. He says that it is not his present business to investigate “the causes which have led to the origination of nature,” nor to inquire “why the objects which constitute nature came into existence”; as if there were any other why besides the will of the Creator, or any other causes besides his omnipotence. But Mr. Huxley seems afraid of a Creator; hence he does not speak of a God, but of “causes” and “external agencies”; nor does he mention creation, but only “origination.” Vain efforts! For, if nature has had an origination, it either originated in something or in nothing: if in nothing, then such an origination is a real creation; if in something, then such an origination was only a modification of something pre-existing contingently (for nothing but the contingent is modifiable), whose existence must again be traced to creation. Had the lecturer honestly followed the historical method, he would have boldly started with those profound words of Genesis: “In the beginning God created heaven and earth,” and he would have found a solution, no less philosophical than historical, of his question.

These remarks go far to show that the professor’s reasons for ignoring the Biblical history (which he, of course, calls the “Biblical hypothesis”) are mere pretexts. Surely it was not his business to explain the Hebrew text; but this is no excuse. The only point which had a real importance in connection with the question at issue was whether the so-called days of creation were natural days of twenty-four hours or periods of a much greater length. Now, this point could have been investigated with the Latin or the English text as well as with the Hebrew. Moreover, since “many eminent scholars,” and even “men of science,” as he states, have absolutely denied that the doctrine of the six natural days is found in Genesis at all, was it not plain that the geological epochs, wholly unknown to Milton, could not be considered as contradicting the Biblical record, but might rather coincide with that narrative, and help us to clear up some obscure phrases which we read in it? Prof. Huxley pretends that, if we listen to these eminent scholars and men of science, “we must believe that what seem so clearly defined as days of creation are not days at all, but periods that we may make just as long as convenience requires.” This is, indeed, the conclusion we draw from a full discussion of the subject; but we should like to know on what ground the professor assumes that the Genesis speaks so clearly of natural days. It is the contrary that is clearly implied in the language of the sacred writer; for it is evident that the three days which preceded the creation of the sun could not be natural days of twenty-four hours; and since their length has not been determined by the sacred writer, we are free “to make them just as long as convenience requires.” This reason, which may be strengthened by other expressions in the context, and by many other passages of the Bible where the word day is used indefinitely for long periods of time, led many old interpreters, St. Augustine among others, to deny what Prof. Huxley so confidently asserts about the clearness of the Scriptural testimony in favor of natural days. The professor evidently speaks of a subject which he has never studied, with the mischievous purpose of creating a conflict between science and faith.

What shall we say of his amusing hint at the “marvellous flexibility” of the Biblical language? Though greeted with applause and laughter (by an audience that knew nothing about the Hebrew language), such a hint was a blunder. It is not the flexibility of the language that has ever been appealed to as the ground of different interpretations; it is the extreme conciseness of the narration, and the omission of numerous details, which might have proved interesting to the man of science, but which had nothing to do with the object pursued by the sacred writer. For the aim of the writer was to instruct men, not on science, but on the unity of God and his universal dominion. On the other hand, all languages have numbers of terms which can receive different interpretations; and the very word day, which the lecturer takes to mean so clearly twenty-four hours, is used even by us in the sense of an indefinite length of time. We say, for instance, that to-day anti-Christianity is rampant, just as well as that to-day it has rained; and we hope that Professor Huxley will not on this account find fault with the English language, or sneer at its “marvellous flexibility.”

Finally, the professor says that he spoke of the Miltonic theory rather than of the “Mosaic doctrine,” because “we are now assured upon the authority of the highest critics, and even of dignitaries of the church, that there is no evidence whatever that Moses ever wrote this chapter or knew anything about it.” This allegation is not creditable to the judgment of the lecturer.

The Genesis is the undoubted work of Moses, as all ancient and modern scholars, both Jew and Christian, testify. If, however, Professor Huxley, upon the authority of his perverse or ignorant critics and of the rationalistic dignitaries of a false church, believes the contrary, it does not follow that the historical method obliged him to substitute the Miltonic theory for the Biblical history under pain of “entangling himself in a vexed question.” If there was a vexed question, he could discard it with a word. Nothing prevented him from speaking of “what is styled the Mosaic doctrine.” The truth is that the professor labored all along to demolish the Mosaic doctrine under the name of Miltonic hypothesis, thinking, no doubt, that by this artifice he might just say enough to satisfy his friends the free-thinkers, without shocking too violently the public mind. The artifice, however, proved unsuccessful; and if the professor has seen the criticism passed on his lectures by the American press, he must now have acquired the conviction that the Miltonic hypothesis did not deserve the honor of a scientific refutation.

In his second lecture Mr. Huxley begins to deal with the evidences of evolution. He points out that such evidences are of three kinds—viz., indifferent, favorable, and demonstrative. The first two kinds he is prepared to examine at once, whilst the third he keeps in reserve for his last lecture. One might ask what an “indifferent evidence” is likely to mean. For, if any fact has no greater tendency to prove than to disprove a theory, such a fact does not constitute “evidence” on either side. This, of course, is true; but, in the language of the professor, “indifferent evidence” designates those facts which are brought against his theory, and which he believes to admit of a satisfactory explanation without abandoning the theory. Thus he relates how

“Cuvier endeavored to ascertain by a very just and proper method what foundation there was for the belief in a gradual and progressive change of animals, by comparing the skeletons of all accessible parts of these animals (old Egyptian remains)—such as crocodiles, birds, dogs, cats, and the like—with those which are now found in Egypt; and he came to the conclusion—a conclusion which has been verified by all subsequent research—that no appreciable change has taken place in the animals which inhabited Egypt, and he drew thence the conclusion, and a hasty one, that the evidence of such fact was altogether against the doctrine of evolution.”

Again, the professor states that the animal remains deposited in the beds of stone lining the Niagara “belong to exactly the same forms as now inhabit the still waters of Lake Erie”; and these remains, according to his calculation, are more than thirty thousand years old. Again:

“When we examine the rocks of the cretaceous epoch itself, we find the remains of some animals which the closest scrutiny cannot show to be in any respect different from those which live at the present time.” “More than that: At the very bottom of the Silurian series, in what is by some authorities termed the Cambrian formation, where all signs appear to be dying out, even there, among the few and scanty animal remains which exist, we find species of molluscous animals which are so closely allied to existing forms that at one time they were grouped under the same generic name.… Facts of this kind are undoubtedly fatal to any form of evolution which necessitates the supposition that there is an intrinsic necessity on the part of animal forms which once come into existence to undergo modifications; and they are still more distinctly opposed to any view which should lead to the belief that the modification in different types of animal or vegetable life goes on equally and evenly. The facts, as I have placed them before you, would obviously contradict directly any such form of the hypothesis of evolution as laid down in these two postulates.”

Here, then, we have facts which “contradict directly” any form of necessary evolution. Now let us see how the professor strives to turn them into indifferent evidences of spontaneous evolution. He says:

“Now, the service that has been rendered by Mr. Darwin to the doctrine of evolution in general is this: that he has shown that there are two great factors in the process of evolution, and one of them is the tendency to vary, the existence of which may be proved by observation in all living forms; the other is the influence of surrounding conditions upon what I may call the parent form and the variations which are thus evolved from it. The cause of that production of variations is a matter not at all properly understood at present. Whether it depends upon some intricate machinery—if I may use the phrase—of the animal form itself, or whether it arises through the influence of conditions upon that form, is not certain, and the question may for the present be left open. But the important point is the tendency to the production of variations. Then whether those variations shall survive and supplant the parent, or whether the parent form shall survive and supplant the variations, is a matter which depends entirely on surrounding conditions.”

From this theory the lecturer concludes that the facts above mentioned as contradicting the doctrine of evolution are “no objection at all,” but belong to that class of evidence which he has called indifferent. “That is to say,” as he explains, “they may be no direct support to the doctrine of evolution but they are perfectly capable of being interpreted in consistency with it.” This is to tell us that Darwin, in order to evade the testimony of numerous facts which contradict evolution, had to resort to a very bold but gratuitous assumption. In fact, on what ground can he pretend that all living forms have a tendency to vary from one species to another, and that such a tendency may be proved by observation, when we have so many facts which prove that such a tendency has not shown itself for thousands and tens of thousands of years? As yet, no case of evolution from one species to another has been ascertained; and it surely requires a peculiar evolution of logic to affirm, in the presence of such a known fact, that the tendency to vary may be proved by observation. That there may be varieties within the range of one and the same species is a well-known truth; this is what observation has abundantly proved. But Mr. Darwin pretends that the tendency to vary is not confined within the range of the species, but extends from one species to another, so as to produce not only individual and accidental modifications, but also essential changes and differentiations; and this is what observation has hitherto been unable to prove. Thus the professor’s appeal to the Darwinian hypothesis is quite illogical, as it is nothing but a begging of the question.

It is singular that Professor Huxley himself, after telling us that the tendency to vary is proved by observation, immediately refutes his own assertion by showing that the whole theory of evolution rests on no actual observation, but on the mere hope of some possible observations which the future may keep in reserve for its triumph. Here is what he says:

“The great group of lizards, which abound so much at the present day, extends through the whole series of formations as far back as what is called the Permian epoch, which is represented by the strata lying just above the coal. These Permian lizards differ astonishingly little—in some respects—from the lizards which exist at the present day. Comparing the amount of difference between these Permian lizards and the lizards of the present day with the prodigious lapse of time between the Permian epoch and the present age, it maybe said that there has been no appreciable change. But the moment you carry the researches further back in time you find no trace whatever of lizards, nor any true reptile whatever, in the whole mass of formations beneath the Permian. Now, it is perfectly clear that if our existing palÆontological collections, our existing specimens from stratified rock, exhaust the whole series of events which have ever taken place upon the surface of the globe, such a fact as this directly contravenes the whole theory of evolution, because that postulates that the existence of every form must have been preceded by that of some form comparatively little different from it.”

So far, then, as existing specimens of palÆontology are concerned, everything “directly contravenes the whole theory of evolution”; that is to say that observation, far from proving the theory, tends to disprove it. The lecturer, however, not dismayed by this crushing evidence, appeals to “the whole series of events” which must have preceded the epoch of the oldest existing specimens; and he invites us to take into consideration “that important fact so well insisted upon by Lyell and Darwin—the imperfection of the geological record.” No doubt the geological record is imperfect; but this imperfection cannot be made the ground of an argument in favor of evolution. To make it such would be like interpreting the silence of a witness for positive information. Prof. Huxley saw this, and, anticipating the objection which was sure to rise in the minds of his hearers, made an effort to evade it by saying: “Those who have not attended to these matters are apt to say to themselves, ‘It is all very well; but when you get into difficulty with your theory of evolution, you appeal to the incompleteness and the imperfection of the geological record’; and I want to make it perfectly clear to you that that imperfection is a vast fact which must be taken into account with all our speculations, or we shall constantly be going wrong.” The reader will notice how bluntly the lecturer ignores the drift of the objection. The objection is: “When you appeal to the remotest epochs, about which geology gives us so very scanty information, you appeal to the unknown; and this is a very singular method of answering that series of known facts which directly contravene the theory of evolution.” The answer of the professor is: “You have not attended to these matters. Do you think that the geological record is perfect? I tell you that it is most imperfect and incomplete, and I am going to show that such is the case.” This answer confirms the objection, and shows that the theory of evolution is illogical.

The professor then mentions “the tracks of some gigantic animal which walked on its hind legs,” and remarks that, although untold thousands of such tracks are found upon our shores, yet “up to this present time not a bone, not a fragment, of any one of the great creatures which certainly made these impressions has been found.” And he concludes: “I know of no more striking evidence than this fact affords from which it may be concluded, in the absence of organic remains, that such animals did exist.” Of course they did exist; but their existence is no argument against those innumerable facts which bear positive witness against the theory of evolution. And yet the lecturer ventures to say:

“I believe that having the right understanding of the doctrine of evolution on the one hand, and having a just estimation of the importance of the imperfection of the geological record on the other, would remove all difficulty from the kind of evidence to which I have thus adverted; and this appreciation allows us to believe that all such cases are examples of what I may here call, and have hitherto designated, negative or indifferent evidence—that is to say, they in no way directly advance the theory of evolution, but they are no obstacle in the way of our belief in the doctrine.” That a long series of positive facts establishing the fixity of species during a great many thousand years are no obstacle in the way of our belief in an opposite theory, owing to the mistiness of all older geological records, which allows us to dream of facts contrary to the course of things, ascertained by constant observation, is an idea which “modern thought” may consider brilliant, but which common sense absolutely rejects.

In the remaining part of this second lecture Mr. Huxley deals with the evidence of intermediate forms: “If the doctrine of evolution be true, it follows that animals and plants, however diverse they may be, must have all been connected together by gradational forms, so that from the highest animals, whatever they may be, down to the lowest speck of gelatinous matter in which life can be manifested, there must be a sure and progressive body of evidence—a series of gradations by which you could pass from one end of the series to the other.” Let us remark, by the way, that the phrase “the highest animals, whatever they may be,” comprises rational animals—that is, all mankind; which would imply that our rational soul should be traced “to the lowest speck of gelatinous matter” as its first origin. We need not dwell here on this absurdity. The professor confesses that “we have crocodiles, lizards, snakes, turtles, and tortoises, and yet there is nothing—no connecting link—between the crocodile and lizard, or between the lizard and snake, or between the snake and the crocodile, or between any two of these groups. They are separated by absolute breaks.” Such being the case, it would seem that the professor had a sufficient ground for denying the theory of evolution altogether. But, no; whilst confessing that there is “no connecting link,” he pretends that we must show that no connecting link has ever existed. His words are:

“If, then, it could be shown that this state of things was from the beginning—had always existed—it would be fatal to the doctrine of evolution. If the intermediate gradations which the doctrine of evolution postulates must have existed between these groups—if they are not to be found anywhere in the records of the past history of the globe—all that is so much a strong and weighty argument against evolution. While, on the other hand, if such intermediate forms are to be found, that is so much to the good of evolution, although … we must be cautious in assuming such facts as proofs of the theory.”

The wisdom of this last caution is undeniable; but is there not a contradiction in the phrases “there is no connecting link” and “the intermediate forms may be found”?

He then proceeds to show some osteologic relations by which birds and reptiles seem to be connected, but from which, as he concedes, no proof of the theory of evolution can be formed, and he concludes in the following words: “In my next lecture I will take up what I venture to call the demonstrative evidence of evolution.” Let us, then, give up all further examination of the second lecture, and proceed to a short inquiry upon the kind of evidence condensed in the third.

We must say at once that the evidence contained in the whole of this third lecture neither directly nor indirectly demonstrates that one species of animals has been evolved out of another species. Granting that the animal remains described by the professor correspond entirely to his description of them, and waiving all question about the correct interpretation of the same, we shall merely pass in review the logical process by which such remains are made to give testimony to the Darwinian view.

In the exordium Mr. Huxley assumes, as a point already established in his second lecture, that the evidence derived from fossil remains “is perfectly consistent with the doctrine of evolution.” We have seen that this is not true. The professor, entirely forgetful of all the facts which he himself had acknowledged to “directly contravene the whole theory of evolution,” insists on the relations between birds and reptiles and their intermediate forms. “We find,” he says, “in the mesozoic rocks animals which, if ranged in series, would so completely bridge over the interval between the reptile and the bird that it would be very hard to say where the reptile ends and where the bird begins.” And he adds that “evidence so distinctly favorable as this of evolution is far weightier than that upon which men undertake to say that they believe many important propositions; but it is not the highest kind of evidence attained.” If we ask the professor why this evidence is not the highest, he will give us this reason:

“That, as it happens, the intermediate forms to which I have referred do not occur in the exact order in which they ought to occur if they really had formed steps in the progression from the reptile to the bird; that is to say, we find these forms in contemporaneous deposits, whereas the requirements of the demonstrative evidence of evolution demand that we should find the series of gradations between one group of animals and another in such order as they must have followed if they had constituted a succession of stages in time of the development of the form at which they ultimately arrive. That is to say, the complete evidence of the evolution of the bird from the reptile should be of this character, that in some ancient formation reptiles alone should be found, in some later formation birds should first be met with, and in the intermediate formations we should discover in regular succession forms which I pointed out to you, which are intermediate between the reptile and the birds.”

This answer proves not only that the evidence alleged is not the highest kind of evidence in favor of evolution, but also that the evidence conflicts with the hypothesis of evolution in such a manner as to cut the ground from under the feet of the lecturer. For if the intermediate forms between the reptile and the bird are contemporaneous with the reptile and the bird, it follows that the bird has not been evolved from the reptile through those intermediate forms. It is therefore in vain that Mr. Huxley appeals to this evidence as “so distinctly favorable to evolution.”

The body of the lecture consists of an attempt to show, from the osteology of the genus Equus, that our modern horse proceeds from the Orohippus. The lecturer first describes the characteristics of the horse, using the term “horse” in a general sense as equivalent to the technical term Equus, and meaning not only what we now call the horse, but also asses and their modifications—zebras, etc. He invites us to pay a special attention to the foot and the teeth of the horse; and then he reasons as follows:

“If the hypothesis of evolution is true, what ought to happen when we investigate the history of this animal? We know that the mammalian type, as a whole, that mammalian animals are characterized by the possession of a perfectly distinct radius and ulna-two separate and distinct movable bones, We know, further, that mammals in general possess five toes, often unequal, but still as completely developed as the five digits of my hand. We know, further, that the general type of mammals possesses in the leg not only a complete tibia, but a complete fibula. The small bone of the leg is, as a general rule, a perfectly complete, distinct, movable bone. Moreover, in the hind-foot we find in animals in general five distinct toes, just as we do in the fore-foot. Hence it follows that we have a differentiated animal like the horse, which has proceeded by way of evolution or gradual modification from a similar form possessing all the characteristics we find in mammals in general. If that be true, it follows that, if there be anywhere preserved in the series of rocks a complete history of the horse—that is to say, of the various stages through which he has passed—those stages ought gradually to lead us back to some sort of animal which possessed a radius, and an ulna, and distinct complete tibia and fibula, and in which there were five toes upon the fore limb no less than upon the hind limb. Moreover, in the average general mammalian type, the higher mammalian, we find as a constant rule an approximation to the number of forty-four complete teeth, of which six are cutting teeth, two are canine, and the others of which are grinders. In unmodified mammals we find the incisors have no pit, and that the grinding teeth as a rule increase in size from that which lies in front towards those which lie in the middle or at the hinder part of the series. Consequently, if the theory of evolution be correct, if that hypothesis of the origin of living things have a foundation, we ought to find in the series the forms which have preceded the horse, animals in which the mark upon the incisor gradually more and more disappears, animals in which the canine teeth are present in both sexes, and animals in which the teeth gradually lose the complication of their crowns, and have a simpler and shorter crown, while at the same time they gradually increase in size from the anterior end of the series towards the posterior.”

The professor then proceeds to show that all these conditions are fulfilled:

“In the middle and earlier parts of the pliocene epoch, in deposits which belong to that age, and which occur in Germany and in Greece, to some extent in Britain and in France, there we find animals which are like horses in all the essential particulars which I have just described, … but they differ in some important particulars. There is a difference in the structure of the fore and hind limb, … but nevertheless we have here a horse in which the lateral toes, almost abortive in the existing horse, are fully developed.”

This horse is the Hipparion.

In the miocene formations “you find equine animals which differ essentially from the modern horse … in the character of their fore and hind limbs, and present important features of difference in the teeth. The forms to which I now refer are what are known to constitute the genus Anchitherium. We have here three toes, and the middle toe is smaller in proportion, the lower toes are larger … and in the fore arm you find the ulna, a very distinct bone,” etc., etc.

Lastly, in the oldest part of the eocene formation we find the Orohippus, which is the oldest specimen of equine animals:

“Here we have the four toes on the front limb complete, three toes on the hind limb complete, a well-developed ulna, a well-developed fibula, and the teeth of simple pattern. So you are able, thanks to these great researches, to show that, so far as present knowledge extends, the history of the horse type is exactly and precisely that which could have been predicted from a knowledge of the principles of evolution. And the knowledge we now possess justifies us completely in the anticipation that when the still lower eocene deposits and those which belong to the cretaceous epoch have yielded up their remains of equine animals, we shall find first an equine creature with four toes in front and a rudiment of the thumb. Then probably a rudiment of the fifth toe will be gradually supplied, until we come to the five-toed animals, in which most assuredly the whole series took its origin.”

To say plainly what we think of this long argumentation, we believe that it demonstrates nothing but the eminent talkative faculty of the lecturer. It all comes to this: Unmodified mammals have five fingers and five toes, whereas the modern horse has only one. Therefore the modern horse is but a modification of a pre-existing form, and is to be traced to the hipparion, the anchitherium, the orohippus, and other more ancient forms which we have not yet discovered, but which we hope to discover hereafter. Now, this style of reasoning is simply ridiculous.

First, even granting all the premises of the professor, the conclusion that one species is derived from another by evolution would still remain unproved. For who told Prof. Huxley that the animal remains on which he bases his argument belong to different species, and not to different varieties of one and the same species? Surely, a greater or less development of one or two bones cannot be considered a sufficient evidence of specific difference; for we know that even in the same variety there may be a different development; as in the hound, which sometimes possesses a spurious hind toe, and in the mastiff, which occasionally shows the same peculiarity. Hence the professor has no right to assume that the horse, the hipparion, the anchitherium, etc., are animals of different species; and therefore his argument has nothing to do with the evolution of one species from another.

Secondly, to assume without proof that “unmodified mammalia” have five fingers and five toes is to assume without proof the very conclusion which was to be demonstrated; for it is to assume that the modern horse, which has neither five fingers nor five toes, is not an unmodified mammal, but a product evolved by some more ancient form. Now, this is what logicians call petitio principii.

Thirdly, what does Prof. Huxley mean by unmodified mammalia? What are they? For, in his theory of evolution, every animal is a modification of a preceding form, and the whole series of living beings contains nothing but modified organisms. To find, therefore, an unmodified mammal, it would be necessary to find the first of all mammals from which all other mammals of the same class have proceeded. This first mammal is still to be discovered, as the professor concedes. How, then, could he know that the unmodified mammal has five fingers and five toes? And if he did not know this, how did he assume it as the very ground of his pretended demonstration?

Fourthly, how does Prof. Huxley know that the horse proceeds from the hipparion, the hipparion from the anchitherium, and the anchitherium from the orohippus? Of this he knows nothing whatever. He has no other ground for his assertion, except the different ages to which those deposits belong: but a difference of age does not prove that the older is the parent of the younger. Alexander the Great existed before Annibal, Annibal before CÆsar, CÆsar before Napoleon. Will our professor infer from this that Napoleon was the lineal descendant of Alexander the Great?

Fifthly, it is not true that “the history corresponds exactly with what one could construct a priori from the principles of evolution.” The principles of the theory of evolution demand that the more complex organisms be considered as evolved from the less complex, and the more developed as evolved from the less developed; for, according to the theory, the further we go back towards the origin of life, the nearer we approach the “protoplasm” or the “gelatinous matter.” It would therefore be more in accordance with the theory of evolution to say that the five-toed animals must have proceeded from animals possessing a simpler and less developed organism, and that the horse is the parent of the hipparion, and of the anchitherium and of the orohippus, which is quite contrary to geological evidence. Hence geological evidence flatly contradicts the principles of evolution. In other terms, if mammalia of different species have been evolved from one another, those animals whose organism is more developed must be more modern. Now, the orohippus has an organism more developed than that of the horse. Therefore the orohippus, by the principles of the theory, is more modern than the existing horse. But geological evidence shows the contrary. Therefore geological evidence directly conflicts with the principles of evolution.

Sixthly, the whole argument of the professor may be condensed in the following syllogism: If the theory of evolution is true, then we must find such and such fossils. But we find such and such fossils. Therefore the theory of evolution is true. By this form of reasoning one would prove anything he likes. Thus, for example, we might say, if Professor Huxley has graduated at Yale College, New Haven, he must know the English language. But he knows the English language. Therefore he has graduated at Yale College, New Haven. The fallacy consists in supposing that such and such fossils could not be found, except in the hypothesis that evolution is true. Hence, to avoid the fallacy, the conditionate proposition should have been inverted—that is, it should have been: If we find such and such fossils in such and such deposits, then the theory of evolution is true. But this proposition could not be assumed without proofs.

But, says the lecturer:

“An inductive hypothesis is said to be demonstrated when the facts are shown to be in entire accordance with it. If that is not scientific proof, there are no inductive conclusions which can be said to be scientific. And the doctrine of evolution at the present time rests upon exactly as secure a foundation as the Copernican theory of the motion of the heavenly bodies. Its basis is precisely of the same character—the coincidence of the observed facts with theoretical requirements. As I mentioned just now, the only way of escape, if it be a way of escape, from the conclusions which I have just indicated, is the supposition that all these different forms have been created separately at separate epochs of time; and I repeat, as I said before, that of such a hypothesis as this there neither is nor can be any scientific evidence; and assuredly, so far as I know, there is none which is supported, or pretends to be supported, by evidence or authority of any other kind.”

These sweeping assertions are all founded on the assumption that the facts have been shown to be in entire accordance with the hypothesis. But we have shown that the facts contradict the hypothesis. It is therefore a scientific necessity to deny the hypothesis. Moreover, scientific hypotheses are not proved by the mere coincidence of the observed facts with theoretical requirements; it is necessary to show, further, that the observed facts cannot be reconciled with a different theory. Hence, even if the professor had shown the agreement of the facts with his hypothesis, he would still have had no right to conclude in favor of his hypothesis on that ground alone; for he would have been obliged to show also that the Mosaic theory does not agree with those facts. What he says about “the only way of escape” is a vain boast, which has no real importance except in as much as it may serve for rhetorical effect. We have no need of seeking a way of escape; for we still follow our own old way, which remains unobstructed. We need not “make the supposition that all different forms have been created at separate epochs of time,” though they may have been so created; nor do we require “scientific evidence” of the truth of creation, for we have sufficient Biblical and philosophical evidence of it; nor do we want evidence of certain distinct or “separate” creations, for we have this evidence in the Book of Genesis. If any one needs “a way of escape,” it is the professor himself, who has ventured to defend a theory equally condemned by the Mosaic history of the origin of things and by the characteristic peculiarities of the geological remains which he has produced. As for us, even if it were proved that the horse, the hipparion, the anchitherium, and the orohippus are animals of different species, nothing would oblige us to admit that these animals have been created “at separate epochs of time”—that is to say, in different Scriptural days; for these days, or epochs, are each sufficiently long to encompass the events to which the geological record bears testimony. On the other hand, were we to assume that such animals have been created at separate epochs of time, we do not see on what ground the professor could refute such a conjecture. He might say, of course, that there is no “scientific evidence” for the supposition; but we might reply that there are many facts which science must accept on other than scientific evidence; and we might even maintain that those fossil remains on which the lecturer has founded his pretended demonstration are themselves a primÂ facie evidence in favor of said supposition. But the supposition is not needed, as we have remarked.

The professor concludes his lecture thus: “I shall consider I have done you the greatest service which it was in my power in such a way to do, if I have thus convinced you that this great question which we are discussing is not one to be discussed, dealt with, by rhetorical flourishes or by loose and superficial talk, but that it requires the keenest attention of the trained intellect, and the patience of the most accurate observer.”

These words were applauded by the audience, and we too are glad to applaud. But we may be allowed to doubt if the lecturer, in dealing with the question of evolution, has shown much respect for the maxim which he proclaims. We do not mean, of course, that Professor Huxley’s intellect is untrained, or that his scientific observations are inaccurate, but we think we can safely say that his logic is not as accurate as his scientific observations, and that his trained intellect is apt to relish sham arguments and superficial talk. When a man can gravely express the opinion that “there may be a world where two and two do not make four,” the intellect of that man makes a poor show indeed; nor does it make a better show by assuming that “there may have been a time when the relation of cause and effect was still indefinite.” In like manner, when a man in the discussion of a historical question ignores all historical documents except those which he thinks favorable to his views; when he strives to evade the evidence of certain facts which cannot be reconciled with his theory; or when he brings as a proof of the theory what under examination is found to clash with the principles of the same theory, we must be excused if we cannot admire his logic.

The lecturer’s misfortune is that he is a victim of that proud and absurd system of knowledge which is named “modern thought.” The apostles of this system strive to suppress God. The universe, according to them, is not necessarily the work of an intelligent Being. Give them only a few specks of “gelatinous matter,” and they will tell you that nothing else is required to account for the origin of life, intellect, and reason. If you say that this is impossible, because the effect cannot be more perfect than its causality, they will inform you that the words cause and effect, though still tolerated, are becoming obsolete, just as the ideas which they express. If you ask, How did the “gelatinous matter” itself originate? they will let you understand that their science cannot go so far as to attempt a clear answer; because, as Prof. Huxley adroitly puts it, “the attempt to fix any limit at which we should assign the commencement of the series of changes is given up.” This suffices to form a just estimate of the scientific hypotheses concocted by the leaders of “modern thought.” We are apt to boast of our superior knowledge: but it is one of the disasters of our time that the absurd theories of such a perverted science find ready acceptance among educated men.

[152] Quis est tam vecors, qui ea quÆ tanta mente fiunt, casu putet posse fieri?—Who is so silly as to believe that things so wisely ruled can be the effect of chance?

When Philip’s son, on his way to the temple of Jupiter Ammon in the African desert, selected the abode of the fabulous Proteus for his future city, the gods encouraged their much-loved child with a favorable omen. For whilst Dinocrates, the architect, was marking out the lines upon the ground, the chalk he used was exhausted; whereupon the king, who was present, ordered the flour destined for the workmen’s food to be employed in its stead, thereby enabling him to complete the outline of many of the streets. An infinite number of birds, says Plutarch, of several kinds, rising suddenly like a black cloud out of the river and lake, devoured the flour. Alexander, troubled in mind—as the workmen, no doubt, were both in mind and body, although the historian does not so relate—consulted the augurs. These discreet men, who read the divine Mind in their own fashion, advised him to proceed, by observing that the occurrence was a sign the city he was about to build would enjoy such abundance of all things that it would contribute to the nourishment of many nations. The workmen having swallowed their indignation in place of their food, the work proceeded, and Alexander, before continuing his journey, witnessed the commencement of his flourishing city, B.C. 323. Thus rose up Alexandria, the gate of the Orient. Centuries are as naught in its calendar; nay, thousands of years give but a feeble idea of the length of its civilized existence. Enter the portals of the Alexandria of to-day. What a new world spreads out before you! Is it not all a masquerade? These strange boatmen with their bright-colored robes, their magpie chattering—are they real? Color—color everywhere: the cloudless blue sky above, the green waters beneath, the dark complexions, the red, green, yellow of their garments, the endless confusion of colors in, around, and about. Close the eyes, or they will be dazzled. Struggle now, or see, those fellows will tear you apart and carry you in pieces to the shore, head in one boat, legs in another—happy you if even both legs are in the same boat. Fight hard now to retain your entire individuality. Well done! Now follow this handsome Arab; he is a dragoman and will protect you. Take his olive-green suit and bright red fez for a guide. See how he strikes right and left; and, by Allah! down go a score of boatmen. Are they hurt? No matter; they are only Arabs, and menials at that. He has you in his own boat now—sound, too, nothing wanting; feel, if you are in doubt—yes, head, arms, legs, body, all here; and he stands in the stern and smiles complacently. He will talk to you in any language, unintelligibly perhaps, but then with such grace and dignity; you must pretend to understand him. He will give you any information, from the cost of building the pyramids to the price of donkey-hire; will take you anywhere—to Pompey’s Pillar, Assouan, the Mountains of the Moon. And when you timidly inquire where the mountains are, thinking you might like to make a short visit, he smiles patronizingly, and waves his hand gracefully to the south. Up there!—three thousand miles or more. But what is that to him? You are surprised that he should have creditors, a man of his appearance; but you are relieved, for he pays his debts, and the custom-house officials smile, place their hands on their hearts, and bow your luggage out of the custom-house. You are already beginning to feel proud at being the friend of so great a man. That famous flirt Cleopatra lived here, and toyed with the hearts of men—some of them real men, too; not the Egyptian fops of the day, the Greek society men, or the Roman swells, but such men as Antony, who lost half the world for her at Actium. She it was who amused herself by swallowing pearls, and finally left this world to avoid the honor of adorning the triumph of Octavius. The augurs were right. Alexander’s city did contribute to the nourishment of many nations, physically and intellectually. Its sails whitened every sea, bearing to the capital and provinces of the empire the treasures of Egypt, Arabia, and India. Students flocked to its schools; its great library contained over seven hundred thousand volumes. Even as late as A.D. 641, when Amru captured the city after a siege of fourteen months, in his letter to Omar he tells him that he found there four thousand palaces, as many baths, four hundred places of amusement, and twelve thousand gardens. Amru was inclined to spare the library, being urged to do so by John Philopanus; but Omar sent orders: “If the books contain the same matter as the Koran, they are useless; if not the same, they are worse than useless. Therefore, in either case, they are to be burnt.” Even in their destruction they were made useful; for Abdollatiff says there were so many books that the baths of Alexandria were heated by them for the space of six months. Those mystical enigmas of Western childhood—Cleopatra’s Needles—turn out to be but obelisks after all, and not of the best. They stood originally at Heliopolis, but Tiberius set them up in front of the CÆsarium in honor of himself. Those old emperors were fond of raising monuments to themselves, that future generations might wonder at their exploits, which many times were performed in imagination only. One has fallen, and is a white elephant on the hands of England. The English do not know what to do with it. Mohammed Ali gave it to them, and even offered to transport it free of expense to the shore and put it on any vessel sent to remove it. Possibly he thought it reminded the people too much of Tiberius, and wanted to set up one for his own glorification. No vessel was sent, and here it remains, half covered with dÉbris. Pompey’s Pillar is a column of highly-polished red granite ninety-eight feet nine inches in height, twenty-nine feet eight inches in circumference, erected by another of those modest Roman emperors—Diocletian by name—for the same purpose that Tiberius set up the old obelisk. It is a wonder that some of these unpretentious rulers, with their characteristic modesty, did not carry out the idea proposed to Alexander by Dinocrates, and have Mount Athos cut into a statue of themselves, holding in one hand a city of ten thousand inhabitants, and from the other pouring a copious river into the sea. Perhaps they thought this city would be deserted, the inhabitants fearing that natural instinct would cause the hand to close and grab up everything, people and all. What a motley mass of humanity throng its narrow streets—Greeks, Jews, Turks, and people of almost every nation in Europe, but few Copts, the descendants of the old Egyptians. When Cambyses made his trip to Egypt, 524 B.C., he persuaded most of them to leave the Delta and retire to the Thebaid, where their descendants are found to this day. It is hard to understand the Copt. In other parts of the world a man who can trace his pedigree a few centuries back carries that fact in his face, and considers himself, and is considered, above other men. Here we talk in an off-hand, familiar way with Copts living in the same place where their ancestors have lived for six thousand years or more—men who can trace their ancestry through a long roll of illustrious names to the world’s conquerors, the Rameses and Ositarsens; and they were not proud of it—in fact, they did not seem to know anything about it. Perhaps it was such an old, old story that it had been forgotten ages before.

A well-managed railway leads to Cairo. Strange!—a railway in the land where the grandson of Noe settled, where Joseph outwitted the king’s cunning ministers: Mash el KÁheral, the victorious city, called Cairo by the Western barbarians, with donkeys and camels, eunuchs and harems, palm-trees and dahabeeÁhs, all within sight of the station, and yet to be pushed into an omnibus! O Western civilization! will you never let this picturesque world alone? To travel five thousand miles, thinking all the way of riding on donkeys like Ali Baba, or perched high on a camel like Mohammed, and then be conveyed to the hotel in an omnibus, as though in London or New York! I thought I could detect a frown on the Sphinx’s usually impassible face, as one passed it the other day. You can easily imagine the pyramids holding serious debate as to the advisability of ruining themselves as objects of interest by tumbling over and crushing out these new-fangled contrivances. We are going up the Nile, so we steal a hasty glance at the pyramids, nod to the Sphinx as though we had been on speaking terms for three or four thousand years, visit the citadel at sunset, get bewildered at the strange sights, do and see everything in the orthodox style, and are off. Going up the Nile, I determined to write a book, so voluminous notes were taken—measurements and statistics enough to puzzle the brain of an antiquarian; such meteorological observations, too!—Probabilities would have found it hard to digest them. All travellers do this. Coming down the Nile, I concluded that I would not write a book. Most travellers do this. Before going to the East I had no idea of the vast amount of literature existing touching Egypt, the Egyptians, and the Nile trip. Returning, I was conversant with it. I had seen the people through the richly-tinted glasses of euphonious Curtis, had studied them through the sombre spectacles of erudite Wilkinson and Lane. I had watched them through the soft lens of a woman’s tender mind, and been startled at their wondrous doings under the magnifying-glasses of highly marvellous Prime. I intended telling why I went to the East. Most writers think an apology due their readers for leaving home, or, at least, that they should give their reasons, the difficulties of engaging a dahabeeÁh, to report what the reis said, and how our dragoman answered him—all in broken English, of course. But I will simply tell a short story—how certain pale-faced howadjii from the West sailed up to the second cataract of the Nile and back again, and what befell them.

The wind blew from the north, and we started. Now, it is a peculiarity of the Nile trip that the wind always blows from the north before the dahabeeÁhs start, although it generally takes four or five pages to tell it, after “everything is on board and all impatient for the start,” and the reader is left in some doubt as to whether the boat is going at all. But as the course is to the south, and these boats cannot tack, the reader may now understand why he is kept so long waiting until “the breeze blows fresh from the north, the great sail drops down like the graceful plumage of some giant bird, and the shores glide past like the land of the poet’s dream.” We commenced the voyage by running aground, and we continued it somewhat in the same way. We did not travel on land; for I said something above about the direction of the wind and its connection with our starting, so that one might infer we were on a boat. But scarce a day passed that we did not run aground at least once, and often three or four times. Finally we became so used to it that, seated in the cabin, we could tell by the shouting what means were being employed to shove the boat off. The invocations were always the same. Would a good Moslem, think you, call upon any but the two sacred names, Allah, Mohammed—the God and the Prophet? But the intonations of the voice told the story. Grunting out these sacred names, starting from the extremity of the toes, struggling and fighting with each nerve and muscle as they came up, told us unmistakably that they were pushing with long poles. Now a fearful colic seizes the crew; they groan and cry, and in the deepest misery implore God and the Prophet to free them from their sufferings; and we are well aware that they are in the water, making pretended strenuous efforts to raise the boat with their backs. A bright, lively chorus tells us that they are setting sail. A dead silence informs us to a moral certainty that they are eating their meals. Let me tell you something about the dahabeeÁh; for it is to be our home for many weeks. The Sitta Mariam, as we called it, was ninety-seven feet long, sixteen in width, and drew three feet of water. The forward part was reserved for the use of the crew. In the hold they kept food and clothes. On the deck they slept—the more fastidious ones on sheepskins, the others upon the bare boards. In the Orient everything is just the reverse of the Occident. We cover our feet and expose the head while sleeping. They wrap up the head with care, and expose the feet to the sometimes chilly air of the night. A box placed near the bow, six feet high, the same width, and two feet deep, served for a kitchen. Aft of the forecastle were nine state-rooms, and a dining-saloon fifteen feet square. A flight of steps led to the upper deck, which extended to the stern of the boat. Handsome Turkey rugs, divans, and easy-chairs made this a most comfortable lounging place for the howadjii; and, in sooth, when not eating or sleeping, we spent all our time here. Near the stern we had a poultry-yard, several coops filled with turkeys, chickens, and squabs. We always had one or two live sheep with us, carried in the rowboat—called felluka—which floated astern. The foremast was placed near the bow, and from its summit, forty-two feet from the deck, swung the large yard or trinkeet, one hundred and fifteen feet long. From this was suspended the triangular sail called “lateen.” When furled, the rope was so bound around it that, although securely held, yet, by a strong pull directly downwards, it was immediately let loose. In the rear, aft the rudder, we carried a smaller sail of the same description, called a “balakoom.” The boat was of three hundred and eighty ardebs—about forty tons—burden. I have said that we called it the Sitta Mariam, or “Lady Mary.” Originally it was named The Swallow, and the year before a native artist had been engaged to paint this name upon it. Thinking the word should be written as an Arabic one, he commenced at the wrong end. To add to this, by some mischance he omitted a letter; the result was the name on the side of the boat in large, bold letters, “Wallow.”

A few words concerning the ship’s company. The howadjii were four Americans. The next most important personage is Ahmud Abdallah—i.e., servant of God—our dragoman, he of the olive-green suit and red fez. Has any one ever determined the precise etymology of the word dragoman? Often I am constrained to think that it is an abbreviation of the words “dragger-of-man.” On one point I am clear: this will give a more accurate idea of the position of the individual than any other yet suggested. From the time you come in contact with one of this species until you run away from him—for he will never leave you, unless your money should become exhausted—he is continually dragging you around. Do not think the howadji is bullied by his dragoman. On the contrary, the meekness, suavity, and urbanity of that individual are beyond description. He receives his master’s orders in silence and with bowed head, but a keen observer might often detect a sneering smile, showing how little he thinks of obeying them. Ahmud was a handsome Arab, thirty-six years of age and an Oriental Brummel. What a wardrobe of bright-colored trousers and richly-embroidered vests he had! Each afternoon he would squat cross-legged upon his bed, and ponder for an hour or more over the sacred mysteries of the Koran. An hour scarce sufficed to dress, and then he would appear on deck in his suit of bright Algerine cloth, the little jacket relieved by a white vest set off with red or blue, his feet encased in red slippers beautifully contrasting with his stockings of immaculate whiteness, on his head the jaunty fez. When the sweet breezes were wafting us softly up the stream, and a stillness and repose unknown in other lands seemed to pervade all nature, Ahmud, in his gorgeous attire, would appear on the quarter-deck, seat himself in the most complacent manner, light his cigarette, and appear the ideal of self-satisfaction and contentment. We had contracted to pay him a certain sum per diem; in return he was to supply boat, sailors, food, and everything requisite for the voyage—as he expressed it: “You pay me so much every day; no put hand in pocket at all.” When reproved, he would become sulky like a spoilt child, and remain in that state for several days, replying as concisely to our questions as politeness would permit, and otherwise having nothing whatsoever to say to us. Ali Abdakadra, his brother-in-law, was a fine-looking young Arab of twenty-three. He was supposed to be the assistant dragoman. My private opinion—of course not communicated to him—is that he was solely interested in supplying those materials with which the highways of another and still warmer clime are thought to be paved. This is not a very lucrative occupation, nor one conducive to man’s advancement in this world; but, notwithstanding our advice, he persisted in it. I do not think there ever issued from the lips of any man so many resolutions of doing so much, so many good intentions; and I am morally certain that so many resolutions and intentions never before were so utterly fruitless. Shortly after we started he came to me full of excitement, and informed me that he was going to write a guide-book for the Nile. “Now,” said he, “there is Ibrahim, our waiter; he has made this trip several times, and yet knows nothing about the temples or tombs—I doubt whether he has even seen them. This is my first trip. I will take notes and write a book. Will you lend me your Murray to assist me?” I consented. The book remained unopen in his room for two months. I then called the loan. He took not a note, but left many, on temples, obelisks, and tombs. When visiting temples, Ali was the first to arrive, and when we came up we were informed by enormous letters, written with a burnt stick, that Ali Abdakadra had visited that temple on the current day. When sent upon an errand he did not wish to perform, he would proceed at a pace which could be easily excelled by a not overfed crab. One of our party, at Ali’s earnest request, spent some time instructing him in taxidermy. He would take back to Cairo any number of birds and sell them; had even counted his profits, and told us how he would expend them. Result: He half-skinned a hawk in the most bungling manner, and then left it hanging up until the offensive odor caused us to order it to be cast overboard. Ibrahim Saleem is our waiter—not a talker, but a worker, a model of neatness and propriety, performing his duties with perfect regularity and order. Reis Mohammed Suleyman, a short, well-built man, is the most laborious of them all. The responsibility of the boat is upon him, and he is fully equal to it. He is a very quiet man, except when angered, and then through his set teeth swears by Allah and the Prophet to wreak the direst vengeance upon the offender. He is pious, however, and prays frequently. When a sheep is to be killed, he is the butcher; and never was sheep more skilfully killed and prepared for the table. Any sewing of sails, clothes, or of anything else that is to be done is brought to him and, squatted cross-legged on the deck, he is transformed into a tailor. In the evenings, when the rest of the sailors amuse themselves with song and dance, Reis Mohammed will sit for hours in perfect silence, holding the line in his hand, and, after thus patiently waiting, will draw up a catfish weighing from twenty to thirty pounds. He is devotedly attached to his merkeb (boat), and woe betide the unfortunate sailor who injures it in the slightest manner! It is customary, when we reach the towns wherein any of the sailors reside, for them to leave the boat for a few hours—or for the night, if we remain so long—and visit their homes. Reis Mohammed lived at Minieh; when we reached it he would not leave, preferring to stay with his boat to the pleasure of seeing his wife or wives. I can see Reis Ahmud, the second captain, before me now, leaning like a statue upon the broad handle of the rudder, the only evidence of life being the thin clouds of smoke issuing from his lips. Hour after hour he would maintain that position, moving only when it was necessary to shift the helm, and then not using his hands, but moving it by the weight of his body resting against it. His eyes were most singular in appearance, and for a long while I was puzzled to account for their strange effect. Coming on the quarter very early one morning, I found him kneeling before a small glass and staining around his eyes with a black substance called kohl. He is the drummer of the crew, and in the evenings, seated with the sailors, he plays the darbooka, or native drum. This instrument is of the same shape and material as those used at the festive gatherings of the Egyptians ere Moses was—nay, even before the wrath of God had showered the deluge of waters upon the iniquitous world. It is made of earthenware in the shape of a hollow cylinder surmounted by a truncated cone; this is covered with sheepskin. It is played with the fingers. Ali Aboo Abdallah, our cook, is to be noticed principally on account of his name, which illustrates the system of nomenclature in vogue among certain Mohammedans. Before he was married his name was Ali something or other. His first boy was named Abdallah, and the father then became Ali Aboo—i.e., the father of Abdallah—the son giving the name to the father, to show the world that the latter was the proud possessor of an heir. A seeming bundle of old clothes lying on the deck, but showing, by faint signs of animation at meal-time, that animal life existed within it, represented Ali el Delhamawi, Reis Mohammed’s uncle, the oldest man of the crew. The duty of this animated rag-bag was to hold the tail of the sail during the upward voyage, and to go through the movements of rowing on the home-trip. Next in order come Haleel en Negaddeh, a surly, well-built Arab, appointed by the owner to look after the welfare of the boat; Mahsood el Genawi, a slim, cross-eyed fellow; Ahmud Said el Genawi, a fine specimen of a man, the most powerful and the hardest worker among them all; Hassein Sethawi, a tough, wiry little fellow, the barber of the crew; Ashmawi Ashman, the baby of the party, the best-dressed man, petted by the others, and, as a natural consequence, doing but little work; Gad Abdallah, another servant of the Deity; Ahmud es Soeffle and Hassein es Soeffle, known to us by their most striking non-Arabic peculiarity—silence—and Haleel el Deny, the queer-looking old man who cooks for the crew. Last, but not least, comes Mohammed el Abiad, or Mohammed the White, the blackest man of all. He was the funny man, the court-jester. He was always saying funny things, so we were told, and whenever he opened his lips the others burst out laughing, including sober old Reis Mohammed. He was useful to us by keeping the crew in good-humor. All his physical strength was exhausted in expelling the sallies of wit from his mouth. He had his own ideas concerning manual labor, which, summed up into a maxim, were about as follows: Make it appear to others that you do more work than any one else; do as little as you possibly can. For squatting and doing nothing he was unsurpassed. In grunting, singing, and contorting every lineament of his visage when at work he excelled all the others taken together. Here is a specimen of his funny sayings: On asking him, through Ahmud, why he was called “the white” when he was so black, he said it was because his father was called Mohammed the Green, and he was the blacker of the two. At this the crew laughed immoderately. Oriental wit or humor is doubtless unappreciable by the dull minds of the Western Christian dogs.

Now that you know us all—boat, crew, and howadjii—come, sail with us, see the strange scenes, watch the moving panorama, and witness the daily comedies enacted around us.

We are about to stop under the cliffs of Gebel Aboo Layda, the Arabian chain, which here borders immediately on the river—not a very safe place, either; for Ali requests me to fire some pistol-shots to frighten away the thieves. There is no village near, and we have no guard. When we stop near a village, two or three miserable-looking creatures crouch around a fire on the bank. They are our guard. I feel morally certain that as soon as we leave the quarter-deck the guard goes to sleep. I have come to this determination from a study of these Arabs. Their idea of worldly happiness is eating, smoking, and sleeping; of heavenly bliss, the same, with the beautiful houri added. The next day we reach Manfaloot. It is market-day, and the sailors are going ashore to buy provisions. The strange sights and scenes so confused me that I was not quite sure of being awake. Sometimes it seemed like a play; I was nervous, and hurried for fear the curtain should fall before everything could be seen. How I wished my ears changed into eyes, and a pair set in the back of my head! Now I begin to comprehend the scenes about me. Perhaps this is real life after all. That tall, handsome woman carrying herself so erect, with the jar balanced on her head, is perhaps not doing this for our amusement merely. I can sleep now without laughing. I am becoming part of this strange world. Let us look around Manfaloot while the sailors are laying in our stock of provisions. Here is the shopping street. Nature has kindly spared these people the need of a committee on highways. Each individual has resolved himself into a pavier. No taxes for these streets—two rows of houses built of sun-dried bricks, running parallel, with a space of seventy feet between. Sidewalks and gutters are trodden hard by the passers-by—a cheap, primitive mode of paving; a little dusty at times, ’tis true, but then Allah sends the dust: it can do no great harm, and there is no need of repairs. Look at this house. The owner has visited Mecca. How do we know it? See that railway train painted over the door, with a bright blue engine; two engineers, each three times as tall as the engine, smoke-stack and all; the cars red, green, yellow, running up and down hill at the same time. Six of them are filled with giants painted green—apt color, too, for men who would travel on such a train. It looks like the slate-drawing of a school-boy. Yes; but these are modern Egyptian hieroglyphics. The train tells us that the owner has travelled; and where should a good Moslem go but to Mecca? So the owner is a hadji and wears a green turban. All the children suffer with ophthalmia. This ophthalmia must be something like lumps of sugar; the flies seem to think so, at least. What a crowd is following us! But they are respectful; seem amused at the pale faces and curious garments of the howadjii. How their eyes dilate at the sight of Madam’s gloves! “The Sitta has a white face and black hands. Allah preserve us! she is actually taking off her hands. No, it is the outer skin; and now they are pale like her face. By the Prophet! this is strange.” They crowd around her, touch her hands, then her gloves, timidly and respectfully; no, they cannot understand it. Abiad is going to ask for a sheep; the crew have selected him, for they feel confident we cannot refuse him when he asks in his humorous way. Followed by the grinning crew, he appears before us, and, putting up his hands to the sides of his head to represent long ears, ejaculates, “Ba-a! ba-a!” We were not convulsed with laughter, but the good-hearted “Sitta” promised them a sheep for Christmas-time, which was near at hand.

This fertile country contains about five millions of inhabitants. Above Cairo the valley of the Nile and Egypt are synonymous. For, where neither artificial irrigation nor the magic waters of the Nile give life to the parched soil, the sand of the desert renders the country as utterly unproductive as the bitter waters of the Dead Sea. The river varies in width from three hundred and sixty-five yards at Hagar Silseleh to a mile or more in other parts. The narrow strip of productive soil is in no part more than ten miles in width, save where the quasi-oasis of the Fyoom joins the west bank near Benisoeef. In many places the banks of the river mark the boundaries of the available soil. The cultivation of the land follows the receding waters. The rising of the Nile commences in July, and the greatest height is reached about the end of September, from which time the waters gradually recede. In December we grounded upon a certain sandbank covered with two feet of water. I noted the spot, and when we passed it on our return voyage, about the 6th of March following, the natives were planting melons upon it in a layer of the richest and most productive soil, left there by the receding waters, borne upon their bosom from the far-distant sources of the Blue Nile. From its far-off Abyssinian home the fertilizing Blue Nile flows on to Khartoom, where it meets the White Nile coming from still more distant parts, and from there the single river rushes on in its long, uninterrupted voyage to the sea. Until quite recently the cause of the annual overflow of the Nile was unknown. The priests, the most learned men of ancient Egypt, were unable to give Herodotus any reason for it. Some of the Greeks, wishing, says he, to be distinguished for their wisdom, attempted to account for these inundations in three different ways. But the careful historian, placing no confidence in them, repeats them, as he says, merely to show what they are: The Etesian winds, preventing the Nile from discharging itself into the sea, cause the river to swell. The ocean flowing all around the world, and the Nile flowing from it, produce this effect—an opinion, he observes, showing more ignorance than the former, but more marvellous. The third way of resolving this difficulty is by far the most specious, but most untrue: the Nile flowing from melted snow. For how, he asks in his quaint way, since it runs from a very hot, from Libya through the middle of Ethiopia to a colder region—Egypt—can it flow from snow? And he then goes on, with seeming modesty, to venture his own opinion: “During the winter season the sun being driven from his former course by storms, retires to the upper part of Libya. This, in a few words, comprehends the whole matter; for it is natural that the country which the god is nearest to, and over which he is, should be most in want of water, and that the native river streams (i.e., the sources of the Nile) should be dried up. He attracts the water to himself, and, having so attracted it, throws it back upon the higher regions. I do not think, however, that the sun on each occasion discharges the annual supply of water from the Nile, but that some remains about him. When the winter grows mild, the sun returns again to the middle of the heavens, and from that time attracts water equally from all rivers. Up to this time those other rivers, having much rain-water mixed with them, flow with full streams; but when the showers fail them, and they are attracted in summer by the sun, they become weak, and the Nile alone, being destitute of rain, is hard pressed by the sun’s attraction in winter. In summer it is equally attracted with all other waters, but in winter it alone is attracted. Thus I consider the sun is the cause of these things” (Herodotus, Euterpe). From that time many able minds have given to the world vain conjectures upon this most interesting subject. The extensive discoveries of modern African explorers have furnished a much clearer idea of the cause of this beneficent overflow than the ingenious theory of Herodotus or the opinions of his wise Grecian friends. During the first few days of the inundation the water has a green tint, which is supposed to be caused by the first rush of the descending torrents, carrying off the stagnant waters from the interior of Darfour. This is thought to be unwholesome, and the natives store up beforehand what water they may need for these few days. A red tint follows this, caused by the surface-washing of red-soiled districts. When the inundation subsides, the water is of a muddy color, pleasant to drink, and quite innocuous. The paintings of the old Egyptians represent these three conditions of the river by waters colored green, red, and blue.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE HOUSE OF YORKE,” “GRAPES AND THORNS,” ETC.

CHAPTER IX.

A BRIGHT EVENING.

Everybody knows the great sights of Rome by repute, if not by sight, and it may safely be said that no one cares to hear more of them in the way of description. Indeed, seeing them first, we almost regret having heard so much, and find it difficult to free the real object from the dÉbris of our preconceptions. There is, however, an endless number of less notable objects, little bits here and there—a stair, a street, a door-way, or garden, half rough, or almost altogether rough, but with some beautiful point, like a gem that has had one facet only cut. These, besides their own beauty, have the charm of freshness. The stale, useful guide-book, and the weary tribe of tourists, know them not.

One of these unspoilt places is to be found almost next door to casa Ottant’Otto. It is a chapel attached to an Augustinian convent in which the changed times have left only one frate with his attendant lay brother. The chapel has a rough brick floor, and large piers of stone and mortar supporting, most unnecessarily, the white-washed roof, and the walls at either side are painted with a few large frescos of saints. There are two chapels only, one at each side of the principal altar, adorned with such poor little bravery as the frati and the frequenters of their church—nearly all beggars, or very poor—could afford. The chapel has, however, one beauty—a Madonna and Child over the high altar. The Mother, of an angelic and flower-like beauty, holds the Infant forward toward the spectator, and the Infant, radiant with a sacred sweetness, extends his right hand, the two fingers open in benediction.

Mass is said here early in the morning, and a Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament given every Tuesday evening an hour before Ave Maria, the bells ringing always three times for each service.

The Signora had spoken at home of this little church of Sant’Antonino, and had laughingly called the attention of the family to the slipshod ringing of the Angelus, where the different divisions of strokes, the bell being swung from below, “spilled over,” as she expressed it, in a number of fainter strokes before and after the regular ones. “But it is a dear little place to go to,” she said. “There one finds the Lord as one might have found him when on earth visibly—in the midst of the poor, with but few followers, and no splendor of circumstance to take one’s eyes away from him. And sometimes, if one’s disposition be fortunate, his presence overflows the place.”

Coming homeward alone, one evening, just as the bell rang, Mr. Vane stepped into the chapel, and, after hesitating a moment inside the door, went up the side aisle and seated himself in a corner. He had been there more than once early in the morning, but this was his first evening visit, and he did not care, for several reasons, to encounter any of his family, should they come.

The congregation was, as the Signora had said, poor enough. There were a few old women, with kerchiefs on their heads; a sober, decent man, who hid himself in a retired corner, and knelt with his hands covering his face during the whole service; a lame old man, with a worn and sorrowful face; and a young mother, with an infant in her arms and two little ones clinging to her skirts.

Not one of these paid the slightest attention to the others, or showed any consciousness of being, or expecting to be, observed. All looked toward the altar, on which the Host was now exposed, and all prayed with a fervor which could not but communicate itself to the spectator; for it was the quiet fervor of faith and habit, and was not excited by beautiful sights, or music, or the presence of a crowd. They beheld the mysterious token of the Holy Presence, and the Madonna—the Lady of Health, they called her—and worshipped, as untroubled by vanity as by doubt.

The two little ones whispered and played behind their mother’s back, but no one was disturbed by them. No one ever hushes the play of children in a Roman church. The infant crowed and prattled at first, and pulled the kerchief from its mother’s head; but espying presently the candles, and hearing the organ and voices, it fell into a trance, divided between staring and listening, which held it motionless till the service was over. Rather late came a young woman dressed in an absurd travesty of the prevailing fashion, with a cheap soiled skirt trailing behind her, a hideous tunic pulled in about her and tied behind in that style that gives a woman the appearance of one trying to walk in a sack, and a bonnet made up of odds and ends of ribbon and flowers and feathers pitiable to see. But the poor thing had donned this miserable finery with no worse intention than that any lady has when assuming Worth’s last costume, and, hearing the voice of prayer as she passed, had done what the lady of fashion would not, perhaps, have done—obeyed its summons, and entered modestly and humbly the presence of God. Perhaps it was the one pleasure in a hard life, that occasional promenade in what she conceived to be a fine dress; perhaps she had been pleased, and was thankful for it, as we sometimes are for pleasures no more harmless; it may be she was disappointed and had come to find comfort. Who knows?

Mr. Vane looked intently at this girl a few minutes in a way he had, something penetrating in his scrutiny, yet nothing offensive; for it was as far removed from impertinent curiosity as from a too familiar sympathy. Then the Litany recalled him. As he listened to it, he thought that he had never heard music at once so good and so bad. The organ was like a sweet, courageous soul in an infirm body. All the wheezing and creaking of the bellows could not prevent the tones from being melodious. How many there were in the choir he could not tell. The absurd little organ-loft over the door, reached by a ladder in full view at the side, had so high a screen that the singers were quite hidden. They sounded like a host, however, for their voices echoed and reverberated from arch to arch and from end to end of the chapel, so that, without the aid of sight, it was hard to know where the sound had its origin; and when, at every fourth verse, the priest and congregation took up the song, the air literally trembled with the force of it. Mr. Vane fancied he felt his hair stir.

His heart stirred, most certainly; for the power and earnestness of the singing, which made a mere cultivated vocalism trivial and tame, and perhaps the sustained high pitch of it—all contained within four notes—touched the chord of the sublime. They sang the titles of the Virgin-Mother, calling on her, by every tender and every glorious privilege of hers, to pray for them; and their prayer was no more the part of an oft-repeated ceremony, but the cry of souls that might each or all, in an instant, be struggling in the waves of death. Life itself grew suddenly awful while he listened, and he remembered that salvation is to be “worked out in fear and trembling.”

He lifted his eyes to the picture over the altar, and it was no longer a picture. The figures floated before him in the misty golden light of many candles, as if there were blood in their veins and meaning in their faces. The Mother extended her Child, and the Child blessed them, and both listened. She was the Mystical Rose, the Morning Star; she was the Help of the weak, the Mother of divine Grace. They sang her glories, and this listener from a far land forgot the narrow walls that hemmed him in, and saw only those faces, and felt, as it were, the universe rock with acclamations. She was a queen, and under her feet, and about her, bearing her up, were angels, prophets, martyrs, confessors, and patriarchs. Their wings, wide-spread and waving; their garments of light, as varied in hue as the rainbow; their radiant faces were like the crowding clouds of sunset; and over them all, buoyant, glowing with celestial sweetness and joy, floated the woman crowned with stars, the only human being whom sin had never dared to touch. The stars swam about her head like golden bees about a flower; and as a flower curls its petals down, half hiding, half revealing, the shining heart which is its source and life, so the Mother bent above and clasped the Infant. In the centre of this vision was the Blessed Sacrament exposed, more marvellous than any vision, more real than any other tangible thing; so that Imagination was bound to Faith as wings to the shoulders of an angel.

There was a little stir in one corner of the chapel; for the strange gentleman had nearly fallen from his chair, and a lay brother, passing at the moment, supported him, and asked what he would have and what ailed him.

The gentleman replied that nothing ailed him, that he needed nothing but fresher air, and he immediately recovered so far as to go out without assistance. He had, indeed, been more self-forgetting and entranced than fainting, and even when he stood on the sidewalk, with familiar sights and sounds all about, could hardly remember where he was. He walked a little way up the hill opposite, and stood looking absently along a cross-street at the other end of which a new Gothic church was in progress.

A man who had been standing near approached him with an insinuating smile. “Our church is getting along rapidly,” he said in English, appearing to know whom he addressed. “We shall soon have divine service in it, I hope.”

“Divine service!” repeated Mr. Vane rather absently, not having looked at the meeting-house, and scarcely knowing what was being said to him. “What divine service?”

“Oh! the Protestant, of course,” the stranger answered with great suavity. “I am a minister of the Gospel.”

“What Gospel?” inquired Mr. Vane, looking at the speaker with the air of one who listens patiently to nonsense.

The man stared. “The Gospel of Christ. There is no other.” He knew who Mr. Vane was, and had expected to be himself recognized. “It is time the Gospel should be preached in this wicked and idolatrous city.”

“Is it worse than other cities?” Mr. Vane asked calmly. “Most cities are wicked, but few cities have saints in them, as this has. We are told that the wheat and the tares shall grow together till the final harvest. As for your religion”—he stretched his hand to a load of straw that was passing, and drew a handful out—“it has no more Gospel in it than there is wheat in that straw.”

The rattling bells of Sant’Antonino were ringing for the Tantum Ergo. He turned, without another word, and went back, kneeling just within the door till the Benediction was over.

When he went into the house the Signora was singing the “He was despised and rejected of men,” from the Messiah. Before her on the piano stood a picture that had just been sent her—her favorite devotional picture, which she had long been trying to get. Outside a door, overgrown with vines and weeds, and fastened by a bolt, stood the Lord, waiting sorrowfully and patiently, listening if his knock would be answered. Solitude and the damp shades of night were all about him, the stars looked cold and far away, and the lantern he held at his side, faintly lighting his face, showed through what rough, dark ways he had come to that inhospitable heart. Underneath was written: “Behold, I stand at the door, and knock.”

The Signora was singing, “And we hid, as it were, our faces from him: he was despised, and we esteemed him not,” tears rolling down her face, her eyes fixed on the picture. Finishing, scarcely uttering, indeed, the last word, she started up and kissed the picture in a passion, then, hurrying across the room, flung the door wide.

“Open every door in the house!” she cried out.

Bianca, surprised but sympathizing, simply obeyed, and pushed open the door near her; Isabel exclaimed, “Dear Signora!” and seemed half frightened. Mr. Vane stood silent and looked at the picture.

“Oh! I know it is figurative and means the heart!” the Signora went on, as if some one had reproved her. “But when we do something material, we know that we have done it. When we think we have done a spiritual good, how can we know that it is worth anything for us—that the motive was not selfish? If, for example, the Lord should come here now, poor and hungry, and knock at my door, I would serve him on my knees; but if I should say I love him, who knows if it would be true?”

“Signora mia!” It was a thin and feeble voice, but she heard it through the passion of her talk, and, turning, saw on the threshold an old man, who stood trembling, hat in hand, and leaning against the side of the door for support. He had followed Mr. Vane home from the chapel to beg for alms, but had not been able to reach or make him hear or understand before the door was shut. He was going painfully away again, when it was flung open by the Signora.

She went to him with her hands outstretched. “Enter, in the name of the Lord,” she said joyfully, and led him to a chair. Kind as she was invariably to the poor, this one she looked on as almost a miraculous guest. He had come at the very moment when her heart was breaking to do some active good, as if her wish had called him, or as if the Lord she compassionated had taken his form to prove her.

Never was a beggar more welcomed, more tenderly questioned as to his needs. He was fed as, probably, he had never been fed before; for the Signora gave him of what had been prepared for her own table, and served him like an honored guest.

He was pleased, but did not seem to be either surprised or embarrassed. He ate and drank rather lightly, and, without being bidden, put in a leathern pocket he wore what was left of the food. There was no air of greediness in the act, but rather an intimation that no one would think of eating what he had left, and that what had been offered him must not be wasted. When Mr. Vane gave him some decent clothing in place of his faded rags, he was grateful, but by no means elated. How he looked was to him a matter of the smallest possible consequence. He could feel hunger, thirst, and cold, but pride or vanity he knew not. His body, ugly, emaciated, and diseased, obtained from him no attention, except when it could obscure and torment his mind with its own torments. He never thought for it, but waited till it called. When the sisters gave him money, he looked at them earnestly, with his dim and watery eyes, and wished that the Madonna might ever accompany them. He did not predict for them riches or happiness, but only that gracious company. When the Signora bade him come to her every day for a loaf of bread and a glass of wine, he thanked her in the same way. Evidently he understood that what he was receiving was a heavenly charity, of which God was the motive and reward, and that he had, personally, nothing to do with it, except as he profited by it. But he had, indeed, more to do with it than he believed; for it was impossible that kind hearts should remain unmoved by the sight of such forlorn poverty and suffering.

They questioned him about his life and circumstances. He was quite alone. One son he had had, who went to some foreign country years before, and had never been heard of since. He supposed that he must have died on the passage or immediately on arriving; for Filippo had promised to write and send for him, or send him money, and nothing but death would have made him break his promise to his father. His wife had died more than ten years before; and he had no one left to care for him. Where was his home? they asked. Well, he slept in the lodgings provided by the city, because they did not allow people to sleep in the street. He used to sleep on one of the steps of the church of Ara Coeli and he liked it better, for he could go off by himself. Still, the government gave them straw to sleep on, and that was something. It was rather cold on the steps, even in summer.

“But where do you go in the daytime?” they pursued, finding the idea of no house or home of any description a hard one to take in.

He went into churches sometimes; at others he sat on a house-step, and stood under the eaves if it rained. He was indeed able to say, “The birds of the air have their nests, and the foxes their holes,” but he had not where to lay his head.

“I cannot listen to any more,” the Signora said. “Do you know, my friends, what seems my duty to do? Well, I will tell you. At this moment it seems to me that I should send you all to a hotel, or to any place you can find, and fill half my rooms with little beds for poor men, and the other half with beds for poor women, and spend all my time and money in taking care of them. Gloves, and a bonnet, and all sorts of luxuries look to me like sins, in the light of this man’s story; and as to having more than one room for myself, it is monstrous. Either pack your trunks at once, or send this fascinating wretch off to sleep on the municipal straw.”

“You can’t send us off; for you have promised to keep us as long as we stay in Rome,” Isabel said triumphantly. “If you should turn your house into a refuge, you would be doing evil that good may come, by breaking a promise.”

When their guest had gone and they were sitting at supper, the conversation still turned on the Roman poor and their manner of receiving charity, and Mr. Vane expressed his astonishment that so little of servility should be mingled with this constant begging.

“You must remember,” the Signora said, “that the mendicant religious orders have given a sort of dignity to poverty, and, though theirs is of a different kind, the people do not distinguish. Then among the many voluntary poor there are two who are particularly cherished in Rome—Santa Francesca Romana and Blessed LabrÉ. The women sitting at the church-door could tell you, if you should try to shame them, that Santa Francesca once sat at a church-door and begged from early morning till Ave Maria; and the poor who ask you for a centessimo in the street know that LabrÉ went about begging, and in clothes as filthy and ragged as any of theirs. Of course they do not distinguish the motives, and have, many of them, made a Christian virtue an excuse for a miserable vice; but, come si fa? as they would say. We cannot spend our time in arguing with them; and, if we should, it would be time thrown away. They have no comprehension of what we call independence; and they think that the blessings they bestow, and the merit we acquire in giving to them, are worth far more than the paltry copper coin they receive from us, and that we are, in reality, their debtors.”

They hurried their supper a little; for they were going out, and it was already nine o’clock. Before they had risen from the table Marion came in to accompany them, and the carriages were at the door.

This matter of the carriages, and the division of her party in them, simple as it seemed, had given the Signora some thought. She was afraid that some new complication might arise between Marion and Bianca, and wished earnestly that they should come to an understanding immediately. Nothing appeared to be easier, yet every day was a succession of little obstacles to their speaking together in that accidental privacy which they would naturally prefer. Still, she could not well put them in a carriage together. It would look too pointed. There seemed no other way, then, than to take him in the cab with her, and give the calÈche to Mr. Vane and his daughter. That any one should suppose that an attraction was growing up between her and this new friend had never occurred to her mind; yet both Mr. Vane and Bianca saw in every word and act of hers a new proof of it. Any one with eyes could see that Marion and Bianca liked each other particularly, the Signora believed. One had but to watch a few minutes, and it became evident that in company each was always so placed as to see and, if possible, to hear the other; and though one might not detect them looking directly, yet sometimes a glance, passing from one part of the room to another, swooped like a bird, and caught the one object it wished to seize within its ken. Yet Bianca provoked her somewhat. The girl was too serious and gentle, too discouragingly friendly. Why, thought the Signora, with that admirable good sense which we sometimes have when we think for others—why, when two persons are admirably fitted for each other, and everybody is willing, and neither of them can quite set about anything till the matter is decided; and when the gentleman, not to be too abrupt in his proposal, or expose himself to an unnecessary mortification, gives the lady that gentle, questioning glance which says so plainly, “May I speak?”—why, in the name of common sense, should she not drop her pretty head in token of assent, and allow at least a hint of a smile to encourage him? Echo answered, Why?

The upper air was silver with a late moonrise when they went out, while below the lamps burned goldenly through a velvety darkness. Their own street was quiet; but there was a crowd on Monte Cavallo. The glimpse they caught of the piazza of the Trevi fountain in passing showed it full and bright, and the Corso, when they reached it, was swarming with people and brilliant with lighted shops.

“What contrasts there are in Roman life, even in its most quiet times!” Marion said. “I wonder if any one ever was bored here? I doubt it. How well I remember one day of my last visit, three years ago now! It was a bright February afternoon, and I went out for a walk in the Campagna, and saw the ground covered with flowers, and myriads of birds flying about and singing. Coming back to town out of that verdant quiet, I went to the Corso. It was roaring with the height of the last day of Carnival. It looked as if all the world had gone mad with reckless mirth, and, by a common consent, were pressing to that one spot. It was with difficulty I got across the street, shaking a monkey from one arm, and escaping from the lasso of a huge devil on the other side. A few minutes brought me to the GesÙ. There what a scene! The church all in darkness, except the tribune, where the Blessed Sacrament was exposed in the midst of a blaze of candles that shone on a crowd of faces all silent and turned toward the altar. Now and then the organ played softly; now and then a quiet figure stole in and found room to kneel where it seemed there was no room for more. It was so still that every time the heavy curtain lifted there could be heard through the whole church the rattling of the tin boxes of the beggars outside. Half an hour later I reached the Corso again, just in time to see the horses rush by like meteors between two solid walls of men and women. And, lastly, just as the stars were coming out, burst the fairy spectacle of the moccoletti, when the narrow street became like a strip cut out of the live sky, thick with dancing stars, and palpitating with the soft pulses of the Northern Lights, blue, green, rosy, and white. I could have said it was not ten minutes before it was all over and I was walking home through a silent, star-lit night. The next morning at six I went to a church and received the Lenten ashes on my forehead. I do not wonder that Romans are lazy, for their imaginations are so kept on the qui vive that muscular action must necessarily be distasteful. They cannot help regarding life as a festa.”

They reached their destination, a palace close to St. Peter’s. Two servants stood bowing in the portone, and a little girl, the daughter of one, presented each of the ladies with a bunch of orange-blossoms. They passed into the court, where a fountain tossed its sparkling arch of water, sprinkling the greensward, which here replaced the usual pavement, and went up the grand stairs. The groined arches over their heads were glowing with color, trees, flowers, vines, birds, and butterflies—not an inch of wall was unpainted. Pots of flowering plants stood at the ends of the stairs and at the landings, and statues showed whitely through their fragrant screens. Here and there a lamp dropped from a gilt chain, and softly illumined this superb entrance. At the end of the first entry two servants held back the crimson velvet curtains of an open door, receiving the visitors into a chamber furnished in crimson, the walls of crimson and gold, the ceiling painted with sunset clouds, and a crescent of candles burning in front of crystal lustres. Reaching the next door, they looked down a vista composed of twelve or fourteen rooms, all softly lighted except the last, which was brilliant. The light struck along on door after door, all gilded, and set with mirrors at one side and paintings at the other, the curtains of silk or velvet drawn back on gilt spears or arrows. The floors were mostly uncovered, some of them of rare marbles or mosaics; a few were partially covered with thick Persian mats or carpets. One room was furnished in gold-colored satin, and profusely ornamented with the most delicate porcelain; a second was of a rich sea-green, sparkling all through with crystal ornaments, the chandelier of Venetian glass, the cornice made of large shells, and the ceiling painted in coral branches, tangled full of long grasses. Another chamber, of deep blue, was rich in old porcelain; another, hung with tapestry, bristled with old armor, and every sort of sword and knife arranged in figures, daisies of radiating daggers, and swords and shields made into mimic suns. Everywhere that gold could be it was lavished—on doors and windows and cornices; and one room had the whole panelling breast-high, and the large fireplace, heavily gilded.

In the last room they found the people they had come to see—a young couple as bright and pretty as a pair of canaries in their gilded cage.

There was no other company except a white-haired old canonico, who had an apartment in the palace, and who was in some way related to the family. To this clergyman Bianca, at first a little shy among strangers, took immediately, and, seated by his side, became at once on the most friendly terms with him. His sweet and dignified manner, and the pleasure he showed in her evident confidence, were very pleasant to see. She told him all her story that could be told to any one, what she had seen and what she wished to see, and answered his questions with a childlike frankness; and, in return, he showed his interest in her by the number of his questions, and promised her all sorts of favors.

There was something peculiarly attractive and beautiful in this man, in whom were united the sacredness of a holy vocation, the venerableness of age and of a pure and unstained character, and the graciousness of an accomplished gentleman.

“I think you will all like to hear of something which I saw at the Vatican this morning,” he said when the conversation became more general. “I was presenting two French ladies. The audience was small, and among the persons present were the superior of the nuns of the TrinitÀ dei Monti, and a younger nun of her community who had come with her as companion. This young nun had for several years been afflicted with a stiffening of the right hand and arm which drew them close to the breast, rendering them of course perfectly useless as well as painful. Before starting, the superior had told her to put a black glove on this right hand, so that it should not show so much, as her black habit and veil would render it less prominent than if it were bare; but when they had gone a part of the way the nun begged permission to take the glove off. The superior objected, saying that it might be unpleasant to the Holy Father to see her hand in that position, the fingers stiffened as they were. The nun said nothing for a while, but, when they had nearly reached the Vatican, begged again, still more earnestly, to be permitted to remove the glove. This time the superior consented. Well, they went in, and the audience was about over, when, in giving his benediction, the Pope observed that the young nun blessed herself with her left hand.

“‘Filuola mia, why do you not bless yourself with your right hand?’ he asked.

“‘Beato padre,’ she replied, ‘I cannot move my right hand; but if you would do me the grace—’ She said no more, but looked at him with imploring eyes.

“He was silent a moment, then he said, ‘Pray!’ and covered his face with his hands, as if praying or recollecting himself. Looking at her again then, he told her to bless herself with her right hand.

“‘But, santo padre, I cannot move my right hand,’ she said.

“He persisted: ‘Nevertheless, do as I bid you.’

“The superior took the nun’s right hand, and, lifting it for her, made a sort of cross with it.

“‘Pray again,’ said the Holy Father, and hid his face a second time, and seemed to pray.

“‘Now bless yourself with your right hand, and do it without help,’ he said.

“She immediately lifted her hand and made the sign of the cross on her forehead and breast as freely as if nothing had ever ailed her. She was cured.”

The prelate told his story with simplicity and in a soft and slightly tremulous voice, affected by the sacred and tender scene he had so lately witnessed, and his audience exclaimed with delight. None of them, except the two American gentlemen and Isabel, were at all surprised. Too many such tales are known in Rome of Pius IX. to excite astonishment.

“I have seen the good nun this afternoon,” he continued, “and she is perfectly happy. She can play on the piano again, and do everything just as before.”

Finishing, he nodded toward the door, where a servant was standing, and presently rose to take leave. His evening visits never exceeded an hour, and, since he did not like to disturb the pleasure of social intercourse with the thought of going, a servant was always instructed to intimate to him when the hour was past.

“The only parting which I wish to foresee and prepare for is the final one,” he said smilingly.

“What a terrible sound that expression ‘final parting’ has!” Bianca exclaimed, seeming to be already pained at the thought of losing this new friend.

“That is because you interpret it wrongly,” he replied, with a kind glance at her. “You know it does not mean everlasting separation, but that there are to be no more partings, because after the next meeting we need never part again. It is simply the end of a long pain.”

He gave her his hand, which she kissed as naturally as an Italian would have done, though it was the first time she had rendered that homage to any one.

When he had gone, the company went up to the loggia, which was one of the attractions of the house.

“You see we have a private stairway,” the Contessa M—— said, opening a narrow door hidden in the panelling of the room they had been sitting in. “But it is so very narrow, enclosed in the thickness of the wall, that I will not ask you to go by it.”

“I do wish she would let us go this way, though,” Isabel whispered to the Signora. “How romantic it is! Who knows who may have slipped up or down that stair in the wall, who may have stood listening behind the panel while people were talking in the sala, and what may have been revealed or hidden there? It is like a chapter out of a tragical story—one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s, for example. Do you think we might not go up?”

Their hostess had, however, already led the way to a more commodious stair, and they could but follow. Besides, it is only in very romantic stories that ladies in beautiful silk and gauze dresses can go through secret and narrow stairways, cobwebbed attics, and dusty, haunted chambers, without detriment to their toilets, and the young contessa wore that evening a lace flounce which she might not care to injure even for the sake of hospitality.

They passed through room after room, each worthy of a palace, mounted stair after stair, one servant preceding them with a lamp, and another following, walked over the roof of a part of the palace, climbed another stair, and came out on the loggia, or highest house-top.

The scene was enchanting; for the whole city was visible, and, by one of those kaleidoscopic changes constantly seen in a town built on hills, the city looked from here lo be situated in a round basin rising evenly on all sides to the tree-fringed horizon. The grand front of St. Peter’s was scarcely a stone’s throw from them, apparently, and the two fountains of the moonlighted piazza stood wavering and white. It was not difficult to imagine them two angels standing there with garments softly waving in the night air.

Mr. Vane paused a moment at the Signora’s side. “I perceive more clearly every day why you may well be unwilling to leave Rome,” he said. “I wonder I could ever have expected it.”

“And yet it never appeared to me easier,” she replied very gently. “I have had all the happiness that can be had here, and ‘enough is as good as a feast,’ you know.”

She meant to please him, yet she fancied that he frowned slightly. He said no more, however, but stood looking about, and, after a moment, joined Isabel, with whom the young couple were having a lively conversation.

The Signora felt hurt. It seemed that Mr. Vane was losing confidence in her and becoming every day more distant. For a week or more she had felt that he was withdrawing his friendship from her, and changing in many ways. When had she heard a jest from him, or seen in him that quiet and deep contentment which he had shown at first? She had half a mind to ask him what the matter was. Perhaps she would some time, if opportunity favored. Meantime, it would be wiser not to distress herself. And just as she came to this conclusion an interpretation of his remark suggested itself to her that made the blood rush to her face painfully. Had he remembered with annoyance that half-proposal of his, and, either to remove any lingering pity she might feel for him or to save his own pride, wished her to understand that it had been the impulse of the moment, and that he no longer entertained the wish to be more than a friend to her? In such a case her reply, with its hint of a possible change in her, had been most unfortunate.

There was one moment of cruel doubt and mortification, then she put the subject resolutely away. “I have been neither unkind nor bold nor dishonorable, and I have therefore nothing to be ashamed of,” she said to herself.

Meantime, Marion had stopped near Bianca, who stood looking at her father and the Signora. “How beautiful the Signora is!” he said. “Do you see that the golden tinge in her hair is visible even in the moonlight? And her eyes are the color of the Borghese violets she loves so much. I sometimes think that a rather tall and noble-looking woman like her should always be blonde, and that dark eyes belong to the slight and graceful ones.”

“We have always thought her beautiful,” she replied. “But we are so fond of her that we should admire her if no one else did. You must remember how we always praised her to you.”

He had been wondering how she would like having the Signora for a step-mother, and if she saw the likelihood of it. Perceiving a slight reserve in her speech, he did not pursue the subject, but stood looking at her a moment. Since he was silent, she glanced up in his face to see what it meant—if he were dissatisfied, perhaps, with her reply, or if he had taken any notice of it. He was certainly taking notice of her, and so close a notice that her eyes dropped again under it.

A quick glance showed him that he should have another minute uninterrupted with her, and he spoke: “Dear Bianca, I came to Europe to seek you. When I found in Rome that you had gone into the country for a visit, I could not wait, but followed you. I went to your lodgings in Frascati, and learned that you had all gone up to Tusculum. I meant to watch, and meet you as you came down, and know by your first glance at me if I was as welcome as I could wish to be. I had with me the spy-glass that I always take into the country, and, as I swept the country with it, I espied a little party standing under the wall of the Cappucini villa on the Tusculan hill. One of their number had climbed the steps of the shrine there to decorate it, and, just as I recognized her, she turned and stepped down toward me. The glass was so clear and strong that she seemed stepping within my reach, and to me. I accepted it as a good omen, and returned to Rome content. I think you know me well enough to be sure that this is no trifling fancy, and that, if you can put your hand in mine, with the help of God, I will never allow you to regret it. Was my omen false?”

She listened with her lovely face lifted and lighted, and, when he ended, uttered a soft little exclamation, “O Marion!” and gave him her hand.

“How beautiful St. Peter’s is by this light!” Mr. Vane said, glancing round at them from the other side of the loggia, whither he had gone.

His glance became a gaze as he saw them coming toward him; for Marion held openly the hand that Bianca had given him, and led her to her father. “Are you willing, sir?” he asked in a low voice.

The others were about joining them, and Mr. Vane could only press their two hands together. He glanced sharply at the Signora as she approached, and saw her face flash out in a swift smile when she caught sight of their position.

“I have been a fool,” he muttered.

“Everything is beautiful by this light,” Marion said, with a smile that gave a double meaning to his rather tardy answer.

When they started for home, they found that, by some happy mistake, the cab had been sent away, and there was no other in sight, so that the simplest way was for them all to return in the calÈche, crowding a little. The crowding was effected by Bianca sitting on the front seat between her father and lover. Leaning back there, she gave herself up to a delicious silence, only half-listening, except when Marion spoke, then drinking in every word. What a wonderful thing it was that here, by her side, sat her future husband, the man to whom she was to be united for ever and ever! Her life, as she thought, swung round into a harmony unknown to it for a long time, never known in its perfection till now. Looking forward, she had no fear. Nothing but death could separate them, and death must come to all. Let it come sooner or later, when God should appoint; she could bear it for him or for herself. She was full of courage and thankfulness, and ready now to live a full life, and begin to do some good in the world.

Mr. Vane spoke of the young woman he had seen that afternoon in the little church of Sant’Antonino. “She made an impression on me,” he said. “She set me thinking; or, rather, the sight of her condensed some floating impressions in my mind into thoughts. She was a figure that almost any well-dressed lady or gentleman would smile at involuntarily, if they did not pity her. But looking into her face, when she was serious and thought herself unobserved, I found it an uncommon one. I fancied there was something enthusiastic and aspiring in her, and that her ridiculous dress was an abortive expression of a fine impulse. She wanted to do or be something more and better than she had yet done or been; and having, perhaps, no sympathy from any one, and no education to assist her, knew not how to act, and thought more of getting out of the position she was in than of choosing properly what change she should make. Fancy how easily a girl of uneducated mind and tastes, and of an enthusiastic disposition, might make such an absurd attempt. She is, perhaps, disgusted with the sordidness and vulgarity of her life, and believes that the ideal life is that which appears beautiful to the eyes. She has heard, maybe has read, a little of great deeds and heroic adventures, and she associates them always with the well-dressed and the high-living. She thinks, very likely, that the noble have always noble thoughts, and that beautiful sentiments go with beautiful dresses. And so the poor thing cuts her dowdy petticoat into a train, and puts a cheap feather in her hat, and fancies that she is nearer the sublime. I don’t believe she really sees the trumpery things when she puts them on. She is looking at them through a thousand visions, and sees the velvet train of some heroine, and the jewelled cap and feather she wore. Poor thing! These visions of hers cannot, however, hide the sneering laugh from her, nor make her deaf to the scornful word; and I have an impression that to-night she took off her stage-robes with a bitter heart—unless, indeed, the Benediction consoled her.”

Isabel looked at her father with a steady and serious gaze while he was speaking, and, the moment he ended, said to him with an air of conviction: “Papa, you have the best heart in the world.”

He laughed a little, but seemed to be touched by this tribute. “I am glad you think so, my daughter,” he said. “Indeed, I am particularly glad just now, for a reason I will tell you, if you come here a moment.”

She leaned forward instantly on to his knees, and put her cheek close to his face.

“Because,” he whispered, “my other daughter thinks that there’s a certain heart worth more than mine.”

“Whose?” she demanded in an indignant whisper.

“Marion’s.”

“You don’t mean—” she exclaimed, and glanced round at her sister.

“You’re the only one of the family who didn’t know it, and I don’t want you slighted,” he replied. “It’s a settled affair.”

Isabel threw her arms around her sister’s neck and kissed her. “I never dreamed of such a thing,” she said; “but I am delighted all the same. You’re a million times welcome into the family, Marion. But I want you to understand that you are not better than papa.”

By this they had reached home, just as the soft bells of their basilica were striking midnight.

When they had said good-night to Marion and gone up-stairs, all turned with smiling faces to Bianca, and gathered about her, waiting one moment to see who should speak first, or if the congratulation was to be silent. By some slight motion or look she imposed silence, at the same time that her face expressed the sweetest happiness and gratitude.

“That dear canonico has given me an invitation for us all to go next week and hear his Mass in the crypt of St. Peter’s,” she said. “Our number is just right; for only five can go at a time. We are to be there at eight o’clock.”

“Am I included?” Mr. Vane asked.

“O papa!” Bianca turned to him, and, putting her hand in his arm, leaned against his shoulder. No plan of hers could be perfect that did not include him; yet the cruel thought flashed through her mind, in spite of her love for him, that in the crypt of St. Peter, next to Calvary the most regally sacred spot on earth, a Protestant was singularly out of place, and that no one should enter there who did not bow to St. Peter as the Prince of the Apostles and the holder of the awful keys.

The question produced a momentary painful embarrassment in the others, too, by reminding them strongly of that difference of faith which they sometimes were able to quite forget.

“My little girl must not have a cloud on her sky to-night,” the father said tenderly. “What is wanting to your happiness, Bianca?”

“That you should be a Catholic,” she replied, trembling; for, with all their affection and confidence, she had never presumed to speak to him on the subject.

“You have your wish,” he answered.

She looked at him doubtfully, but did not dare to say a word.

“I am in earnest, children,” he said, feeling a hand clinging to his other arm. “I was baptized this morning at the American College.”

Not a word was said, but on either side his daughters surrounded him with their arms, and pressed their faces to his breast.

When at length they remembered to look for the Signora, she had disappeared.

TO BE CONTINUED.

The disjointed state of Christendom, resulting from the divisions existing among those who profess the Christian religion, whether we regard it in the light of reason or of faith, is both grievous and deplorable. Much labor has been expended on the removal of the causes which have produced these divisions, at different periods in the history of the Christian Church. In recent times—not to speak of the long past, for the evil is of remote date—several efforts have been made to bring about the return of those who, three centuries ago, went out from the sacred fold of the Catholic Church. Men of genius, learning, and virtue took a leading part in some of these movements; nevertheless, they did not meet with any notable success. The best known of these, perhaps, was the one made in the latter part of the seventeenth century, in which the celebrated Leibnitz and the great Bossuet were the principal actors engaged. If this effort was not otherwise fruitful, it at least was the occasion of their contributing two of the most valuable works on the subject—The System of Theology, by the German philosopher, and The Exposition of the Catholic Faith, by the Bishop of Meaux. In the Established Church of England, in our own day, a number of its members, especially among the clergy, profess to seek and to labor for what they call “a corporate union” with the Catholic Church. So far as one can see up to this moment, though no one can tell what may happen, there has been in this direction no promise of great results. In this country the efforts for unity have taken a more limited sphere for their activity, and ever and anon there is a stir made in public about a union among Protestants, confined, however, to those who are called “evangelicals.”

The unperverted religious sentiment naturally yearns after an all-embracing and real unity. Man’s heart has sympathies which cannot be confined to himself, or to a family, or to a nation, or to a race. Only when man is so devoted to purposes which embrace the whole human race as to raise him above all lower instincts of his nature, does he become conscious of his true dignity and of the greatness of his destiny. Humanity is a word that has a real meaning, conveying a great truth, and it is fraught with mysterious power. These aspirations of the soul are the workmanship of God, and Christianity, as a universal religion, must aim at directing them to their proper objects. For Christianity is the universal religion, or it is nothing.

The symptoms of unrest which manifest themselves among those Christians who are divided up into hostile sects are a sign of a noble life stirring within their souls—a life which cannot contemplate with joy the wranglings of hostile creeds. These aspirations after that unity which will bind all men, without distinction of race, nationality, or color, into one common brotherhood of love—these cravings of the heart to act for universal ends, for the realization of God’s kingdom upon earth—are the evidences of a Christian spirit which seeks for a clearer vision and a closer communion with the true church of Christ.

With these views and in this spirit, which are in harmony with his own, we purpose to consider the interesting and important article of Dr. Knox on “The Organic Unity of the Church.”

WHAT IS THE UNITY OF THE CHURCH, ACCORDING TO DR. KNOX?

Here is his answer to this question in his own words:

“First, as to the nature of the expected church unity and the elements that compose it. We assert, in the general, that it is the highest possible unity. Christ prayed that his disciples might be made perfect in one. The adjective t??e??? is defined by Robinson as something ‘complete, full, perfect, deficient in nothing.’ The word used by the Saviour is te?e??????, and had an adverbial sense, so that Robinson would have us read: ‘That they may be perfected so as to be one—i.e., that they may be perfectly united in one.’ Tholuck says the idea of unity is expressed in a stronger way here than elsewhere—‘it is a perfect unity.’ Other authorities might be cited as showing that the unity in the divine thought, and which ought to be in our own, is a complete unity, in distinction from one that is partial, unsymmetrical, ineffective.”

That the unity which makes the church of Christ one “is the highest possible unity” there can be no manner of doubt, since its animating principle is that unity which springs from the relation subsisting between Christ and his Father. This relation which unites Christ to the Father, and the church to Christ, and the members of the church to the Father through Christ in most perfect unity, is a unity than which a higher and more perfect cannot be conceived, for it springs immediately from the divine Essence. The language of Christ’s prayer for unity makes this evident beyond all dispute. “That they,” he says, “all may be one, as thou, Father, in me, and I in thee.” Again: “That they may be one, as we also are one.” Once more: “I in them, and thou in me: that they may be made perfect in one.” Finally: “That the love wherewith thou hast loved me, may be in them, and I in them.”[154] Once would have been doubtless sufficient to have rendered this petition of Christ effective, yet he repeats the same in almost every sentence in this memorable and most solemn prayer. What else could have been Christ’s purpose, in the reiteration of his petition for unity, than to explain clearly his meaning, to make manifest the earnestness of his desire for it, and to impress upon his disciples its transcendent importance?

But this relation subsisting between Christ and his Father, and which is the type of the essence of the church, is an essential, indivisible, and indestructible relation. The relation, therefore, existing between Christ and his church and her members, from which her unity springs, is also essential. That is, aside from this unity, the church cannot be a subject even of thought—is unthinkable. Were it possible that it should be lost for a moment, the church, at the instant her unity was lost, would no longer exist. For the unity of the church is not derived from her organism, but, on the contrary, the organism of the church is derived from her unity, which has its rise in that essential, indwelling, and abiding presence of the invisible relation which exists between Christ and his Father: “I in them, and thou in me: that they may be made perfect in one.” Just as the life of the soul springs from the presence of the divine Essence, and this life pervades and sustains the whole body and its members, so, in like manner, the unity of the church, which springs from the presence of this divine relation, pervades and sustains the whole church and her members. The unity of the church is also indivisible. Multitudes may leave the church, but their absence does not break her unity. Many may lose the unity of the church, but it never can be lost from the church. Thousands may deny the unity of the church, but it will continue to exist in spite of their denial. In the nature of perfect unity, one and indivisible are correlative; for each of its parts contains and acts with the force of the whole. As God is everywhere present in the world, and the soul everywhere present in the body, so the unity of the church is everywhere present and pervades the whole body of the church. It is also an indestructible unity. For whatsoever may be the action of the lapse of time or the deeds of men, they can neither disorganize, reduce, nor overthrow it. Being divine in its nature, the hand of man may menace, but it is powerless to destroy the unity of the church. It will remain, after men have done their utmost and worst against it, as it was before.

This unity in which the Divinity dwells is the primal source of the life of the church, and, through her, of each and all of her members; is the type and exemplar of the perfect organism in which each and all of her acts proceed from one formal principle and one central point of active force. The church, therefore, may be defined, in the sense of Christ’s prayer, as that visible, organized body, in which the members are made one with God and with each other in Christ, by a participation of the invisible communion existing between Christ and his Father in the unity of the divine Essence.

In all this we have added nothing to the above passage from our author explanatory of “the expected church unity.” What we have done was to render its meaning more explicit, and this will be readily acknowledged in reading his own explanation, as follows:

“The starting-point, of course, is unity of faith, especially faith in Christ. The union of believers to one another results from their union to a common Lord and Saviour: ‘I in them, and thou in me: that they may be made perfect in one.’ The second element of a true unity is love. We need not dwell here, for it is a point conceded. The third element is oneness of aim and effort. The conversations and prayer of the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth of John show that faith and love in Christian hearts are with a view to definite results. In the fifteenth chapter it is said: ‘He that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit; for without me ye can do nothing.’ And in the seventeenth chapter this fruit and this doing are declared to be the glorifying of Christ, and, as contributing to that, the bringing the world to believe in him. All highest glory to God and good to man are contained in believing and loving the Lord Jesus. All the fruits of the Spirit enumerated by Paul in Galatians depend from the branch that abideth in Christ the vine. No man can be in Christ by faith without wishing all others to be—without praying the prayer of Jesus, and working the work of Jesus, that they may be. And this being the effect on all real disciples, it is clear that a union of faith and love is also a union of aim and effort.

“We are prepared to say, in the fourth place, that the one thing remaining to render this union complete—a perfect unity, such as Christ prayed for—is oneness of organization. By organization is meant, as the word imports, everything pertaining to the outward structure and furniture of the church—its government, methods of operation, ordinances, worship, etc.”

DR. KNOX ON THE NECESSITY OF THE UNITY OF THE CHURCH.

“We can but observe,” he says, “in the first place, that most of the good we know in this world is connected with organization, and is nothing without it. It is the nature of all life to organize, and the most perfect of organisms is that which we have in the human form—Scriptural type, by the way, of the organization belonging to the spiritual life that is in Christ’s body, the church. No one thinks it necessary to depreciate the organic part of man in order to exalt that which is intellectual and moral.… It is not enough to say of human life in the general: ‘What we want is good-will, right understanding between man and man—no matter about society and government. That is merely exterior and organic; we wish to do with essentials.’ For all the ends of social welfare it has ever been found that organized society is one of the essentials, and without it the public weal cannot be promoted.”

“It is the nature of all life to organize.” Precisely so. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the nature of all life is organic; for life and organism are related to each other as cause and effect, and hence are inseparable. Christianity unorganized would be a pure nonentity. Christianity is a life—specific life; it is therefore by its very nature specific, visible, organic.

“For all the ends of social welfare it has ever been found that organized society is one of the essentials, and without it the public weal cannot be promoted.” Organized society is essential to all life, and no less essential to its own defence and preservation; for what would have become of Christianity without organization when the colossal power of the Roman Empire was set to work to exterminate it? Christianity would have been strangled in its cradle. What would have become of Christianity unorganized when the barbarians from the North overthrew the Roman Empire? Christianity would have been swept from the face of the earth. What would have been the issue if Christianity had been left to individual effort when the Moslems attacked Europe and threatened to feed their horses from the altars of Christian churches? Why, Europe would be to-day Mohammedan, and, if any Christians were left, they would be at the mercy, as the Servians were, of the Grand Turk. Christianity unorganized, facing an organized, hostile, powerful force, would have been as chaff before the wind.

THE SECOND REASON FOR CHURCH UNITY.

“Especially,” says Dr. Knox, “ought we to note how this fact of exterior organization has been recognized in the provision for the general spiritual well-being. If you say the elements of that well-being are primarily interior and spiritual, such as love, faith, fellowship, yet as positively are they never dispersed from the exterior and physical—that is, from the organism through which they obtain their manifestation. The church is that organism. Hence whenever, under apostolic preaching, there was in any community the beginning of Christian knowledge, faith, obedience, there was the immediate beginning of a Christian church.… In all their epistles and prayers it was the visible as well as vital thing—the church at Rome, Ephesus, Corinth—which they have in their eye as an object of beauty and blessedness: ‘Now ye are the body of Christ and members in particular, ye are all baptized into one body.’… Their virtual unity must become visible; their essential unity, organic unity.”

In this passage there is laid down a most important principle: “The interior and spiritual are never dispersed from the interior and physical.” That is, an invisible church is an absurdity, and a simple interior piety a dream. On this principle we would change the last sentence, and make it read thus: “Their virtual unity is always visible; their essential unity, organic unity.”

THE THIRD REASON FOR UNITY IS EXPRESSED AS FOLLOWS:

“Just in ratio that effort for a common end becomes earnest and efficient does it tend to a common organized method.” Grant it, we say, and it follows that just in ratio as the common end is important, so will the effort become earnest and efficient in producing a common organized method for its realization. But no greater or more important end than the one that Christ came upon earth to realize, which was the salvation of the world, can be imagined. Hence Christ established his church as a common organized method for the realization of his divine mission; and it follows that, so far as his power extends, he would be with it, watch over it, and protect it until it accomplished the purpose for which he had called it into existence. And those who would subvert the church established by Christ, judged by this principle, really attempt, whatever may be their profession, to overthrow Christianity.

DR. KNOX’S FOURTH REASON FOR THE UNITY OF THE CHURCH.

“Oneness of organization is indispensable to oneness of manifestation. The union for which Christ prayed is apparent as well as actual—‘perfect in one, that the world may know that thou hast sent me.’ Now, it is certain that the numerous church organizations are in apparent conflict with unity. They are regarded by multitudes as diverse, and even adverse, corporations. Allow that this, to a great extent, is only in appearance; yet just to that extent it is an evil. The impression is not the one Christ seeks of an impressive unity. And ecclesiastical history reveals how often the evil appearance has been identical with the actual evil. The setting up of separate church establishments tends inevitably to jealousy, strife, ambition, alienation, as the universal experiment proves.”

Every sentence almost of the above passage is a death-blow to the entire movement of Protestantism from its origin as a system of religion. As its very name signifies, it began in denial, and its fertility is not in the direction of unity and oneness of organization, but in that of breeding strifes, sowing discords, and exciting enmities. New sects are ever on the increase in its bosom, new church organizations are set up in the same sect against each other, and its main drift is plainly in the direction of mere individualism, ending in entire negation. “O Protestantism!” exclaims one of its adherents, “has it, then, at last come to this with thee, that thy disciples protest against all religion? Facts which are before the eyes of the whole world declare aloud that this signification of thy name is no idle play upon words, though I know that this confession will excite a flame of indignation against myself.”[155]

There is one point in the above extract on which we must differ from the learned doctor, and that is where he maintains that “the conflict with unity” among Protestants is “apparent” and not “adverse”; and here are some of our grounds:

This apparent unity among Protestants has its centre and source elsewhere. For every one of the revealed truths of Christianity which they maintain as fundamental, conceding for the moment that they are even agreed upon these, will be found in the last analysis to depend upon the authority of the Catholic Church. For example, the Bible is to Protestants the sole source of all revealed truth, and the only rule of faith. Now, that the Protestants received from the Catholic Church the Bible is a simple historical fact. Again, how do they know that the book called the Bible contains the whole of the inspired written word of God, and nothing else? Only from the unimpeachable witness and guardian of the Bible—the Catholic Church. Take from under the truths of Christianity, which Protestants still retain, the logical support of the Catholic Church, and Protestantism, as a system of religion, in ratio as men begin to feel the necessity of rendering to themselves a rational account of their religious convictions, will be abandoned and fall into utter ruin. And whatever fruits of Christian virtue or flowers of piety grow on the tree of Protestantism, they are parasitic; for the sap which gives life to the tree is derived from its roots, which are nourished in the soil of the garden, to their sight concealed, of the Catholic Church. In this virtual relation to the Catholic Church lies the hope of the salvation of those Protestants who are really in good faith. The unity among Protestants, therefore, is only “apparent,” while its conflicts with unity are real and “adverse.”

For the moment you enter on an examination of those doctrines in detail, regarding which, to use the language of this author, “there is throughout evangelical Christendom a substantial unity,” that instant innumerable and irreconcilable differences and contradictions arise. There exists among what are called evangelical Protestants a vague and affective desire for unity, but it is only strong enough to bring them together occasionally to display before the public their complete lack of real unity. They may even be led by it to recite the Apostles’ Creed, as though they were of accord in their belief as to the meaning of its contents; but let no further strain be put upon their bond of unity, lest it should snap into a thousand pieces, revealing, in the words of our author, “different organic bodies with features facing all ways, hands striking one against another, feet moving off in independent directions, and lips uttering the whole alphabet of shibboleths.” Grapes are not gathered of thorns.

DR. KNOX’S FIFTH REASON FOR UNITY.

“Organic unity,” he says, “is a required element in the moral power the church is yet to wield. The Romish Church has borrowed untold strength from this source—one in name and form the world over.”

Dr. Knox’s evidently reluctant compliment to the Catholic Church ought not to be passed by without due recognition. It is a very high compliment: the highest possible compliment, according to his own showing. For he has laid down the principle that “the interior and spiritual are never dispersed from the exterior and physical.” Now, as the Catholic Church is “the world over one in name and form”—that is, in “the exterior and physical”—it follows she must be one in “the interior and spiritual,” as the former are never “dispersed from” the latter. The Catholic Church, therefore, is truly the church of Christ, as she alone is “perfect in one.” She alone possesses the inward and outward notes of that unity which Dr. Knox and those who agree with him are expecting to come as the ideal Christian Church. They have only to work out their premise to its logical conclusion to be landed in the bosom of the Catholic Church, which is the realization upon earth, so far as human nature will allow, of the ideal Christian Church.

“If her [the Catholic Church’s] actual unity,” he proceeds to say, “had answered to her organic, Protestantism must needs have been still heavier armed to make head against her.” This is not a reasonable supposition. Prior to the sixteenth century the actual unity of the Catholic Church did answer to her organic, and she was in a fair way to Christianize and civilize the whole world. But the religious secession started by Luther and his followers stopped the church in her course, and set Christians against Christians, broke up the fraternity of Christian nations, and sowed everywhere the seeds of dispute, enmities, and wars in the bosom of Christendom. Millions of her children, backed up by political powers, turned against the church, and concentrated their attacks chiefly in the direction of the overthrow of the Roman See, and the destruction of the centre and guardian of the unity of her organization, the Roman Pontiff. If her vital energies and vast resources were turned towards where the attacks were the fiercest, in order to meet and repel their effects, this was, in the nature of the situation, a necessity, and furnishes no ground for an accusation. But God in his providence turns the enemies of his church into instruments of her glory; for, as in repelling the errors of Arius and his adherents, the church was necessitated to define, and for ever establish beyond all dispute, her belief in the divinity of Christ, so in like manner, in her defence against the errors of Luther and his followers, she was compelled to settle beyond dispute all doubt of the authority, the rights, and prerogatives communicated by Christ to his Apostle Peter and to the successors of his see, the Roman Pontiffs. The bark of Peter has had to battle through a threatening storm which has lasted three centuries, but she has come out of the danger in perfect safety, with increased strength and renewed splendor. For her “organic unity,” thanks to the action of Protestantism, being greatly perfected, her “actual unity” now can display itself with a correspondingly-increased vigor and vitality. Her interior, spiritual beauty will be brought out more clearly to the sight of the world, attracting all souls; for whatever may be said of the power and majesty of her “name and form the world over,” the real beauty and glory of the church, like that of the king’s daughter, “is all within.” The glory of this new phase of the church, of which it seems Dr. Knox has had a glimpse, though he does not appear to recognize her features, he expresses in the following manner: “But when the day dawns that shall give us a visible springing from an interior unity, that will be a spectacle like the sign of the Son of Man in the heavens.”

After the compliment which we have already noticed, it would be unusual if the holy Church did not receive some bitter words of abuse. Here they are in the concluding lines of the paragraph under notice:

“Though Satan, in the person of Rome and Rationalism, ‘dilated stood,’ as Milton describes him in his attitude towards Gabriel,

“‘Like Teneriffe or Atlas unremoved,’

“he would know that sign, as when Gabriel showed him the golden scales aloft, and he

“‘Fled

Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night.’”

This language belongs to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when the sectaries of that period universally held that the pope was Antichrist, and the Catholic Church his kingdom. It might be heard from the mouth of a ranter in Exeter Hall, or, in days gone by, in the Broadway Tabernacle, or come from the pen of the vaticinating Dr. Cummings, and not excite surprise; but we submit that such language is unworthy of the cause which Dr. Knox so ably advocates, and is in discord with the whole tenor of his article, which, we gladly acknowledge, breathes throughout a more candid and a better spirit.

THE SIXTH REASON FOR UNITY.

“This is found,” he says, “in that element of efficiency that lies in economy.” This is an important element, but we have already encroached beyond our limits, and must hasten to our close. The article proceeds to show that there is a “rapidly-increasing unity of faith, affection, and aim” among evangelical Christians, and details the grounds for the hope of a “prospective unity of organization,” explaining “the causes at work to produce it.”

ACCORDING TO DR. KNOX, THE UNITY OF THE CHURCH ONCE EXISTED.

“Furthermore,” he continues, “the church has once been in the perfect unity we are advocating. The members ‘continued steadfast in the apostles’ doctrine and fellowship, in breaking of bread, and in prayers’ (Acts, ii. 42). The unity, according to this record, began in theological doctrine, but extended to outward organization (fellowship), to visible sacraments (breaking of bread), and forms of worship (prayers). This was what Christ had just before prayed for a making perfect in one; a unity, interior and exterior, spiritual and organic.”

In another passage he describes the discordant elements of Protestantism, and draws, without knowing it, the portrait of the actual Catholic Church, and contrasts her perfect unity with the divisions of the Protestant sects. Here it is:

“In the primitive church, when Christ would have the body constituted with diversity—not all head, or hands, or feet; not all hearing, seeing, or smelling, but a body with many members, and each member its own function—he yet did not think it necessary this diversity should be sectarian in order to be Christian. He did not give some to be Episcopalians—high, and low, and ritualistic; some to be Congregationalists—associated, and consociated, and independent; some to be Methodists—Protestant, Primitive, and Episcopal; some to be Baptists—open and close; some to be Presbyterians—old and new, Cumberland and Covenanter, Associate Reformed and Presbyterian Reformed, and others perhaps unreformed, to say nothing of Burgher and anti-Burgher, Secession, and Relief. Here was variety—a very millennium of it, such as it was. It was a variety, however, that finds no place in the New Testament, and no mention in Christ’s catalogue of particulars. This was his list of bestowments that Paul enumerates, when he ‘gave some to be apostles, and some prophets, and some evangelists, and some pastors and teachers, for the perfecting of the saints, for the work of the ministry, for the edifying of the body of Christ.’ Having these, the body was thought to be well furnished without the modern inventions above specified. Here was variety and here was efficiency. ‘Many members, but one body.’ ‘Diversities of gifts, but one spirit.’ ‘Differences of administration, but the same Lord.’ ‘Diversities of operations, but the same God, which worketh all in all.’ Read the whole twelfth chapter of 1st Corinthians, and the fourth of Ephesians, and see how amply diversified is the church of God: all the more beautiful and useful for the reason Paul here declares, that God has so constructed it that there should be ‘no schism in the body.’ The variety and beauty lie in the varied members and their varied functions; not, as our sectarian conservatives would have it, in there being different organic bodies with features facing all ways, hands striking one against another, feet moving off in independent directions, and lips uttering the whole alphabet of shibboleths.”

This description is not very complimentary to that movement which started with the profession of renewing the religion of the Gospel and of primitive Christianity. Judged by Dr. Knox’s standard, it is clear that Protestantism, whatever it may be, is not primitive Christianity.

THE UNITY OF THE CHURCH IS LOST.

The entire article under consideration is based on the supposition that the visible organic unity of the church that once existed, no longer exists, but is lost. “It is also,” says Dr. Knox, “universally admitted and expected that this lost unity will at some time be regained” (p. 666). Now, that scandals would come, and tares would grow with the wheat, heresies, schisms, and sects would arise—all this we are told in the New Testament; but that the unity which Christ communicated to his church should be “lost,” and, therefore, his church fail—this we read nowhere in the pages of the inspired Word. On the contrary, we read in the Gospels that Christ promised to “build his church,” and that he predicted that “the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.” And we also read: “Behold I am with you all days, even to the consummation of the world.” How one who believes in the divinity of Christ, the inspiration of the Holy Scriptures, and that Christ built his church, and can admit, nay, assert, that she has “lost” her unity, the very essence of her being—that, consequently, the church of Christ has failed—we are at a loss to know, and look for further explanation and instruction on this subject from Dr. Knox.

But it must be remembered also, and taken into account, that when Christ offered up his prayer for unity, he not only petitioned that his disciples might be one, but he also said: “And not for them only do I pray, but for them also who through their word shall believe in me.” This covers all time, and leaves no room for the supposition that the unity which was the object of his prayer should ever be “lost.”

How to meet this difficulty is the question of questions among those who, under one pretext or another, have separated themselves from the unity of the Catholic Church. Their ingenuity has been exercised not a little on this point, and the world has listened to the Greek patriarchal theory, and to the Anglican branch theory, and the invisible church theory of some of the so-called reformers, but all these theories are like clouds without rain and broken cisterns that can hold no water. For once admit that the unity of the church for which Christ prayed has ever existed, and concede that it has been lost, no matter what theory or hypothesis you may devise, at that moment, the conclusion is inevitable, Christianity is a failure.

The unity of the church of Christ was divine, and the human cannot create or give birth to the divine. This truth has been recognized and acted upon even among Protestants. The Irvingites and Mormons teach on this point their fellow-Protestants a lesson in sound logic. “We start,” they say, “as all Protestants do, in admitting that the Catholic Church was in the beginning the church of Christ, and that at some period of time afterwards she became corrupt and failed. This is our common premise. Now, to establish the church, which is a divine institution, requires a special divine mission and authority; hence our claim to this special divine inspiration and authority for the reinauguration of the church of Christ upon earth.” This reasoning on the part of the Irvingites and Mormons, as against other Protestants, is unanswerable and leaves them nowhere.

If the Christian Church ever existed, it exists now in all its vitality and force; for the divine creative act which called it into existence was as real, continuous, and immutable as the creative act which called into existence the universe. The same Almighty who said, “Fiat Lux,” said, “Edificabo ecclesiam meam”; and, considering the place she holds in the hierarchy of creation, there is less reason to suppose that the church should fail than that the whole universe should go to utter wreck and ruin.

The learned doctor has an inkling of this insurmountable difficulty, and hence he looks forward to one scarcely knows what kind of supernatural action which is to “compose” out of the existing different evangelical sects a visible organic unity. The idea of composing the unity of the church is a contradiction in terms. If lost, only a new divine creative act can restore it. To expect this after the Incarnation and the Day of Pentecost is a chimera. The only escape from this, and the only perfectly consistent one, is that this unity is still existing, clothed with “a divinely-appointed organism jure divino,” and open to all who really and sincerely believe in Christ. He does not deny that the church of Christ does still exist; he admits its possibility, and says:

“We do not base our argument for ultimate unity of organization on the assumption that there is a divinely appointed organism defined in the New Testament. We may believe the Scriptures contain nothing explicit on this point—no jure divino model of church polity. If, however, there is such an appointed form—which is here neither affirmed nor denied—we insist that it is the best form, and our point holds good—viz., in the coming development of an earnest faith and fellowship, that form will ultimately be apprehended and accepted. In that mental condition into which the church is soon to come, it will be recognized that the end is the main thing, and the agency of no account except as it is adapted to the end. And as in the arts of ordinary life, as in politics and public education, it is at length discovered what the best way to the desired result is; and as the earnest effort for the valued result lays hold at last of the best method, which thus becomes the common one, so must it be in the great earnest religious movement of these latter days, looking to the millennial age. Mark well the process. The faith and love of the church, quickening into new life in these pre-millennial efforts, will emerge into a spiritual earnestness little short of a new experience; this earnestness will content itself with nothing short of the most effective method; the effective method will be accepted as the best, and the best method is the one method which shall complete the spiritual unity of God’s people in an organic unity.”

Agreeing with Dr. Knox in “the nature of the unity of the church,” and that the principle of “life is organic,” and also that the church with this unity and organic life has existed, the conclusion is evident: either he must yield up his premises, or enter into the fold of the Catholic Church as the only claimant to this unity and organization whose title is unimpeachable. May that day “of earnest faith and fellowship” of which he speaks be hastened, when will be apprehended and accepted “that church polity” “defined in the New Testament,”[156] and which “completes the spiritual unity of God’s people in an organic unity!” “May the generation now coming upon the stage … not pass away until these things are fulfilled!”

[153] “The Organic Unity of the Church. By Wm. E. Knox, D.D., Elmira, N. Y.” The Presbyterian Quarterly and Princeton Review, Oct., 18;6.

[154] St. John xvii.

[155] Dr. Jenischuber, Gottesverehrung und Kirche, § 210.

[156] To those of our readers who are desirous of seeing the argument drawn from the New Testament on this point, and at the same time the whole question as between the Catholic Church and the Presbyterians or evangelicals fully treated and placed in a clear light and in a masterly manner on the basis of the Holy Scriptures, we recommend the volume entitled The King’s Highway, by the Rev. Augustine F. Hewit. The Catholic Publication House, New York.

CONCLUDED.

About a month after this memorable expedition of M. Gombard’s the town of Loisel was in a state of extraordinary commotion; the elections were going on, which meant that all men had gone mad, that the seven devils were let loose, and that no man could be sure of sleeping in his own bed from one night to another. The decree had gone forth that General Blagueur was the government candidate, which signified that every man was to vote for him, and that every man who didn’t was a dead man—every man, that is, who had anything to lose or anything to hope for from the powers that were. No one knew who this General Blagueur was, or where he came from, or anything about him, except that he was the right man whom it was their business to put into the right place. This was all it concerned them to know or to care as dutiful subjects of Napoleon III. But though there were many such at Loisel, there were many of another sort, who set their backs stiffly against the right man, and were perversely bent on having a wrong man of their own. It does not matter to our story whether this rebellious outburst was justifiable or successful. It may be mentioned, however, for the comfort of the many who are born sympathizers with rebels in every class and country, that the rebellion of Loisel did succeed, and that General Blagueur was ignominiously beaten. But what a price Loisel paid for this wicked victory! A detachment of troops was at once sent down to prey upon its vitals and hold a cocked pistol at its head. The state subsidy promised to the local municipality for rebuilding the tumble-down hospital was refused; the concession for a railway to connect it with the main line, after having been distinctly promised to an enterprising company, was withdrawn; the prefect was “promoted” to a post in a dismal, out-of-the-way town in an eastern department. It was said at one moment that the mayor was going to be dismissed, or in some way visited by the imperial displeasure. But this was one of those unreasoning panics that are common to every period of social terror; men lose their heads, and see monstrous and impossible events impending. The government, powerful as it was, never dreamed of laying a finger on M. Gombard.

The worthy mayor forbore, with his usual prudence, from taking any prominent part in the war that was raging at Loisel, and ostensibly left the prefect all the honors and perils of leadership; but it was perfectly well known, as he admitted to friends in confidence, that if M. le PrÉfet reigned, M. le Maire governed; and M. le Maire’s power arose in great measure from the consummate tact with which he managed to hide this fact from everybody, above all from M. le PrÉfet. Now, it happened that, just when the excitement of the contest was at its greatest, when the wildest stories were afloat about the sinister machinations of the government, the base and cruel means it employed to compass its ends—setting brother against brother, and wife against husband, carrying bribery and discord and all manner of corruption into the very marrow of the bones of Loisel—it happened that, when things were in this state, a young man arrived at the principal inn of the place. He did nothing to provoke the anger or suspicions of the population: he was silent, unobtrusive, speaking to no one at the table-d’hÔte where he took his meals; but before he had been two days at Loisel the entire town was infuriated against him. He had been seen standing before a dismantled old round tower that guarded the entrance to the town, and once had boasted of battlements and a cannon; this report had gone abroad the first day of his arrival, and the next morning it was positively stated that he had been seen by an applewoman and a milkman walking round the tower, and scrambling upon a broken wall close by to get a view into it. It was at an early hour, before anybody was likely to be abroad. Such facts, resting on such clear and forcible evidence, admitted only of one interpretation—the stranger was a paid miscreant sent down to examine the tower with a view to fortifying it as of yore, and so terrifying the refractory towns-people into surrendering their independence to the government. A council was called by the outraged citizens, and in ten minutes the fate of the engineer was decided. A rush was made on the inn where he lodged; he was seized, dragged forth amidst the yells of the enraged mob, and would have rendered up his mercenary soul to judgment there and then, if the prefect had not chanced to ride up at the moment to the scene of popular justice.

“What is this? Call out the soldiers! I will have every man of you shot, if you don’t release your prisoner!” he cried, charging boldly into the fray.

“He’s a spy, a traitor! We won’t have him here! He wants to murder us; to butcher our wives and children,” etc. Fifty people shouted out these and similar cries together; but they had ceased maltreating the unfortunate stranger, and were now only clutching him and threatening him with clenched fists.

“If he is guilty of any misdemeanor or crime, or intent to commit crime, he shall be made to answer for it; but it is the business of the law to see justice done, not yours. Let go your prisoner!” said the prefect in a tone of high command.

Courage and the prestige of lawful authority seldom fail to impress and subdue an excited mass of men. The mob fell back, and two gendarmes, at a sign from the prefect, stepped forward; the crowd made way for them. “That man is under arrest. Conduct him to the mairie and lock him up,” said the prefect.

The gendarmes marched off the rescued man, a crowd trooping on with them, hooting and yelling with an energy that sounded far from reassuring, though it was so in reality, being a kind of safety-valve to the excited mob. It was a great relief, nevertheless, to the object of this manifestation to find himself locked up and safe out of its reach. He was not a coward, but the bravest may be permitted to shrink from such inglorious danger as this from which he had just escaped.

He had not been many hours in captivity when a sound of steps and voices approaching the door announced that some one was about to appear—probably the magistrate. The key turned in the lock, and M. Gombard entered, accompanied by two other persons: one was a clerk who was to take down in writing the interrogatory of the mayor and the prisoner’s replies; the other was a witness who was to sign it. The moment M. Gombard beheld the prisoner his countenance changed; he felt it did, though no one present noticed it. In the hatless, muddy, battered-looking man who rose painfully to salute him the mayor recognized the lover of Mlle. Bobert. Was he still only her lover? In all probability he was her husband by this time. When M. Gombard had mastered his surprise and recovered from the shock of the discovery, he proceeded to examine the prisoner. The latter made no attempt at self-defence; he admitted, with a frankness which the reporter set down as “cynical,” that he had visited the round tower on the two occasions alleged; that he would gladly do so again, if the citizens of Loisel gave him the opportunity. He had a natural love for old monuments of every description, and was professionally interested in them—especially ancient fortifications and fortresses of every kind; this old tower was a curious specimen of the fifteenth-century style, he was anxious to take a sketch of it, and so on, with more in the same tone. The clerk wrote on with great gusto, interlarding the prisoner’s remarks with commentaries intended to complete them, and explain more fully the depth of malice every word revealed: “The accused looked boldly at M. le Maire”; “the accused here smiled with a fiendish expression”; “the accused assumed here a tone of insolent defiance”; “the countenance of the accused wore an air of cool contempt,” and so on. Meantime, the mayor was wondering at the calm, dignified manner of the prisoner, and admiring his well-bred tone and perfect self-possession; he was evidently no common kind of person, this lover, or husband, of Mlle. Bobert. At the close of the interrogatory, when the clerk had wiped his pen and was folding up his document, the mayor, with a vaguely apologetical remark, inquired whether the prisoner was a married man. The answer came with the same quiet distinctness as the preceding ones: “No, monsieur, I am not.” He bowed to M. Gombard, and M. Gombard bowed to him. The interview was at an end. “The case looks bad,” observed the reporting clerk, as the door closed behind them, M. Gombard himself locking it, and pocketing the key unnoticed by the others, who hurried on, loudly discussing the matter in hand.

“Do you not think it looks badly, M. le Maire?” inquired the reporter.

“Very badly. We shall be the laughing-stock of the whole country, if the prisoner is brought to trial; we shall pass for a community of cowardly idiots. We must do our utmost to prevent the affair getting into the local paper, at any rate. You are a friend of the editor’s; have you influence enough with him, think you, to make him sacrifice his interest for once from a patriotic motive? It would be a fine example, and you will have done the town a service which I shall take care they hear of in due time.”

The reporter held his head high and looked important. “I was thinking of this very thing, M. la Maire, while I was taking down the prisoner’s answers,” he said. “I did my best to swell the silly business into something like a charge, feeling, as you say, that we should be disgraced if the case were trumpeted over the country as it really stands; but the best way to hinder the mischief will be to keep it out of the paper. I think I can promise you that this shall be done.”

“Then my mind is at rest. The honor of Loisel will be saved!” said M. Gombard.

“It shall, it shall, M. le Maire!” said his companion. He was excited and big with a sense of patriotic responsibility.

The next day was the grand crisis in the electioneering fever—the opening of the ballot-box. All Loisel was abroad and on tiptoe with expectation; there was no buying or selling that day. No wonder the unlucky inmate of the lock-up was forgotten. M. Gombard, however, had not forgotten him.

Late on the previous night, when the town had gone to bed and the streets were silent, nobody being abroad but the night watch and a few stragglers whose business and state of life made them avoid public notice and daylight, M. Gombard might have been seen stealing out by the back door to his own stable, and thence to the corner of a neighboring street, where he fastened his horse to a lamp-post, and stole back to the mairie with the quick, furtive air of a thief. He stepped softly down the stone passage that led to the lock-up room, laid his dark-lantern on the floor outside, and then turned the key slowly and with as little noise as possible. The dead silence that reigned in the place made the slight grating of the key sound like a shriek. When the mayor entered the room, the prisoner was walking up and down, trying to keep his blood in circulation; for the cold was intense, and he was famished with hunger. “I have come to release you,” M. Gombard said. “There is no time to lose. I have left a horse ready saddled at the corner of the street that leads straight to the ruined tower; you will mount him and ride for your life.”

The prisoner could hardly believe his ears.

“What does this mean?” he said. “You are a perfect stranger to me, and whoever you are, you must run a great risk in rendering me this service. May I ask why you take this interest in me?”

“I am glad to pay back a service that one whom … that was rendered to me not long since when passing through Cabicol. I will not say more; but you will learn all from the person in question most likely some day. Meantime, have no hesitation in accepting this service at my hands. It is a debt of gratitude that I am happy to be able to pay. Come, every minute is precious.”

The prisoner was not inclined to shut the door on his deliverer; whatever his motive might be, mysterious or romantic, it was a merciful chance for him. The two men left the house, stepping softly, stealthily like a couple of thieves. When they reached the entrance of a street, M. Gombard stopped, and pointed silently to where the gaslight fell upon the horse, giving him the appearance of a phantom beast amidst the surrounding gloom. The traveller held out his hand, and grasped the mayor’s in a long, strong pressure. M. Gombard returned it, and noticed now that his companion was bareheaded.

“You forgot your hat!” he said in a low voice.

“I lost it in the fray this morning.”

“Then the town of Loisel owes you another. Take this; it will serve you on the road as well as a new one.”

M. Gombard pulled off his hat and handed it to the fugitive, turned brusquely from him, and hurried home.

No one remembered the stranger who had provoked the popular fury, until two days after his arrest, when the agitation of the electioneering crisis had subsided, and the authorities had leisure to attend to ordinary business. Then it was discovered that the bird had flown, no one knew when, no one knew how. There was great consternation amongst the subordinate officials at the mairie whose duty it was to have looked after him; but each declared he was not responsible, that the prisoner had not been given into his charge, that the prisoner was only put there temporarily, and ought to have been conveyed at once to the jail, etc. This did not prevent them shaking in their shoes in mortal dread of being turned out of their places. The reporter was one of the first to hear of the escape. He flew at once with the intelligence to M. Gombard. M. Gombard looked him straight in the face and burst out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter; he shook, he held his sides, he laughed till he cried again. The reporter did not at first know what to make of it; but at last the contagion of M. le Maire’s mirth was irresistible. He began to laugh also, and then M. Gombard roared, and the two kept it up until they nearly died of it. At last M. Gombard, who was the first to recover himself, took out his red cotton handkerchief and wiped his eyes, and blew his nose, and, after sundry gasps and subsiding chuckles, said: “It is the cleverest joke I ever saw performed in my life, and you are the cleverest rogue I ever met with! It was bad enough to play it off unknown to me, to keep the fun of the thing to yourself; but then to walk in here with such cool impudence, and never move a muscle of your face while you announced it as the latest intelligence! Ha! ha! ha!” And off he went again, falling back in his chair, and laughing till the tears rolled down his cheeks.

The reporter was in a terrible state. He had not the faintest notion what the fun was about, and he had really joined in it till he could laugh no more. One thing was clear: somebody had done something which M. le Maire thought extremely clever and was highly diverted at, and that he—the reporter—had the credit of.

“Tell me, how did you do it?” said M. Gombard, again recovering himself and mopping his face, that was now as red as the handkerchief.

“Really, M. le Maire, I—I don’t quite understand,” said the reporter, smiling and trying to look at once confused and knowing.

“Come, come, no more of this! Tell it out like a good fellow; let me have the fag-end of the fun at any rate. How did you manage to give them all the slip?”

“Positively, monsieur, there is some mistake. I don’t see—I don’t understand—” stammered out the reporter.

M. Gombard gave a tremendous gasp, as if the laughter were still in him and it required a huge effort to keep it down.

“Well, well,” he said, “I won’t press you, but I think you might have trusted me; we are old friends now. However, keep your secret and accept my best compliments. You missed your vocation, though; you ought to have been a diplomatist. I see no reason after this—after this”—here he began to shake again and brought out the cotton handkerchief—“why you should not be minister some day. Vous irez loin, mon cher—vous irez loin!”

There was a knock at the door. The two men stood up.

“M. le Maire, I am to understand that you are rather glad than otherwise of this—this mysterious disappearance?” said the reporter, with some hesitation.

“Glad! You deserve the Cross for it!” exclaimed the mayor. “It is the greatest service you could have rendered to the town. Some day or other they shall hear of it.”

“I really must disabuse you of a false impression,” began the reporter. “Anxious as I was to be of use, my share in this matter—”

“Tut, tut!” said M. Gombard, “none of this nonsense with me, my dear fellow. Keep your own counsel—quite right; but don’t be such an idiot as to deny your services to those who can reward them. Mark my words: Vous irez loin!” He tugged gently at the reporter’s ear, and, shaking hands with him, sent him away happy and elated, but utterly mystified.

The affair made some noise; a procÈs verbal was drawn up, there was an interrogatory of the clerks, and before a week the escape of the spy was forgotten.

Just before Easter—that is, three months after this little electioneering incident—M. Gombard had occasion to go to Cabicol again. This time, however, he was not alone; he was accompanied by M. le PrÉfet, the new one, who was making a tournÉe in his kingdom, and took the mayor with him by way of a moral support. He was a timid man; he knew that his appointment was unpopular, and that M. Gombard’s influence might help to reconcile people to it.

They alighted at the Jacques Bonhomme to change horses and take some refreshment before officially inspecting the town of Cabicol. M. Gombard was anxious to get some news of Mlle. Bobert, when the marriage had taken place, and how it was supposed to prosper so far; but there was no opportunity of saying a word to the landlord, for the prefect was there, and M. Gombard had no plausible excuse for leaving him. He could not help remarking the strange expression of the landlord’s countenance on first beholding him; the scared, incredulous glance he cast upon him, and the mysterious manner in which, on assisting him from the chaise, he pressed his arm and whispered: “I congratulate you, monsieur; I congratulate you.”

What could the fellow mean by this extraordinary behavior! But the mayor remembered how oddly he had behaved on the occasion of his former visit, and set him down as an original, a harmless monomaniac of some sort.

Just as they were starting, and the prefect was receiving the compliments of M. le CurÉ at the door of the Jacques Bonhomme, M. Gombard seized the opportunity of a word with the landlord. Pointing his cane towards the old house opposite, he observed in a careless manner:

“Your pretty heiress is married by this, of course? What is her name now?”

“Married! Alas! no,” replied the landlord mournfully. “Monsieur has not, then, heard?”

“Good heavens! she is not dead?” cried M. Gombard, dropping his feigned indifference in an instant.

“She is blind, monsieur—stone blind! It was a terrible accident; she was thrown from a carriage, and the shock and injuries she sustained destroyed her sight. They say she may recover it after a while; but I doubt it, monsieur, I doubt it.”

“And her fiancÉ—has he given up—”

The mayor was here cut short by the prefect, who called out from the post-chaise, where he had already seated himself.

“Come, M. Gombard, we had better be starting.”

M. Gombard left Cabicol with a sad heart. He looked wistfully up at the latticed window under the grand old escutcheon where he had last caught a glimpse of the beautiful young creature, now so heavily stricken. It made his heart ache to think of her in that lonely house, her bright eyes sightless, dwelling in perpetual night. Why had not his rival insisted on marrying her in spite, nay, because, of this catastrophe? He could fancy how her brave and generous nature would refuse to accept what she considered a sacrifice; but what sort of a love was his that could not overcome such reluctance? Poor child! How gladly he would have devoted himself to soothing and cheering her darkened life! But perhaps he was wronging his rival; it might be that she had merely postponed their marriage, that they both believed in her ultimate recovery, and that she preferred waiting, until it had taken place, until her brown eyes had been restored, until the spirit which once animated them should awake and vivify them as of old.

M. Gombard did not return to Cabicol for many a long year after this. He left Loisel, and went to live in Normandy, where an uncle had died and left him some property—a rambling old house, surrounded by some wooded fields and a fruit-garden; the house was called the ChÂteau, and the fields were called “the Park.” M. Gombard had not been long in possession of this ancestral estate before he was elected mayor of the village. He was the kind of man to be elected mayor wherever he resided. Some men, we hear said, are born actors, doctors, ambassadors, etc.; M. Gombard was born a mayor.

Life went smoothly with him amongst his fields and fruit-trees for nearly ten years. Then friends took it into their heads, and put it into his, that he ought to become a deputy; the elections were at hand, and they put up his name as opposition candidate for the department of X——, whose chef-lieu was Loisel. The proposal took M. Gombard’s fancy mightily. To go back to the place where he had left such a good name and exercised such undisputed influence; to go back as representative of the department—this was a triumph that even in perspective made him purr like a stroked cat. He started off one morning in high spirits for Loisel. His most direct road lay through Cabicol. The railroad landed him within a mile of the quaint old town at eight o’clock in the morning. He was in the mood for a walk, so he set out on foot. It was within a few days of Christmas; the weather was intensely cold, but the sky was as blue as a field of sapphire, and the sun shone out as brightly as in spring. He remembered the first time he had been to Cabicol; it was about this season of the year, but what miserable weather it was! Snow deep on the ground, and then the heavy rains coming before it melted, and turning the roads and streets into canals of mud and slush. This bracing cold, with the sun cheering up the landscape, was delightful. M. Gombard walked on with a brisk step, whistling snatches of one tune or another, till he came within sight of the church. The first glimpse of the strong, graceful spire, pricking the blue sky, so high, so high it rose, brought a flood of soft and tender memories to the hard-headed, embryo legislator; he smiled, and yet he heaved a little sigh as the recollection of his first and his last visit to that fine old church came back upon him. He wondered how life had gone with the fair enchantress who had spirited away his heart from him in the brown twilight of the Gothic temple; whether she had ever cast a thought on him from that day to the present. And her sight—had she recovered it? M. Gombard had often thought of this, and breathed a hearty wish that it might be so. And was she married? In all probability, yes. The chances were that she was now the happy mother of a blooming little family, of which the man he had for a moment so vigorously detested was the proud protector. If so, M. Gombard would call upon him and pay his respects to madame. This was the proper thing for an opposition candidate to do, and it would be an opportunity for Mlle. Bobert’s husband to show his gratitude for former services.

He entered the town, now a busy, thriving place, and, crossing the market-place, made straight for the Jacques Bonhomme. There it was, not a whit changed, just as dingy-looking, with its stunted laurels before the door, that stood wide open as in the midst of summer. There, too, was the picturesque old manor-house opposite, just as he had first seen it, only that the roof was not covered with snow nor fringed with icicles. The ivy was thicker; it had grown quite over the front wall, but had been roughly clipped away from a space over the balcony, leaving the escutcheon visible—a gray patch amidst the glistening green of the ruin-loving parasite. Two persons were coming out of the house as M. Gombard drew near. A group of poor people stood at the lodge, evidently awaiting them, with eager, questioning faces. One of these persons was the doctor, the other was the curÉ. The doctor walked on in silence. The curÉ spoke: “Alas! my friends, she is gone from us. We must be resigned; for the loss is all ours, the gain all hers.”

M. Gombard felt a great pang go through him. He stood near the group, and heard the tearful cries that answered the curÉ’s words: “Ah, la bonne demoiselle! Yes, it is a happy deliverance for her; but what a loss for us, for the sick, for all Cabicol!” And they dispersed, lamenting, and repeating through their tears: “Pauvre Mlle. Bobert! Our good friend! She is gone! The funeral is to be to-morrow!”

So she had died, as she had lived, “Mlle. Bobert.” M. Gombard lingered a moment, looking up at the deep, latticed window where the slight figure would never be seen looking forth again. She was to be buried to-morrow, they had said. He resolved to wait and attend the funeral. He remained gazing up at the picturesque old edifice, which had arrested his curiosity and admiration for its own sake before he had become interested in its mistress. Whom would it go to now? he wondered.

A step on the pathway outside made him turn and look in that direction. He was startled, but not much astonished to see the fiancÉ of Mlle. Bobert approaching. Poor man! He looked much older than M. Gombard had expected to find him. Evidently he had suffered during these eleven years; his life had been blighted as well as hers. The manly heart of the mayor went out to him in sympathy. He was preparing to hold out his hand, when, to his consternation, the gentleman raised his hat with the old courtly bow that M. Gombard so well remembered. How was this? The unhappy man was ignorant of his sorrow! He was saluting the dead, and he knew it not.

“Monsieur, pardon me,” said M. Gombard, meeting him with an outstretched hand and a face full of genuine compassion. “You have evidently not heard the sad news?”

“Concerning whom?” inquired the gentleman, giving his hand, but looking very blank.

“Who? Why … Mlle. Bobert!”

“What has happened to Mlle. Bobert, monsieur?” asked the gentleman.

“What has happened? Good heavens! Can it be possible.… The worst has happened: she is dead!”

“Ah!” exclaimed the gentleman. Was this man some near relation of hers, or did he mistake him for one?

“I tell you she is dead!” repeated M. Gombard, his surprise rising rapidly to indignation. “She died only a few minutes ago, and she is to be buried to-morrow!”

“Naturally; that is the law. A person who dies this morning must be buried to-morrow, unless,” the speaker continued, fancying he had here a clue to M. Gombard’s excitement—“unless good reason can be shown for obtaining a delay, in which case, as a resident, I may be of some use to you; you seem to be a stranger here.”

M. Gombard could not credit his senses. Was he dreaming, or was this man gone mad? He stared at him for a moment in dumb amazement. At last he said:

“Perhaps I am under a mistake.… I may be taking you for a person who resembles you strongly. Who are you, monsieur?”

“I am an archÆologist by profession; my name is De Valbranchart.” He drew out his pocket-book and handed a card to M. Gombard.

“Henri, Comte de Valbranchart,” repeated M. Gombard absently. He had heard the name before; but where? “The name is not unknown to me,” he added.

“It can hardly be unknown to any one who has read history,” replied the count, with quiet hauteur. “The De Valbrancharts played a stirring part in the history of France as early as the twelfth century. But their day is over; they have no existence in the present. I am the last of the name.”

“Where have I heard it before?” said M. Gombard musingly.

“Perhaps at Cabicol,” returned the count. “This old house was the home of my family for three hundred years. Those are our arms carved upon its front; for twenty years I have saluted them daily as I pass. It is foolish, perhaps; but I feel as if the spirit of my ancestors haunted the old roof-tree, and that they are not insensible to the filial homage.”

As he said this he looked up at the stone shield, where a lion passant, on gule, was still visible, surmounted by a fleur-de-lis argent, en chef. Raising his hat deferentially to the worn and partly-obliterated symbols of a glory that lived only in his faithful memory, the Comte de Valbranchart bowed to M. Gombard and passed on.

“And so this was the lady-love he worshipped,” said M. Gombard to himself, as the tall, pensive man disappeared down the street. “He never loved her, perhaps he never knew her; and if I had only known, I might have.… But it is no use regretting the irreparable. I should have been a more miserable man at this hour, if I had won her and loved her all these years.”

“The happiest lives,” says Southey, speaking of his own, “are those which have the least variety.” There never was a truer saying. All the knowledge of the world involved in a stormy life, whether of vice, adventure, poverty, or political prominence, is not worth the half of the quiet happiness of a home-life and of what people lightly and mistakenly call monotony. And not only in such a life does the soul grow and the higher part of man gradually and calmly ripen, but his mind grows, his art grows, his genius widens and deepens. There are no shocks to arrest the creations of his mind; no periods of untrue, feverish, excited joy, followed by a ghastly reaction and a sad blank, to disturb the rest that alone produces lasting works. Not all poets and artists understood this, because very few were perfect men; not all common men understand it, because if their inborn propensities do not (and they do in only exceptional cases) lead them to this quiet haven, it requires severe experiences and much repentance before they can enter such a state. It is true that the works universally reckoned the greatest have been accomplished by men whose lives were spent among storms; but since the men who wrote them could so heroically overcome this inner obstacle, what magnificent things might they not have done if their lives had been differently ordained! The Divina Commedia, Paradise Lost, King Lear were the offspring of volcanic natures and volcanic circumstances: Dante and Milton were both lone men, soured and discontented, unfortunate in their domestic, and uneasy in their political, life; Shakspere was poor and despised, long a wanderer and an adventurer, and not too well mated either. And this brings us to the consideration of the more accessible and human side of their nature, one which is intensely interesting to us; for the more we read, the more we think, the more do we see how alike mankind is at all stages of its career, how little difference there is in human relations between us and our forefathers—nay, our remotest ancestors, whether in other climes or in a totally different civilization. Modes of thought have grown antiquated, systems of philosophy have crumbled, faiths have disappeared, customs have changed, but man and his passions remain the same as when he was first made. And the men who are but names to us, whose record is in forgotten tablets and antique parchments, even those whose works and sayings are known to us in part, all lived the same common life to the eye of their contemporaries, shared the same lowly necessities and the same agitating feelings, and went through the same kind of outward, prescribed life as the rind of their inner and individual one, as our modern poets, artists, savants, discoverers, and even our single selves. For ourselves, we almost invariably care more for the life of a man than for his works; and as this century has developed a peculiar turn for biography, even that of ordinary and obscure persons—which is often none the less interesting—it has been a liking easy to satisfy. If, however, readers of poets prefer to see their ideal with their own eyes and look upon him as a demigod, biography is not a thing likely to be pleasant to them. It is often disenchanting, and many people shrink from the true if it be not likewise in accordance with their preconceived notions. The English poets of the last century were emphatically men, good specimens of their time and surroundings, by no means souls stranded on a foreign world and accidentally fitted with clogging bodies whose necessities were a vexation to the spirit.

The earliest of the rising generation of that time who came prominently before the public, and has never since lost his place, is Dean Swift. He was “of the earth, earthy,” yet not a type of very common humanity. His life was full of strange incidents and extraordinary contradictions. He was, like Milton, by inclination rather a politician than a writer, and yet his poems have outlived his pamphlets. Sometimes he was coarse in language and brutal in manner—a fashion of his age, itself a contrast to the other extreme affected by society, that of a finical and artificial delicacy. Yet he won the almost unsolicited affection of pure-minded, sensitive, well-educated women. Now he was a miser, now a prodigal; now he entered a state which so many other poets conscientiously eschewed, himself worse fitted for it than they were; and now he showed a tenderness of feeling and a nobleness of soul which seemed inconsistent with this one life-act of defiant recklessness. For it was not hypocrisy; to that lowest of depths he, at least, did not sink. His education was desultory and his early circumstances narrow. His first situation was a poor one, though in a refined home and with a great statesman—Sir William Temple, whose reader and secretary he was. He got only twenty pounds a year, but had the chance of a troop of horse which King William offered him when he came to visit the youth’s patron at Moor Park. His mind was inflamed by the stirring scenes during which his poor mother had fled from Ireland—the times following the Revolution and the Boyne—and he vindicated and abused his native country by turns, like an indignant lover, always ready fiercely to defend her if attacked by others, yet conscious of the unhappy state into which civilization and literature had fallen, consequent on the civil troubles since Elizabeth’s Reformation. At Richmond he owed an illness to his gluttony, as he boldly if exaggeratedly confesses: “About two hours before you were born,” he writes to a lady, “I got my giddiness by eating a hundred golden pippins at a time; and when you were four years and a quarter old, bating two days, having made a fine seat about twenty miles further in Surrey, where I used to read, there I got my deafness; and these two friends have visited me, one or other, every year since, and, being old acquaintance, have now thought fit to come together.” Dryden did not recognize the young poet as a brother, and wrote him his opinion most bluntly, which Swift never forgave or forgot, and for which once or twice he revenged himself on other hapless and obscure poets who better deserved the same criticism. One of the good deeds of his youth was his giving up an appointment in the National Church, worth £100 a year, in favor of a poor struggling curate with less than half that income and eight children to support; but some of his friends thought that the loss of congenial society which this small preferment involved somewhat moved him to this renunciation. Going back to Moor Park, he made acquaintance with “Stella”—Esther Johnson—a ward of his patron, a girl of fifteen, who loved him devotedly, and whose heart he broke. He became her tutor, and his genius, his appearance, and his manner captivated the child-woman. Engaged at the time to a Miss Waryng, whom he fancifully styled “Varina,” he broke his promise to her, and in the details of their quarrel showed himself as insolent as dishonorable. At this time of his life he was, if not a handsome, at least a very striking man. He was tall and well made, with deep-blue eyes and black hair and eyebrows, the last very bushy, and his expression stern and haughty—the very hero of a young girl’s dreams. After Sir William’s death he removed Stella to the neighborhood of his own parsonage, where she lived in a little cottage with an elderly companion, and never saw Swift except in the presence of a third person. Sir Walter Scott charitably attributes his avoidance of marriage with her to prudential reasons, and in this anomalous relation to the woman he loved he sees an attempt “in the pride of talent and of wisdom … to frame a new path to happiness”; and the consequences, he continues, were such as to render him “a warning, where the various virtues with which he was endowed ought to have made him a pattern.” In one of his visits to London he met “Vanessa”—Esther Vanhomrigh—to whom he offered the same Platonic friendship, with nearly the same results. The girl died of grief and “hope deferred.” Another version of his luckless love-affairs asserts that he ultimately married Stella, but refused to live with her, and visited her formally the same as before.

Swift’s fits of avarice were great sources of amusement to his visitors. It is said that he occasionally allowed some guests of his, ladies of high rank, a shilling each to provide for themselves when asked to dine with him. Another such droll tale, but rather illustrating the contrary disposition, is told of him by Pope: “One evening Gay and I went to see him. On our coming in, ‘Heyday, gentlemen,’ says the doctor, ‘what’s the meaning of this visit? How came you to leave all the great lords you are so fond of, to come hither and see a poor dean?’ ‘Because we would rather see you than any of them!’ ‘Ay, any one that did not know so well might believe you. But since you are come, I must get some supper for you, I suppose?’ ‘No, doctor, we have supped already.’ ‘Supped already? That’s impossible! Why, it is not eight o’clock yet. That’s very strange; but if you had not supped, I must have got something for you. Let me see; what should I have had? A couple of lobsters; ay, that would have done very well—two shillings; tarts, a shilling. But you will drink a glass of wine with me, though you supped so much before your usual time only to spare my pocket.’ ‘No; we had rather talk with you than drink with you.’ ‘But if you had supped with me, as, in all reason, you ought to have done, you must then have drunk with me. A bottle of wine, two shillings. Two and two is four, and one is five—just two and sixpence apiece. There, Pope, there’s half a crown for you, and there’s another for you sir; for I won’t save by you, I am determined.’ In spite of everything we could say to the contrary, he actually obliged us to take the money.”

Among the literary practical jokes he sometimes played was a book of prophecies he published in ridicule of a yearly almanac of predictions by one Partridge. The chief event foretold was the astrologer’s own death on the 29th of March, 1708. As soon as the date was past an elaborate account of Partridge’s last moments and sayings came out in “a letter to a person of honor.” Partridge found it hard to persuade people of his continued existence, and, having once complained to a Doctor Yalden, was repaid by the latter by an additional account of his sufferings and end by his supposed attendant physician. The poor man was driven frantic; he says the undertaker and the sexton came to him “on business”; people taunted him in the streets with not having paid his funeral expenses; his wife was distracted by being persistently addressed as Widow Partridge, and was “cited once a term into court to take out letters of administration”; while “the very reader of our parish, a good, sober, discreet person, has two or three times sent for me to come and be buried decently, or, if I have been interred in any other parish, to produce my certificate, as the act requires.” Sir Walter Scott remarks, as an odd coincidence, that in 1709 the Company of Stationers obtained an injunction against any almanac published under the name of John Partridge, as if the poor man had been dead in sad earnest.

Unsatisfactory as was the homelife of Dean Swift, Alexander Pope’s is scarcely more pleasant to look back upon. He was never married, and his best associations with home were through his mother, whom he loved dearly. But his continual ill-health and misshapen body made him miserable, and he himself calls his life “one long disease.” Fame he won early, but it did not sweeten his spirit. His early life was spent near Windsor Forest, at the village of Binfield, where his father, a prosperous tradesman, retired with his fortune of £20,000 when the boy was twelve years old. Instead of putting this money in the bank, he kept it in the house in a strong chest, and drew upon the sum for all he wanted for many years, by which method it was considerably lessened before his son inherited it. Many of the despicable traits or foolish weaknesses of Pope’s character were due to his sufferings. He was deformed in person, and so feeble that he had to be dressed and tended like a child. He was laced in stays to keep him erect, and was so small that at table it was necessary to place him in a high chair. Dr. Johnson says that “his legs were so slender that he enlarged their bulk with three pair of stockings, which were drawn on and off by the maid; for he was not able to dress or undress himself, and neither went to bed nor rose without help.” He wanted help even in the night, and would often call up a servant for coffee or for pen and paper; but he was lavish of money to compensate for the trouble he gave, and a servant in Lord Oxford’s house once declared that so long as it was her business to answer the poet’s bell she would not ask for wages. In other respects, however, Pope was absurdly miserly, and one of his habits—that of writing his verses on the backs of letters and other loose leaves and scraps—got him the nickname of “paper-sparing Pope.” It was his friend Swift who originated this saying. He was hardly thirty when his Homer had gained him an independence, and he set up his own house at Twickenham, though he still passed half his time at his parents’ home at Binfield. Twickenham had the charm of society, which to Pope was a great solace. Here he gathered a circle of admiring friends; for the place was a kind of centre of literature and fashion. Lady Mary Montagu, with whom he fell in love and then quarrelled, was his neighbor; Bolingbroke lived at Dawley, and Lord Burlington at Chiswick. Fine court people and “elegant company,” as he writes, flocked to visit him, and, though he enjoyed it, he seems to have been partly discontented with it. It was the weak protest of the higher nature, dwarfed but not crushed by the lower. His filial piety shines out as a redeeming point in his selfish, narrow, loveless life, and it never wearied of its prolonged task; for his mother died at ninety-three (in 1733), at his house, and he mourned her deeply and tenderly. Another good and innocent trait was his love of gardening, though it was but the formal, lifeless gardening of his day, when the taste prevailed for grottoes and masonry and clipped trees. He writes to Swift: “The gardens extend and flourish.… I have more fruit-trees and kitchen-garden than you have any thought of; nay, I have melons and pineapples of my own growth.” To another friend he writes: “I am now as busy planting for myself as I was lately in planting for another [his mother], and I thank God for every wet day and for every fog that gives me the headache, but prospers my works. They will, indeed, outlive me, but I am pleased to think my trees will afford fruit and shade to others when I shall want them no more.” It is said that Pope introduced the weeping willow into England. The story runs that he discovered some twigs wrapped round an article sent from abroad, and planted one of them in his garden. A willow sprang up, from which numberless slips were taken, some to be planted in England, others to be sent abroad. The old tree died in 1801. Its life seems to have been but a short one. Pope’s grotto still remains, but the rest of the garden has been sadly changed and disfigured by partition and building. He also made a tunnel under the public road, on each side of which his property lay. This reminds us of a peculiar tunnel diving under the Parade at Ramsgate, on the Channel, and leading to a grotte, or series of catacomb-like passages in the chalk cliff overlooking the sea. This is on the Pugin property, and there are like galleries, we believe, a little further, leading from the gardens of Sir Moses Montefiore.

Richmond, adjoining Twickenham, is as classic ground in its literary associations. Here Thomson, the author of The Seasons, lived for the twelve last years of his life, at a pretty cottage called Rosedale House, now much altered and enlarged. But the summer-house in the garden remains the same as it was in the poet’s time. “It is,” says Mr. Howitt, “a simple wooden construction, with a plain back and two outward-sloping sides, a bench running round it within, a roof and boarded floor, so as to be readily removable all together. It is kept well painted of a dark green, and in it stands an old, small walnut table, with a drawer, which belonged to Thomson.” A tablet let into the front of the alcove above bears the following inaccurate inscription:

Here
Thomson sang
“The Seasons”
and their change.

His famous poem was composed several years before, and begun when he had scarcely a roof over his head. The first part, “Winter,” was written in a lodging over a bookseller’s shop, to whose master he sold the poem for three guineas. It was neglected until a clergyman, “happening to turn his eye upon it, was so delighted that he ran from place to place celebrating its excellence.” Would such simple means be enough now to herald a new author, although literature is supposed nowadays to be so much more respected and lucrative a calling than in the last century? Before this stroke of luck Thomson had been drudging as a tutor, teaching his patron’s little boy of five years old his alphabet, and wasting his Scotch university education in such dreary pursuits. He had been brought up for the Presbyterian ministry, being himself a Scotch minister’s son; but he found himself unfit for that calling, and set out from Edinburgh for London “to seek his fortune,” with a little money and some letters of recommendation tied up in his pocket-handkerchief. He had no sooner reached London than both were stolen, and this misfortune was soon followed by a worse—the death of his widowed mother. After the happy hit of his “Winter,” however, he had no more trouble; the patrons of literature took him up, his poems sold fast, and he completed his Seasons, while also throwing off minor works, all equally admired by his contemporaries, though not equally deserving. His writings were always moral and just; he never flatters or plays with vice, and it has been said of him with truth that he never wrote a line which, dying, he would wish to blot. We think the same could be said of Wordsworth. But if private morality did not suffer through him, public laxity in the sphere of politics did; that is, he was innocently part and parcel of a corrupt system of place-giving, irrespective of fitness for the office. It was the vice of the age, alike in church and state. He held at different times two sinecureships in the gift of government—one the Secretaryship of Briefs in the Court of Chancery, the other the general surveyorship of the Leeward Islands. In his private life he was fortunate; he travelled abroad with Sir Charles Talbot’s eldest son, he visited all the people worth knowing, and was flatteringly received by all, his means were ample, yet he was not altogether happy. He was crossed in love by a Miss Young, whom he addresses in his poems as Amanda, and who cast him off for an admiral. His love, to judge by his letters, was earnest and true; writing to her during their short engagement, he says: “If I am so happy as to have your heart, I know you have spirit to maintain your choice; and it shall be the most earnest study and pursuit of my life not only to justify but to do you credit by it.… Without you there is a blank in my happiness which nothing can fill up.” His disappointment increased his melancholy, and, indeed, made his faults come into worse relief; but he lived only five years after it. Like many whose struggles have not been very hard or lengthened, he believed too much in luck and grew careless and indolent; his ambition was to live in peace, in luxurious dreams, in easy, social fellowship. He was kind but apathetic, and as careless of himself as of others, so that, though he had money enough to live more than comfortably, he was once arrested for a debt of seventy pounds. The actor Quin, as was often the case with friends of those detained in a “sponging-house” in those rollicking days when such confinement was not supposed to entail any disgrace, went to see him and ordered supper from a tavern close by. When they had done, Quin said seriously: “It is time now, Jemmy Thomson, we should balance our accounts.” The poet, with the instinct of a debtor, supposed that here was some further demand he had forgotten; but Quin went on to say “that he owed Thomson at least £100—the lowest estimate he could put upon the pleasure he had derived from reading his works; and that, instead of leaving it to him in his will, he insisted on taking this opportunity of discharging his debt. Then, putting the money on the table, he hastily left the room.”

A ludicrous anecdote is told of Thomson, which, if not true, is typical of his undoubted indolence—namely, that he would wander about his garden with his hands in his pockets, biting off the sunny side of the peaches that grew upon the wall. He was fond of walking, however. Laziness often brings dirt in its train, and Johnson, himself no Rhadamanthus on this score, calls Thomson slovenly in his dress, while other biographers aver that he took care only of his wig. His barber at Richmond said he was very extravagant about it, and had as many as a dozen wigs. One other fault is hinted at: his love of drink, so that the moral poet was not so exemplary in his life as in his works; but he was honest, truth-telling, a good friend and master, as well as a clever, imaginative, and cultivated writer.

It is curious to note how many poets have been bachelors. Gray, too, was one. The son of a well-to-do London citizen, he was sent to Eton and Cambridge, and at the latter place spent many years of his later life. He was emphatically a student, rather cold and fastidious in manner, but a devoted son and a true friend. His mother “cheerfully maintained him [at college] on the scanty produce of her separate industry.” He travelled with Horace Walpole, and learned modern languages in his wanderings, and was one of the first English sight-seers at Herculaneum. On his return to England his father died, and he and his mother lived at West Stoke, near Windsor, where he wrote his famous Elegy. One of his early friends, Richard West, son of the Lord Chancellor of Ireland, a kindred spirit, learned, young, and poetical, but indolent, writes affectionately to Gray: “Next to seeing you is the pleasure of seeing your handwriting; next to hearing you is the pleasure of hearing from you.” Soon after the premature death of his young friend Gray went to live at Cambridge, and ten years later his happy, quiet life was disturbed by the death of his mother—a blow he never recovered. Towards the close of his life, thirteen years later, he writes to a friend: “I had written to you to inform you that I had discovered a thing very little known, which is that in one’s whole life one can never have more than a single mother. You may think this obvious, and what you call a trite observation. You are a green gosling! I was, at the same age, very near as wise as you; and yet I never discovered this with full evidence and conviction—I mean till it was too late. It is thirteen years ago, and seems but as yesterday, and every day I live it sinks deeper into my heart.”

His favorite study at Cambridge—first at Peter-house College, then at Pembroke Hall, between which places he spent nearly forty years of his life—was Greek, taking, as he said, “verse and prose together, like bread and cheese”; but his only public office was the professorship of modern history, the duties of which he was, through ill-health, unable to fulfil. The stiffness of his bearing and fastidiousness of his dress made him a favorite butt of the undergraduates, and his real attainments, intellectual as well as moral, were wholly powerless to restrain within due bounds that spirit of mischief which the gravest “dons” themselves confess to in their own far-off youth and heyday. One of these jokes was the reason of his leaving Peter-house in indignation and removing to Pembroke Hall. Gray had a nervous dread of fire, and always kept a rope-ladder by him in case of danger. One night the “boys” “placed exactly under his bedroom window a large tub full of water, and some who were in the plot raised a cry of ‘fire’ at his door. Gray, terrified by the report of the calamity he most dreaded, rushed from his bed, threw himself hastily out of the window with his rope-ladder, and descended exactly into the tub.” The two bars to which he fastened his ladder are still to be seen at the window of the chambers he used. But in later years, when the fame of his scholarship was greater, the men crowded to see him when he walked out. “Intelligence ran from college to college, and the tables in the different halls, if it happened to be the hour of dinner, were thinned by the desertion of young men thronging to behold him.” He is said to have been thoroughly versed in almost every branch of knowledge then cultivated. Besides the classics, European modern history and languages, painting, architecture, and gardening occupied his thoughts, and the more modern studies of criticism, political economy, and archÆology were not forgotten. Metaphysics also were familiar to him. His taste in natural scenery was of a noble kind; mountains and heaths were his favorites. When in the Scottish Highlands, he writes to a friend: “A fig for your poets, painters, gardeners, and clergymen that have not been among them; their imagination can be made up of nothing but bowling-greens, flowering shrubs, horse-ponds, Fleet-ditches, shell grottoes, and Chinese rails.”

In that age of artificiality this was a great step forward. Men affected to be appalled by the savageness of life away from the capital; they magnified the fleeting, ignoble gossip of their taverns and coffee-houses into affairs of sublime importance. A country-house to them was a doll’s house, a toy near London, tricked out with fantastic imitations of foreign curiosities; a full, healthy, natural life was their horror. But Gray, though of this age, was not of this clique; he lived outside the world of fashion and coffee-houses; his travels, and especially his studies, gave his mind a wider range. This cannot be said of poor, jovial, unlucky Goldsmith, the jest of Fortune, the Micawber among poets. There is a wonderful disparity between his miserable, shiftless life and the fame of his works, both prose and poetry. He is one of the most popular of poets and novelists, and his life was one of the most checkered, though uniformly unlucky, that ever were. Before he was twenty he wrote street ballads to earn bread, but was ready to share his pittance with any one poorer than himself. One winter night he gave the blankets off his bed to a shivering creature, and “crept into the ticking to shelter himself from the cold.” Never did avarice come near his heart; indeed, his indiscriminate charity often brought him into sore straits. He was for two or three years a sizar at Dublin University—a sad position since the old generous days when the church protected and encouraged poor students, and foundations that still remain were made for their support. They indeed remain, but the spirit of charity and Christian brotherhood that inspired them has gone, and poor scholars find the universities as worldly a place as any other, and have to go through a fiery ordeal to gain knowledge. At last Goldsmith, goaded by the contempt and insults he met with, even from his tutor, who once knocked him down, ran away to Cork with one shilling in his pocket. He once told Sir Joshua Reynolds “that of all the exquisite meals he had ever tasted, the most delicious was a handful of gray peas given him by a girl, after twenty-four hours’ fasting.” Refusing to become a clergyman, for which career he felt unfitted, he studied medicine with small success, though he managed to get a degree after such a tour through Europe as reminds one of the mediÆval students’ doings. He started with a guinea in his pocket, one shirt to his back, and a flute in his hand. He led village dances on the green, and beguiled the evening hours of the gossips at the village inn, a barn being often his sleeping-place. But he had also another resource—the mediÆval one of supporting theses before the learned faculties of foreign universities. Having thus, as it was laughingly said by his friends, “disputed” his way through Europe, he came back to London, still a beggar, and found a wretched home among beggars in Axe Lane. How often must that tragedy of disenchantment have been played out before the eyes of those human moths who come to London and other great centres “to seek their fortune”! For one that swims a thousand sink, and each success is built upon the accumulated failures of others perhaps no less intellectually endowed. The weary tramp after situations, the timid offer of services that no one wants, the despairing hint that the lowest wages will be more than welcome, the cold dissympathy that need and shabby clothes almost always involve, and all this repeated two, three, four times a year, is enough to break the spirit of any man not endowed with the eagle’s courage. There is hardly much to choose between the miserable avocations which poor Goldsmith was driven to take up to keep himself from starving. Once he was a chemist’s assistant in Monument Yard; then a poor doctor on his own account, in the still poorer neighborhood of Southwark; then, worse than all, an usher (or under-master) in a small school. “I was up early and late; I was browbeat by the master, hated for my ugly face by the mistress, worried by the boys within, and never permitted to stir out to meet civility abroad.” Then he turned to that most uncertain yet fascinating pursuit—letters, his old love. It barely kept him alive; he was dunned and worried; lived in a wretched attic, and wore clothes too shabby to go out in, except after nightfall. In these days of brilliant gas-lit shops and streets even that comfort would have been denied him. He was a bookseller’s hack, and wrote to order, and was naturally delighted at the chance of an appointment as surgeon on the coast of Coromandel; but this fell through, unluckily for himself, though not for posterity. Goldsmith had a dog, to whom he taught simple tricks, which were as great a vexation to the poor animal as his own troubles were to the master (selfish human beings, how little we follow the lesson. ‘Put yourself in his place’!), and this faithful companion was a great solace to him.

The way in which the Vicar of Wakefield was given to the world is too well known to be more than glanced at. Version and counterversion of the scene have been given by Johnson and others; it is pitiful to think that such a book should have depended upon the chance of his being able to get out to offer it to a publisher. While Goldsmith sat a prisoner in his own room (it is still shown at Islington, London) Johnson took the treasure and sold it for sixty pounds. It is to be hoped the author changed his landlady after her behavior to him in arresting him for his rent; but perhaps she had some provocation, for when he had money he did not always put it to the wisest purposes. Others, too, must have been either foolishly trusting or deliberately kind; for he owed £2,000 at his death, one of the bills being the famous one at his tailor’s for the plum-colored coat made in elaborate fashion. “Was ever poet so trusted before?” exclaimed his friend Johnson. Among the friends who mourned his premature death (he was only forty-five) were some poor wretches whom out of his own poverty he had helped and befriended.

The year Goldsmith died, 1774, Robert Southey was born, a man whose life was in all respects different—shielded, domestic, happy, and uneventful. “I have lived in the sunshine,” he says of himself. He worked hard and was thoroughly happy, singularly unambitious, but imaginative and enthusiastic. He was born at Bristol, and his early school-life and holidays with an eccentric aunt were among his most cheerful reminiscences. This old lady, Miss Tyler, was one of those excruciatingly neat housekeepers who make every one about them uncomfortable. “I have seen her,” writes her nephew, “order the teakettle to be emptied and refilled because some one had passed across the hearth while it was on the fire preparing for her breakfast. She had a cup once buried for six weeks to purify it from the lips of one she accounted unclean. All who were not her favorites were included in that class. A chair in which an unclean person had sat was put out in the garden to be aired; and I never saw her more annoyed than on one occasion when a man who called on business seated himself in her own chair; how the cushion was ever again to be rendered fit for her use she knew not.” Dust was of course her pet aversion, and she took more precautions against it “than would have been needful against the plague in an infected city.” Southey was adoringly fond of his mother, from whom he inherited “that alertness of mind and quickness of apprehension without which it would have been impossible for me to have undertaken half of what I have performed. God never blessed a human creature with a more cheerful disposition, a more generous spirit, a sweeter temper, or a tenderer heart.” In all this the happy poet was her counterpart. He went to Westminster School, then to Balliol College, Oxford, but distinguished himself rather by feats of physical prowess than by hard study. He learned to row and swim, and lived a healthy out-door life, as he had done in his childhood when he roamed the country round Bristol with Shad, his aunt’s servant-boy. Vice and dissipation had no attractions for him, though there were but too many opportunities for self-indulgence at the university. At nineteen he wrote his first epic poem, “Joan of Arc.” He was an enthusiastic republican, and one of the most eager supporters of the Pantisocracy scheme—a social Utopia, to be realized by a handful of young emigrants, who were to choose some tract of virgin soil in America, and support themselves by manual labor, while their wives would undertake all domestic duties. Their earnings were to go to a common fund, and their leisure hours be spent in intellectual exercises. Of course the pleasant dream faded away, and the group of destined companions dispersed; but three of the enthusiasts married three sisters at Bath, and some bond of the old time was kept up for many years by this connection. Southey’s marriage was not made public till the return of the bridegroom from Portugal, where he had promised to accompany his uncle, on the very day his marriage took place. His bride kept her maiden name and wore her wedding-ring hung by a ribbon round her neck until her husband came back, when she went with him to London, where they bravely lived and struggled on a narrow and uncertain income. He too, like many other poets, had refused, from conscientious motives, the prospect of a comfortable provision in the National Church, and preferred to live by his own exertions. The consequence was that he too often lived from hand to mouth; yet his home circumstances were so bright that he never seems to have been in the same gloomy “circle” of the literary “Inferno” as most of his brothers. When he was thirty he settled at Greta Hall, Keswick, in the Lake country, among the mountains, and there, incessantly at work with his pen, he refused many a lucrative offer which would have drawn him from nature to the distractions of London life. He was as fond a father as he had been a son, romped and played with his children, wrote nonsense verses for them, like poor Thackeray, and yet never neglected their more serious education. “Every house,” he used to say, “should have in it a baby of six months and a kitten rising six weeks.” Once, when invited to London by some great man, he writes: “Oh! dear, oh! dear, there’s such a comfort in one’s old coat and old shoes, one’s own chair and own fireside, one’s own writing-desk and own library; with a little girl climbing up to my neck and saying, ‘Don’t go to London, papa; you must stay with Edith’; and a little boy whom I have taught to speak the language of cats, dogs, cuckoos, jackasses, etc., before he can articulate a word of his own—there is such a comfort in all these things that transportation to London seems a heavier punishment than any sins of mine deserve.” During an absence in Edinburgh he writes to his wife: “What I have now to say to you is that, having been eight days from home, with as little discomfort as a man can reasonably expect, I have yet felt so little comfortable, so great a sense of solitariness, and so many homeward yearnings, that certainly I will not go to Lisbon without you—a resolution which, if your feelings be at all like mine, will not displease you.” His happy life was as regular as clock-work: drudging, money-making work, reading, siesta, poetry, meals, long rambles, each had its appointed time, and his days were as full as they were happy. The domestic propensities which worldly men called his ruin and the marrers of his prospects of rank and wealth, were in reality what inspired his poetry, and thus made him immortal. His poetry belongs to our century, yet such a stride have we made—we will not say forward in the sense of greater excellence, but in that of utter difference—since his time that we venture to include him in this sketch, reckoning by his birth and early struggles, which after all made the man, and thus moulded the poet.

Melancholy, unhappy, restless Cowper was, with all the love and care he elicited from good and devoted women, a great contrast to Southey. He was terribly sensitive, clinging, loving, but somewhat weak. The picture of the boy of six years old playing with his young mother’s dress, pricking the pattern of her gown into paper with a pin, as he describes himself in the pathetic poem on the receipt of his mother’s picture, is a touching and suggestive one; for his mother died when he was a child, and he never forgot her for the fifty remaining years of his lonely life. This portrait was sent to him by a cousin in his old age, and he writes thus in answer to the gift: “Every creature that bears any affinity to my mother is dear to me, and you, the daughter of her brother, are but one remove distant from her.… I kissed it [the picture] and hung it where it is the last object that I see at night, and of course the first on which I open my eyes in the morning.… I remember a multitude of the maternal tendernesses which I received from her, and which have endeared her memory to me beyond expression.” Cowper’s house at Olney was not a cheerful one, and his frequent fits of madness, or monomania, lasted sometimes for months, and even years. They took the shape of religious despondency about his soul; he was “only in despair,” he said, and often attempted to kill himself. His second mother, who devoted her life to him, the widow of a clergyman, Mrs. Unwin, saved his life many times over; he could not bear any other companion, yet it was part of his delusion that she disliked him. Every one has heard of his fondness for his hares, the first of which came to him as a chance gift, to save the creature from being killed by a negligent little boy; so at one time he had a large “happy family” gathered around him, whose hutches, cages, and boxes he amused himself by making. Some of these contrivances were novel and ingenious. Three hares, five rabbits, two guinea-pigs, a magpie, a starling, a jay, two gold-finches, two canaries, two dogs, a squirrel, and a number of pigeons gave him plenty to do, besides his garden, of which he was equally fond. When he had succeeded in himself making two glass frames for his pines, he playfully wrote: “A Chinese of ten times my fortune would avail himself of such an opportunity without scruple; and why should not I, who want money as much as any mandarin in China?” Cowper’s friends all had something to do with his poetry. His poem “To Mary,” in which he notes the constant clicking of her knitting-needles, was a tribute to Mrs. Unwin, and many of his early verses were suggested by her; the “Task” and “John Gilpin’s Ride” (written, he says, in the saddest mood, and as a forced antidote to that sadness) were subjects given him by Lady Austen, a warm-hearted, impulsive woman; and his cousin, Lady Hesketh, and her sister Theodora, his only love, from whom he was parted in his first youth, and who remained single for his sake, inspired some of his tenderest and most delicate verses.

Lady Hesketh, writing to Theodora from Olney, gives the following sketch of their friend’s life in its more tranquil and happy aspect: “Our friend delights in a large table and a large chair. There are two of the latter comforts in the parlor. I am sorry to say that he and I always spread ourselves out on them, leaving poor Mrs. Unwin to find all the comfort she can in a small one, half as high again as ours and considerably harder than marble.… Her constant employment is knitting stockings, which she does with the finest needles I ever saw, and very nice they are—the stockings, I mean. Our cousin has not for many years worn any others than those of her manufacture. She knits silk, cotton, and worsted. She sits knitting on one side of the table, in her spectacles, and he on the other side reading to her (when he is not employed in writing), in his. In winter his morning studies are always carried on in a room by himself; but as his evenings are spent in winter in transcribing, he usually, I find, does it vis-À-vis Mrs. Unwin. At this time of the year he always writes in the garden, in what he calls his boudoir. This is in the garden. It has a door and a window, just holds a small table with a desk and two chairs, but, though there are two chairs, and two persons might be contained therein, it would be with a degree of difficulty. For this cause, as I make a point of not disturbing a poet in his retreat, I go not there.”

So the dreamy, strange, yet often too realistic life of Cowper passed away toward the last decade of the eighteenth century, and, like most poets, he has left behind him the immortalized memory of the pure and noble women who loved him with the love of a guardian angel. No man ever needed it more, and in this case indeed God tempered the wind to the shorn lamb.

FROM THE FRENCH.

December 12, 1868.

With the fall of the leaves of autumn the cemeteries become populous. The year 1868, as formerly 183-, will have been fatal to great men. Berryer is dead! A great voice silenced. “I shall not, then, see the happiness of France!” he said a little time before his death—this holy death which has worthily crowned the good and noble life of a man exceptionally great both as regards the intellect and the heart. How all things pass and fade away! Oh! how sad is this world, in which so many separations and farewells are the prelude to the last great separation at death. Violeau, the sweet Breton poet, in writing to his friend Pierre Javouhey, said:

Adieu, toujours adieu! C’est le cri de la terre.

L’homme n’est que regrets en son coeur solitaire:

Le bÂton voyageur, le voile et le linceul

Dans l’ennui de ses jours l’ont bientÔt laissÉ seul!

Adieu, always adieu! It is the cry of earth.

Man in his lonely heart is all regrets:

The traveller’s staff, the veil, and [last] the shroud,

In the weariness of his days, have left him soon alone.

Alone! It is one of the sadnesses of earth. On high is the great meeting again, and the great and eternal happiness!

It is not only the death of the great orator lamented by France which makes me write to you so sadly, dear; it is that Isa has taken the veil, and we are going away. I cannot be so selfish as to consent that my mother should spend a second 1st of January far away from her Brittany, which she loves with the same fondness that I love Ireland, and I have myself fixed our departure for the 20th—only a week hence! I should like to hold back the sun. We all go to-morrow to Gartan.

Isa is already in heaven; her mother reproaches herself for not having divined her daughter’s longing, and resigns herself to this separation better than I could have believed possible. It is true that Lizzy is all that is delightful, and gives up to her the sweet little Isa almost entirely.

Sarah, the radiant Sarah, came to me yesterday in trouble; her sister writes to her distressing letters. Neither the enchantment of Spain, the brilliant position of her husband, nor the princely state in which she lives are able to satisfy this poor heart, to whom the first condition of human felicity—visible affection—is wanting. This was Sarah’s expression. “I understood her at once,” she said. Another disappointed life, unless, indeed, the dear young wife should courageously accept her trial. Will this ardent, simple, and perhaps too-confiding nature be altogether downcast at finding her hopes deceived, or will she cast herself on God, and serve him in his poor? We must help her to do this, must we not? The PÈre Charles Perraud, the Lent preacher of two years ago, is preaching the Advent at Sainte-Croix. The Annales quote the following words of PÈre Gratry: “It was this same Charles Perraud, this being so entirely of the same nature, his equal in goodness, greatness, and intellect, who during the whole of his short life was his brother and companion-in-arms.”

Read an article by Alfred Nettement on the three La Rochejacquelein. More mourning! Mgr. Pie has presided over the last obsequies of the Comte Auguste, and Mgr. Dupanloup over those of Berryer. The Comte de Chambord thus sees those who have remained faithful to him disappear one by one. This great family of the Bourbons appears to have been predestined for the deepest sorrows. Don Carlos is at Paris; he was to have gone to hunt at Chambord, but the death of the Comte de la Rochejacquelein has made him give up his intention. Spain has had her ’93. The despoiled and exiled Jesuits are come into France. Queen Isabella is at Paris. How poor are the times we live in! It seems as if every noble enthusiasm were extinct, and the whole world eaten up with the frightful leprosy of selfishness. Sursum corda! Would that I could raise them all!

Shall I tell you of the immortal festival of the Immaculate Conception, this glory of our age and of Pius IX.—become to us an unforgetable day since the sacrifice of Isa?

What memories! The Mass, the hymns, the crowd that filled the chapel, the betrothed of Christ so beautiful beneath her veil, the sermon, the last kiss, the last embrace, the tears—all these things cannot be narrated.

Dear Kate, let us pray for Ireland.

December 18, 1868.

I want to write to you once more from this room, where I have so loved you, dear Kate.

Rorate coeli desuper et nubes pluant Justum.

Threw a rapid glance over an article in the Union—a sort of contrast between Berryer and Lamennais. From the first few lines I recognized the lion’s paw; it is only Alfred Nettement who can write thus. What a grievous difference between these two grand figures, and what an abyss of sadness in these lines: “The grave-digger asks, ‘Is there to be a cross?’ M. Bocher answers, ‘No’; Lamennais said, ‘Nothing shall be put over my tomb.’” In the Christian world nothing is talked of but an admirable letter of Mgr. Dupanloup upon the Council. I have read the letter of thanks of the Holy Father.

Kate dearest, I am going away full of serenity and hope, since this departure is the will of God. We have seen almost everybody; these two last days are reserved for intimate friends. All our preparations are made. Most of the drawing-rooms are already closed, and this gives me an impression of mourning. Jack’s desire has been granted: he died peacefully yesterday evening while RenÉ was finishing the prayers for the dying. Thus there is nothing more to keep us. I could not bear the idea of leaving this good old man.

Margaret promises me to come from time to time to give a little life to this isolated spot and visit Edith, so sorrowful at our departure. Nothing would be easier, my dear, than to take her to Brittany, or even to Orleans; but the doctor is utterly averse to this project, and only undertakes to cure her on condition that she does not quit Ireland.

Edward at first manifested a sombre despair, but we have succeeded in calming him. The two Australiennes, whom we have tamed with so much difficulty, have their eyes full of tears when they look at us.

Adieu dear Kate.

December 31, 1868.

No more of balmy Ireland! but still the family, kind hearts, pleasant society, walks and drives, concerts among ourselves, study, the poor, and that which is worth all else—prayer. Ah! my God, on the threshold of this new year I render thee thanks for the so many and great benefits with which thou hast overwhelmed me. How sweet, O Lord! is thy love. Bless the church, France, my country, my family. “When will eternity come, in which endless centuries will pass as one day?”

RenÉ wrote to you the morning of our arrival, and told you of the Christian calm of our adieux, so full of hope. Is it not a delightful and wholly unmerited happiness to have had this long sojourn in Ireland, when I had not expected to be able to remain there more than a month at the most?

Three happy things to-day. Kate, Margaret, and Isa are come to me in three letters, which I have just read over again to enjoy their charm. Margaret announces a resurrection. Lady R——, the recluse, whom no one remembered ever to have met anywhere, has been going out for a month past. I am rejoiced to hear it. I have so much desired it, and so often asked it of God. But side by side with this unexpected news is a shade—death; but death smiling, heaven opened, and an angel taking flight from earth to return to God, and to pray for those who remain in this vale of tears, where the love of God has spared her from a lengthened sojourn: our dear little Victoria G——, the interesting orphan, is gone to heaven. What would she have done in this world without guide or parents?

Quand on est pur comme À son Âge,

Le dernier jour est le plus beau![157]

Emmanuel grows, “and is determined to live.” Margaret is admirable in her goodness. It is this which I find so attractive in her; there is nothing in the world preferable to goodness. Lizzy has been in great distress for some days, her little Isa being threatened with the croup. Poor mothers!—always anxious and tormented while on earth. O the sorrows of mothers! Nothing touches me more; all my sympathy is for them. They have here below the most immense joys and the most heartrending anguish. What happiness must it be to have a child of one’s own, to pray by his cradle, to consecrate him to God from the dawn of his existence, and to see one’s self live again in him!

Kate, Kate, I do not tell you how greatly your pages touched me. What wishes shall I offer you this evening that I have not offered a hundred times before?—wishes for holiness, happiness in God, and of a blessed union in eternity. May every one of your days add a flower to your crown, my beloved!

January 3, 1869.

The year is begun; shall we see it close? Marcella was most particularly kind and sweet on the 1st of January. I sent to the nearest station an enormous package addressed to you, for your chapel and poor; have you received it? The three graces put into it some bunches of violets. Our Brittany is charming, notwithstanding the winter. Edith has written a long and kind letter; she is regaining her strength. Mistress Annah, whom I asked to send me full details, tells me of the amiability of the two children, who are making real progress, and are scarcely to be recognized since the terrible brother is no longer there. Adrien takes him to-morrow to a friend who has some business at Paris. You cannot imagine what this child is. RenÉ assures me that there is in him the making of a saint. God grant it! He frightens me.

Picciola grows and grows—not only in height, but also in virtue. ThÉrÈse and Anna follow her; but, in any case, my darling advances with wonderful rapidity. I have taken up Homer again, whom I am translating from the open book. How much I prefer reading Bossuet or Joseph de Maistre!

Lizzy sends me four pages of news—many particulars respecting Isa the saint and Isa the angel, about the mothers, friends, etc.; but the flower of the basket is that Mary Wells has entered a convent. Again another who chooses the better part!

To-morrow the Saint of the Seacoast is coming here; we shall try to keep her. What an enjoyable life it is in this Brittany, the sister of Ireland! We have installed with the keeper a blind old man, to whom RenÉ reads every day, and who is a model of patience. If his eyes are closed to earth, they are truly open to heaven, of which he speaks luminously.

I speak to you but seldom of HÉlÈne. She lives but for sacrifice, and has entirely broken with the outer world since the day of which RenÉ told you. Every three months a sign of life to her mother. O Gertrude! her life is a martyrdom!

God guard you, dear Kate!

January 12, 1869.

Visit to M. le CurÉ with Picciola. This poor presbytery, close to the church and the resting-place of the dead, reminds me of Lamartine:

“LÀ jamais ne s’ÉlÈve

Bruit qui fasse penser;

Jusqu’À qu’il s’achÈve

On peut mener son rÊve

Et le recommencer.

Paix et MÉlancolie

Restent lÀ prÈs des morts,

Et l’Âme recueillie

Des vagues de la vie

Croit y toucher les bords.”[158]

We are reading the Chronicles of Brittany for the instruction of the children. What quantities of warm knitted articles are made during our evenings! The good aunt of M. le CurÉ often comes to our manufactory. She is a very amiable woman, most charitably indulgent, something of an artist, and enjoys an opportunity for conversation; my mother is always pleased to see her. The good curÉ is scarcely ever in his presbytery; he is a Breton: and what need I say more?

RenÉ is unwell. He has a superb indifference about his health, and this makes me uneasy. Tell him to suffer himself to be taken care of, and to forget the outside world a little. He has a truly apostolic soul—always seeking out some good to do, and utilizing even his moments of leisure. How far I am behind him!

Our life is become an encampment; and, as Raoul says, we only want turbans and bournous to be Arabs altogether. Already there are sounds of departure, and yet it is so pleasant here! The Saint of the Seashore remained with us two days. “Adieu until eternity!” These words made me start: has she had any warning of death? I have made her promise to write to me on the slightest symptom of illness. Picciola offered her some violets. “Thanks, dear child; I shall guard them carefully and lovingly. I am passionately fond of flowers, because I see in them an emblem, and because all the hearts of men are the flowers of the garden of God.”

Letter from Margaret, who is sighing after our next meeting, and complains of my silence and, what is a more serious matter, of that also of Kate. Marcella writes to you; she is perfection.

Dear Kate, here is Isa’s photograph. Is it not herself, with her gentle look, full of deep melancholy, and her graceful and dignified attitude? Every one here says that she is made to look older than she does; but to my eyes she is always charming. Her little hands, the prettiest that an artist could dream of, can only be guessed at under the well-represented folds of her wide sleeves. Lizzy has just lost her father-in-law—dead from a sudden attack. Would that I could turn aside all the sadness of a soul so worthy of happiness as hers! I have read to Picciola the Evening Prayer on board Ship, and feel a sort of envy at such emotions. To behold the ocean, and find one’s self a small and feeble creature between sea and sky, a mere speck in immensity; to see other skies, other shores; to contemplate the wonders of the New World, the virgin forests and unknown regions, nature in her primitive and magnificent beauty—all this must enlarge the soul. Distant voyages would indeed be enjoyable, were it not for the departures and farewells.

I salute your good angel, my very dear Kate.

January 22, 1869.

Listen to what my brother is reading to me: “Learn to dwell in the Wound of the Heart of Jesus. Would you develop your desires, and bring forth good works? It is the nest of the dove. Do you love meditation? It is the retreat of the solitary sparrow. Do you love tears and sighs? It is there that the turtle-dove makes her moan. Are you hungry? You will there find the heavenly manna which fell in the desert. Are you athirst? There you will find the fountain of living water which flows out of Paradise, and sheds itself abundantly in the heart of the faithful.”

Kate dearest, my heart is always with you. We shall be at Orleans on the 1st of February. It is a great pity to leave the country, where everything is green and flourishing. My brothers wish to go to Paris, and I wished very much also to go thither with them; but RenÉ has asked me to employ the money that this journey would have cost in clothing a whole family from the South, just arrived here in a pitiable condition. To refuse would have been to show myself unworthy of him or of you. Thus our meeting again is indefinitely postponed. A saint once said: “Not to do good enough is to do a great harm.”

Anna, the attractive Anna, is feverish again, and it is partly on her account that my mother presses us to go to Orleans, where we shall consult several physicians. May not our temperature disagree with this southern flower? What a poor thing is life, in which anxiety is always at the side of happiness!

Would you like to have the following from Gertrude’s journal? It was written at the time when she was beginning to divine HÉlÈne’s desire: “Grant, O my God! that this sacrifice may be possible to us; place my child at a distance from her cup of sorrow, take her in the morning of her life, all white, young, fair, loving, and beloved, my God—so ardently and piously beloved!”

Read Alix, a beautiful book by Mlle. Fleuriot. It is a book which gives one repose—a story of our Brittany: Paula, Mme. de Guenharic, two strong-minded women, the Beatitudes, so attractive, the grave Raymond, the fiery Tugdual, interested me intensely. Then this beautiful and poetic Alix, the lily of Goasgarello, too early plucked; this sweet young girl who was too well loved to die—how much her story touched me! And this book is fact. Alix personifies the lily of St. Brieuc, the beloved pupil of Mlle. Fleuriot, the chosen one of her heart. Ah! how death is everywhere snapping the purest affections.

Picciola spends part of her recreation-time with The Children of Captain Grant. She praised the book so much that it made me wish to read it, and truly I find it full of interest from beginning to end. What a talent for description and contrasts!

Dear Kate, pray for us and for Anna, that there may not be another violent separation. My mother is writing to you. I have news of Margaret from Lord William, who is like another brother to us.

I have made Marcella, who did not know any of Lady Georgiana Fullerton’s works, read Ladybird. This book has astonished our dear Italian, because she did not expect to find in it so much powerful emotion, but she considers it admirably written and only too painfully probable. The beautiful Gertrude—a noble intellect, but entirely without direction—who through so many storms preserves her purity; the father devoid of affection; the Spanish mother, consumed by suffering, but whose mind would have exercised so powerful an influence over that of her daughter; M. d’Arberg, a hero and martyr of Christian self-devotion; the angelic Mary, whose gentle character beams throughout all the narrative like a reflection of heaven—all this is interesting, perhaps far too much so. RenÉ, to whom I mentioned Marcella’s impressions, said in answer: “I do not like these exciting dramas, but rather such readings as give rest to the mind, and I can understand what St. Augustine meant by saying that he could not enjoy any book in which there was not to be found the name of Jesus. ‘The name of Jesus is a name of delight,’ says St. Bonaventure; ‘because, meditated upon, it is nourishment; uttered, it is sweetness; invoked, it is an unction; written, a reparation of our powers, and in all that we do it is a guide and support.’ St. Philip Neri also says: ‘The name of Jesus pronounced with reverence and love has a particular power of softening the heart.’” Dear and beloved sister, pax vobis et nobis!

January 29, 1869.

The corridors encumbered with packages, the windows without curtains—everything shows that we are going away. Anna constantly has this fever, and the poor mother a sword in her heart. The twins pray earnestly, our poor make novenas. How impatient I am to be at Orleans! The good doctor from HyÈres, the devoted friend of Marcella, will be there also on the 3d, to give his opinion respecting the dear child’s state. May God be with us!

Have been out with RenÉ. Marcella never leaves her daughter. My sisters are busy with their children. Gertrude helps my mother in her correspondence. Visits to our dear neighbors who do not move about. The Southerns are installed in a tolerably comfortable cottage, the father has found some work, the young daughters will be employed as needle-women by our kind neighbors and in the village; all is satisfactory with regard to them. Edward writes heartrending letters to his good friend RenÉ. He declares that he will run away, and other things of the same sort. Pray for this little volcano, dear Kate.

A letter from Karl, whose first steps in the priesthood are rewarded by joys truly celestial. Oh! what grandeur is in the sacerdotal life; but also what sacrifices. I forgot at the time to tell you of a visit we paid the old English Homer, whose daughter was the involuntary cause of Margaret’s trouble. Oh! how beautiful she is. Tall, very tall, with black eyes full of mental vigor, luxuriant hair, remarkable purity of diction. Another flower for the cloister. Will not so many excellent souls obtain the redemption of England?

Kate dearest, with you I ask of God: Trahe me post te; or rather I would say. Trahe nos. A thousand kisses.

February 10, 1869.

“My son, let not thy soul give way beneath the labors which thou hast undertaken for me, neither suffer thyself to be discouraged by affliction, but at all times let my promise strengthen and comfort thee.” RenÉ has just read me these words, by way of consolation for Marcella’s departure. Alas! yes; she left us yesterday, very tearfully, with the doctor. She will again inhabit her chÂlet. I would willingly have offered her the one consecrated by the death of Ellen, but this association! Anna is so pale and weak, apparently undermined by the fever which never quits her. The doctor shook his head in a manner which did not augur hopefully. I questioned him apart. “You have carried away this pretty little one from us too soon, madam,” he said. “She needs the sun, the Mediterranean, the orange-trees, and the perfumes of the South. I do not conceal from you that I greatly dread for her the isolation in which she will shortly find herself.” I was dreading it also. RenÉ had an inspiration: “If Madeleine were to go as well?” “The graceful young girl who always looks at me with tears in her eyes?” “The same.” “If you will believe the testimony of my medical experience, monsieur, this child is also threatened.” I could not restrain a cry of pain: “O my God! my God!” “Pardon me, madam,” said the good doctor; “on no account whatever would I afflict the family of Mme. de Clissey, but if you love this pretty creature, do not keep her here.”

I was obliged to make a strong effort over myself to conceal the terrible impression these words had made upon me. I obtained from the doctor, who wanted to start immediately, a few days’ delay. God aided me, dear Kate. Lucy, who is just now very much indisposed, suggested that Edward should accompany Marcella, and, as Anna was inconsolable at leaving us, Berthe confided her daughter to the care of Lucy. The four set out to-morrow; see how our home-party is lessened. You will perhaps wonder that we are not all going to HyÈres. My generous mother had thought of it; but, besides the fatigue she feels, notwithstanding her green old age, from these frequent changes of place, her sons have important reasons for passing the winter here, and I cannot leave her, even for Marcella. Moreover, my purse is quite exhausted, and I shall find it necessary to be rigorously economical in order to provide for the needs of my poor. I have been considering what retrenchments I could make in my own expenses. What do you advise me, dear Kate? I am afraid of mistaking superfluities for necessaries.

You can understand the grief of my heart. Marcella and I were as one single soul, and this morning, in my meditation, I was considering whether I had not loved her too much, and sacrificed more useful occupations to the pleasure of being with her. I spoke about it to RenÉ, my other conscience. “I do not think so,” was his answer.

Let us pray for the travellers, dear and excellent Kate.

February 20, 1869.

Comme un agneau cherchant le serpolet qu’il broute

Laisse un peu de sa laine aux buissons de la route,

Sur le chemin des jours est-il un voyageur

Qui ne laisse en passant un dÉbris de son coeur?[159]

Margaret writes to me, regretting Marcella for my sake, and promising to spend the summer with us. Marcella sends me beautifully long letters every day, so that I am, as it were, present with her in her daily life. In order that Anna may not be fatigued, the party makes lengthened halts; the doctor is like a father to the poor little one. Lucy is installed, charmed to have Picciola. You understand that the dear and devoted Lucy is in our secret, and is going to attend carefully to this other beloved invalid. But Lucy is so lively; she has no experience, none of that sorrowful experience which gives one the habit of taking care of others, and therefore, in order to be quite at ease, I am sending Marianne, whom I have temporarily replaced by a young Bretonne. Will it not be better thus? And, then, I can count upon the doctor. Pray and get prayers for us, dear Kate! Picciola has been growing too fast. Berthe has not the shadow of a suspicion; she has seen in this an opportunity of doing good, and also of preparing the twins for the sacrifice which circumstances may demand of them later on. Teresa occupies her thoughts by study; the good abbÉ is alarmed at her progress. Alix and MarguÉrite are charming; but where are the absent? I do not like empty places.

The Annals publish some letters on the Catechism by Mgr. Dupanloup. They are the most delicate and beautiful revelations, and show in all its excellence this apostolic soul. He depicts in his unique style his emotions as catechist at Saint-Sulpice, and we find here that love of souls, and especially of the souls of children, which has produced his finest pages upon education. There is an admirable passage upon Albert de la Ferronays, speaking of his fervor. And then the great bishop returns to the subject of this child grown into a young man, and assisted by him in his last moments: “He had been always faithful. Possessing a mind full of vivacity, and the most tender of hearts, he kept them both in subordination, giving them only to God and to a creature angelic as himself whom he met with on his way and married in Italy. She did not then belong to the Catholic Church, but, being led onward and persuaded by the virtues and example of her husband, and perhaps also by sorrow, she made her first communion by the death-bed of Albert, who thus had the ineffable and supreme consolation of making his last communion together with her whom he had loved best upon earth.” He adds that “these two souls were like two angels, and an apparition in this world of the beauty of heaven.” The PÈre Meillier, Superior of the Lazarists of Angers, is preaching the station at Sainte-Croix, and the PÈre de Chazournes, author of the admirable life of the PÈre Barrelle, preaches at St. Paterne.

Benoni is charmingly beautiful. I make him pray for our invalids, and go myself daily to Notre Dame des Miracles. Oh! surely no more death, dear Kate.

February 27, 1869.

Our Italians have again found their beautiful sunshine, and for two days past Anna has had no fever, and Picciola is less pale. Marianne has been charged to send me every three days an exact bulletin of every hour and every minute. The devoted attention of the doctor is unequalled; he regulates everything, meals, sleep, and the times of going out. Marcella says, “This man is to me, as it were, an apparition of Providence.” Think how she must suffer, especially when she reflects that so long a sojourn in the North has been injurious to the delicate chest of her child. Oh! I cannot believe it, when she has so much loving care. Alas! what can affection do. Just now I was told about Madame de C——, left a widow a year ago, whose husband was insane, and who has now lost her child, the only happiness of her life. The angels who take flight are not those who are to be pitied.

March 5, 1869.

Tolerably good news of the exiles. But I have painful forebodings. RenÉ gently scolds me for my sadness. Pray for our sick ones, dear Kate.

The great poet Lamartine is just dead. Doubtless at his last hour his mother’s God, the God of his earliest years, consoled and softened his dying moments. Oh! these great minds misled, these sublime dreamers who wander out of the right way, what sorrowful pity they inspire. How everything passes away and dies! I was reading this evening that M. Guizot, writing to one of his friends, and telling him that he is teaching his little children to read, adds: “I know of only three lives here below: family life, political life, and Christian life; I am leading the first, with the memories of the second, and the hopes of the third.”

Read Anne SÉverin, by Mrs. Craven, author of the RÉcit d’une Soeur. The style is perfect. The angelic women who appear in it, the Catholic youth of Guy, the fragrance of Christian sentiment which pervades the impassioned descriptions of these pages, combine to make them present a beautiful whole. Mme. Bourdon has reproached this work with having shown us three generations living by love alone; she recalls the answer made by Alexandrine when reminded of the happy days she had spent with Albert: “I no longer think of those days.” Alexandrine was, as it were, transfigured by the love of God, and such sacrifices as hers are not required of every soul.

Did I tell you of my happiness at again seeing Sainte-Croix? I prefer our cathedrals of stone to the most beautiful churches of Italy, always excepting Saint Peter’s at Rome. It is so calm, so solemn, so Catholic! I cannot resist the pleasure of transcribing for you a fine passage by the eloquent AbbÉ Bougaud, in one of his discourses, I do not now remember which: “There is in the grandeur of Christianity at Orleans, in the touching beauty of its influence, in its permanent union with the destinies of the city, a monument which speaks more than any words. Whether Orleans was reached, as formerly, by ascending the Loire by steamboat, or whether, as now, by descending upon it on the railway, the first objects which attract observation are the spires and towers of Sainte-Croix. They have changed in form and aspect, and have been by turns ogival, romanesque, perhaps Byzantine—splendid always. In the full Middle Ages they were called by a historian ‘the eighth wonder of the world,’ and still, at the present time, whoever has seen them once loves to see them again, and whithersoever our studies, our reveries, or business take us, we never fail to return to them with pleasure or to salute them with emotion. Place near to this grand basilica, like two satellites, St. Euverte on the one side, with the tombs of its ancient bishops and its triple cemetery, Gallo-Roman and Christian, and on the other St. Aignan, with its precious relics, borne at times on the shoulders of kings, and its crypt, visited by all Christendom, and you will have some idea of what Christianity has been at Orleans, or, if you like it better, what would have been wanting to this city had not Christianity been there with its mysterious beauty and its touching influence. Throughout the whole of this edifice, constructed at a period when men no longer knew how to build anything similar, in this cathedral, which must have cost efforts so prodigious, and which has been so justly called ‘the last of the Gothic cathedrals,’ appear engraven in indelible characters the two qualities which make the glory of Orleans, Fidelity and Courage.”

I do not talk to you about the sermons, not having been able to go and hear any at present. We have all had severe colds on the chest. My life is quite changed since I no longer have Marcella and Picciola. Perhaps I have been wrong to give up my heart in this manner. Oh! but then it is because the heart is so vast. Happy they who have asked God alone to fill it! This is what I say in my sadness, and it is wrong, since God’s goodness and mercy to me have indeed been marvellous. O dear Kate! if separation from a friend is so painful to me, what, then, would it be if Heaven were to deprive me of the sweet and strong support which it has bestowed? How much I hold to this world! Scold me, dearest, but love me.

March 10, 1869.

You have wound me up again, dear sister; a thousand thanks. Oh! how cowardly I was; I was afraid of suffering—that friend of the Christian, that visitor from God, that messenger from eternity!

Four letters: first, Marcella, who blesses Providence for the improvement of her child—the fever has disappeared; second, Picciola, my delicious flower, who says to me the prettiest things in the world; third, Margaret, who is counting the days by the side of Emmanuel’s cradle; fourth, Edith, who feels herself stronger. By the way, the fiery Edward is becoming reasonable; his professors entertain the best hopes in his regard. Marianne wrote to me yesterday. She is not yet reassured respecting our sick child. You may imagine what precautions are taken to be careful about her without her knowledge. Dear, sweet little soul! she spends all that her purse contains for the benefit of the indigent. The amiable colony writes to us en masse. Nothing can be prettier than these gazettes. I had thought of sending them to you, but my mother makes them her daily reading. Edouard herborizes, composes music, sings, occupies himself with history, rocks the babies—that is to say, he amuses and plays with the children. Marcella organizes parties of poor people, gives lessons to two young girls without fortune who have been recommended to her by the doctor. Lucy is at the head of the household affairs; arranges and regulates everything with her graceful vivacity, and heartily enjoys this pleasant life. Anna and Picciola (according to the same chronicle) study a little and amuse themselves much. Gaston is becoming a man. Then we have details, incidents, stories about birds, flowers, lambs, children. Edouard, the editor, assures us that our presence alone is wanting to complete the charms of the South.

Gertrude has entered the Third Order of St. Francis. The days are not long enough for the duties she has created for herself; there is not a single pious work with which she is not in some way connected; she writes and receives innumerable letters, and spends, without reckoning, her gold, her time, and her heart. With all this, she is always serene; never is there a shadow on her beautiful brow, never a sorrowful glance towards the past. Adrien is even more ardent than she, if that could be possible; there is no kind of sacrifice which they do not both make for the good of souls. A few days ago, on entering Gertrude’s room, I observed that her time-piece, which is a valuable work of art, had disappeared, and remarked upon it to her. She blushed, and turned my attention to other things. I have since learnt from RenÉ that this time-piece has been sold to a rich Englishman, and its price sent to the missions. No more expensive toilets, no more amusements, no more frivolous expenses. Gertrude does not even see any more the things of which she once was fond. I suspect that Adrien also has joined the Third Order.

The name of Johanna does not often occur in my letters, nor yet that of Paul. This is unjust, for both of them love my Kate. You will be so good as to pray especially for this sister of your sister on the 15th and the 20th. MarguÉrite, Alix, and ThÉrÈse, the tall and serious ThÉrÈse, scarcely ever leave me. And how pretty also is Jeanne when she sends kisses to Madame Kate! O youth! how sweet a thing thou art, with one’s family and country.

I wept with you for the Prince Royal of Belgium. The thought of Picciola makes me forgetful of many subjects when I write to you. “By as many languages as a person knows,” said Charles V., “so many times he is a man.” “By so many times as any one is a father,” adds some one else, “so many times over does he live.” In reading the account of this death, I thought of all the hearts who are weeping or who have wept by a cradle from whence a life has fled.

The beatification of Madame Elizabeth is under consideration. The Cathedral of Orleans possesses a treasure which may soon become a precious relic, an alb in guipure which was formerly a robe-de-fÊte worn by the pious princess. At Notre Dame des Doms at Avignon is preserved a chasuble made out of the last dress worn at the Conciergerie by Marie Antoinette. Paul and Johanna have seen this chasuble.

Could you have fifty Masses asked for at Notre Dame des Victoires, dear Kate, on behalf of my mother? We are getting some said almost everywhere.

May the blessings of Jesus and Mary be with you!

March 15, 1869.

RenÉ is writing to you, and, quick! here I am, dearest. Good news from everywhere. My correspondence is inexhaustible. I attended yesterday upon a worthy man, somewhat peevish, who declared to me that I was clumsy. I begged his pardon for it. The fact is he suffers fearfully from a cancer in the leg. And he is poor, with a family! It was my good angel who led me thither; no one visits them, and they are so embittered by misfortune that pity is, to them, insupportable. I took MarguÉrite and Alix with me this morning, and they were so sweet and amiable that I obtained permission from the peevish man to do whatever I like. And plenty there is to be done! The most indispensable things have been sold. Pray for these unfortunates, dear Kate, and receive my tenderest affection.

March 19, 1869.

Communion at St. Paterne, where there was a multitude. Beautiful singing. The organ, and a little exhortation by the PÈre de Chazournes for the closing of the Paschal retreat. On returning, great joy; a little child is born to us, and to us a son is given. Johanna is doing well. Paul is in transports. The house is upside down.

Jeanne is asking to see the angel who brought her brother. At eleven o’clock, to do honor to Saint Joseph, I took the young ones to Sainte-Croix, then to the Calvaire and Recouvrance. There was in the two latter churches exposition of the Blessed Sacrament. A profusion of flowers and lights, and an unwonted splendor, which delighted me, I had so much to ask, so much to pray for. Pray with us, dear Kate, for this pretty innocent who is just arrived, that he too may become a saint!

Gertrude’s forgetfulness of self is admirable. Berthe and Johanna wonder unceasingly at her disinterestedness and detachment from this world. Little by little she despoils herself of all worldly superfluities; sells her jewels one after another, her collections also, of which, some time ago, she was fanatically fond. Kate, in her place I think I should be dead. I should never console myself, if I were a mother without children. And what a mother she is! If you could only see her by the cradle of the little new-born babe, or when she is teaching anything to the other children! What sweetness of language! What tenderness of expression! Ah! poor broken heart which has twice given up its universe. God is with her!

My cross man has consented to change his lodging; and now they are installed, eight in number, in a healthy and airy street, where I have furnished three small rooms. The new abode is bright in its cleanliness; the mother wept for joy on entering it. The poor man, who still shows some repugnance to my attentions, was carried thither. His wound is frightful. I have found work for the young daughters, and the little ones go to the Christian Brothers. The mother, worn down by grief and privations, with her sight weakened by weeping, is incapable of any employment. ThÉrÈse helped me to install them, and we shall go and see them frequently. That which I am most anxious about is to draw them nearer to God.

Picciola is no better; Anna is very well. Let us continue to pray! All that I do, thoughts, prayers, actions, go to one end—these two cures. Shall I be heard?

Found in the Annals a good article on “EugÉnie de GuÉrin.” The flower of it is this: “There is an interior and private literature; this is as superior to the other as the soul is to the body; it is that of EugÉnie de GuÉrin. This literature of the heart has pages which no other can ever equal. It [the Journal] is an attractive book, and one of the best which could be offered to the human soul. It bears a double character of mystery and of intimacy which centuples its value. What pleasure the reader finds in believing himself also regarded in the light of a confidant! To have this intimate secret is to live alone with the writer; it is to have a species of love which is charmed with what is whispered into the ear, and with what it confidentially answers itself. The soul of EugÉnie de GuÉrin truly resembled the first created by God, a living soul, taking from and giving to all things around her that life whose divine fire she possessed in the highest degree. It was a soul open to heaven, a winged soul, which rested a moment upon all things in succession, but always to rise again towards heaven, singing like the lark, or else moaning like the dove.”

“The faith which penetrated all the faculties of EugÉnie de GuÉrin,” says M. Nicolas, “had in it nothing romantic, nothing dreamy, nor even ideal; it was a clearly defined and positive faith, the faith of a good woman in a nature of the highest distinction; it was the nature of a child and of a bird, springing and warbling, gathering all the happiness it met with, and carrying it home to be enjoyed in its nest. The sorrow in which she was plunged by the death of Maurice was extreme. This sorrow arose, as it were, from its bed and beat upon her faith as the sea beats upon its shores. But her Journal was eminently secret; she there freely poured out, in the bosom of God alone, the grief which she restrained within herself before men. This Journal was to her a Garden of Olives, where she went apart to faint.”

Kate dearest, I will no longer disturb your solitude but with a joyful Alleluia. All here love you dearly, beloved sister of my life.

TO BE CONTINUED.

[157]

When one is pure as at her age

The last day is the fairest.

[158] “There never stirs a sound which inspires thought. One can carry on a reverie to its end, and over again. There, near the dead, Peace and Melancholy make their abode, and the meditative soul, amid the waves of life, believes itself close upon the shore.”

[159] “Even as a lamb, seeking the wild-thyme on which he browses, leaves a little of his wool on the bushes along his way, so, on the pathway of life, is there a wayfarer who leaves not as he passes some fragment of his heart?”—Violeau.

SCHUBERT.

In the present day, when all musicians, from the purveyor of the opÉra bouffe to the composer of sacred music, rival each other in attempting the style which has immortalized Schubert, the time appears opportune for studying the works of the principal melodists. In default of other merit, we may at least lay claim to that of novelty—if, indeed, novelty can have any value when every one is making it his boast. Even Scudo,[160] the only writer who has devoted a few pages to Romance music, has contrived not to say a word about Schubert and the German masters, although, on the other hand, he has thought well to enumerate productions that have fallen into permanent oblivion.

Every people has its popular songs, its religious hymns and canticles, its ballads and romances; but of all these, three principal streams are easily distinguishable—three great melodic currents, from which flow all the rest. These are, firstly, the German Lied, to which belong all the Scandinavian, Hungarian, and Sclavonic ballads; then the Italian canzona, the primitive type of the music of Southern Europe, and which has apparently some affinity with the seguidilla, the bolero, the jota, and malagueÑa of Spain—picturesque romances, on which is perceptible, in some indescribable manner, an Arabic impress; and, lastly, as the centre of the intermediate current, the French chanson, which, though less profound than the German Lied, is nevertheless more true and more emotional than the brilliant vocalizations of Italy and Spain.

How different have the destinies of these three currents proved! Whilst the German stream has flowed on from age to age, enriched in its course by genius and learning, in Italy and France the melodic current, being isolated, has been gradually dwindling to a mere thread, at last disappearing altogether. Not that the French chanson was by any means without its characteristic merit; a charming simplicity, a gentle melancholy, marked its earliest beginnings, and it preserved these characters from the old melodies of Thibaut de Champagne and the noËls of the middle ages to the chansons of eighteenth century. But after this development of a too prolonged infancy it found an inglorious end at the hands of the vulgar songmakers of the nineteenth century. The simplicity of the past now became insipidity, and the AmÉdÉe of Beauplan and the productions of LoÏsa Puget obtained a success at which future times will stand amazed.

The destiny of the Italian canzona was the same. Its palmy days were those of its infancy, and the innumerable romances which are now to be heard, from the Gulf of Genoa to the Lido, and from the Alps to the Bay of Naples, weary the ear of the wondering traveller. Fertile in its barcarolles of Viva la Francia, Viva Garibaldi, Santa Lucia, Italy has no need to envy France her Beauplan and Mlle. L. Puget.

But whilst the romance and the canzona were thus dwindling away, the Lied was mounting to a marvellous height. “The combined work of the greatest poets—of Klopstock, Schiller, and Goethe—and of the greatest musicians—Haydn, Mozart, Gluck, Beethoven, Weber, etc.”[161] —it followed, step by step, the progress of the art, and, assimilating to itself each fresh conquest of musical science, it acquired, as years went on, increasing richness of harmony and power of rhythm.

It is this style only which merits a careful study. Leaving, therefore, to the learned the care of drawing from oblivion those rare French and Italian songs which are worthy to be rescued, we proceed at once to the consideration of the German Lied, and, without seeking into its beginnings or following its development, we will take it at its apogee—namely, when it attained, with Schubert, that perfection of beauty which cannot be surpassed.

Schubert is essentially a lyric genius. Great developments are foreign to his nature; with a few touches he traces the ideal which has appeared to him, but these few strokes suffice to produce a work of imperishable beauty.

Venturing little into public, Schubert, whose timidity was equal to his extreme sensibility, led a quiet and uneventful existence; but, like the Æolian harp, the soul of the lyric poet vibrates to the slightest breath. Needing no inspiration from outward events, it is moved from within by every variety of feeling. It was in the heart of Schubert that the tempests raged which make us tremble; there breathed the sighs of love, and thence arose the wailings of despair. There also he found the sweet sunbeams, the fresh wind, and all the fragrance of the spring. Accustomed to live within himself, he took pleasure in analyzing his own impressions, which he confided to a journal, the greater part of which is unfortunately lost, but the few fragments that remain abound in deep thoughts.

We will quote a few of these confidential lines, which will form the best introduction to the immortal songs which he has left us, as well as the best commentary upon them:

“Sorrow,” he writes, “quickens the understanding and strengthens the soul; joy, on the contrary, renders it frivolous and selfish.”

“My works,” he says elsewhere, “are the offspring of my intellect and my grief. The world appears to prefer those which my grief alone has created.”

If we would know what were his thoughts upon faith, we find him writing as follows: “Man comes into the world with faith. It precedes by a long distance either reason or knowledge. To understand, we must first believe. Faith is the ground into which we must drive our first stake—the base for every other foundation.”

He one day wrote to his father: “My ‘Hymn to the Blessed Virgin’ has moved the hearts of all: every one seemed to think my piety something wonderful. This, I think, is because I never force my devotion, nor ever write hymns and prayers unless I feel a real inspiration to do so; for then only is it true devotion.”

On another occasion he comes home greatly impressed by a magnificent quintette of Mozart’s he had just been hearing, and on a stray piece of paper writes these words: “The enchanting notes of Mozart’s music are still resounding in me. Thus do those beautiful productions, which time cannot efface, remain engraven in the depth of our souls. They show us, on beyond the darkness of this life, the certainty of a future full of glory and of love. O immortal Mozart! what imperishable instincts of a better life dost thou implant within us.”

O immortal Schubert! we in our turn may ask, Who shall express the emotions evoked by thee in our hearts?

That which chiefly characterizes the melodies of Schubert, taken as a whole, is their depth of feeling. He is never at a loss to find accents which go at once to our hearts. He makes us weep with Rosemonde and love with MarguÉrite; “The Erl King” (Le Roi des Aulnes) freezes us with terror, and hurries us on, in spite of ourselves, towards the mysterious abyss of the legend; in “The Young Nun” (La Jeune Religieuse) we are made in turn to experience the sufferings of the struggle and the final transports of the soul’s victory over sense.

To know Schubert well, we must see how he has expressed the different sentiments of the human heart—not love and terror simply, but infinite varieties of intermediate and moderate feeling; and in these we shall find, as his common characteristics, grace and brilliancy.

“Haud ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco.”

Who shall sing of love unless he knows its pains? Schubert has felt it all—its timid tenderness, its ardent passion, and it may be its despair. In his “PensÉes d’Amour” are not these six bars the unfolding, as it were, of a heart which is opening for the first time, like a bud in the sunshine of a spring morning?—when

“Eden revives in the first kiss of love”

(thus sings Byron). A happy dream; a tenderness as shy as it is deep—were these ever rendered with a more delicate charm?

After this sweet and tranquil reverie follows impassioned devotion. The “Serenade” is too well known to require that we should linger over it. Who does not recall the appeals of that supplicating voice, and the plaintive answers of the accompaniment?

How immensely inferior for the most part are the serenades to which public favor has given a celebrity! All the masters of the modern Italian school have sung under a balcony; and without going so far back as Stradella, whose lovely romance in D minor has nothing in common with the modern Lied, we will say a few words on the serenades of Le Barbier and Don Pasquale, which appear to be the most extensively known.

The one addressed by Almaviva to Rosina—or, to speak more accurately, to the public—seems to us unworthy of Rossini’s reputation. A phrase, rather wanting in fulness, some passages for the voice, a few organ touches—this is all; the whole, however, very well written for giving relief to the fine notes of a tenor. But this is not enough to constitute a chef d’oeuvre; and probably Rossini was thinking of this kind of music when he boasted before Bellini that he wrote from his mind rather than from his heart, at the same time assuring the young man’s simplicity that this was “quite sufficient for the worthy public.”

The serenade in Don Pasquale is graceful and coquettish. If Donizetti intended this declaration of love to be taken merely as a jest, he has perfectly succeeded.

M. Gounod has written several serenades, without including his “Aubades.” To speak of the former only, the serenade of Mephistopheles “Vous qui faites l’endormie,”[162] in Faust, is not wanting in charm, though something more incisive would be better suited to an infernal singer. The famous serenade, “Quand tu dors,”[163] has less originality than the foregoing, although agreeably written for the voice. It is an excellent vocalization, which, more than once, Bordogni must have regarded with a jealous eye. It is not until the andante amoroso that it expresses anything like passion. As to the serenade of the page in Romeo and Juliet, it is inferior again to its two elders.

To find a serenade comparable to those of Schubert, we must address ourselves to Mozart. Who that has heard Don Juan does not remember the marvellous contrast, long since remarked by critics, between the melodious phrase, full of character and tenderness, and the light accompaniment which falsifies every word uttered by Don Juan? Love is on his lips, while mocking indifference is in his heart.

In the expression of suffering, desolation, and despair we shall find that Schubert is greater still; and mention as examples “Rosemonde,” “MarguÉrite,” and “Les Plaintes de la Jeune Fille.” The artist, following his inspiration, renders the same thought under very different forms; he finds in his soul deep and varying shades which escape the vulgar and are the marks of true genius. In all these three works Schubert has to express the grief of a forsaken maiden, but with what consummate art, and yet what truth, he has known how to vary his accents! In reading these melodies in the order already named the emotion goes on increasing up to the end.

In “Rosemonde” we hear the complaint of a soul which knows the sufferings of abandonment, but not the pangs of despair. After an introduction in F major full of sweetness and tenderness, the opening of the melody in F minor impresses us painfully; but about the middle of each of these strophes the young girl, recovering, with the A natural, the original key, lets us plainly see that she still has hope.

MarguÉrite hopes no more. From the very opening we feel troubled by the agitated movement of the accompaniment: it is like the sorrowful murmur of the soul preceding sobs of anguish, and is prolonged still for a moment after the unhappy girl has said for the last time, “C’en est fait; il m’oublie—l’ingrat que j’aimais!”[164] What accents of abandonment have we here! On the words, Mes jours sont flÉtris,[165] grief swells almost to madness. But MarguÉrite, presently recovering herself, retraces the past, and seems to see again her lover. Again she cries:

“Pour moi tout va finir.

Un seul moment reviens encore,

Un seul moment te revoir et mourir!”[166]

Her suffering has become almost insupportable. She stops, and the agitation continues only in her heart. After a few bars she resumes in a low voice: “C’en est fait, il m’oublie,” etc., and the melody ends on the fifth, then a very new effect, though now frequently employed.

If, after a short pause, we read the “Plaintes de la Jeune Fille,” we are soon under the influence of an entirely different emotion. The agitation of the preceding melody is changed for a more self-contained but even more poignant pain. The maiden, ripened by long suffering, confides to the tossing waves the woe which consumes her. A solemn and lugubrious phrase escapes her; her words are slow, her sorrow fearfully calm. Ten years of tears and contemplation were needed to change MarguÉrite to this.

To find repose from violent emotions we need not have recourse to any other than Schubert, among whose eminent characteristics are those of sweetness, gracefulness, and contrasting brilliancy and splendor. From among a multitude of admirable melodies we will mention only “La Truite,” “Le Nautonnier,” and “Le DÉpart” (“The Trout,” “The Sailor,” and “The Departure”).

In “La Truite” Schubert unexpectedly finds himself met by a great difficulty. If it be true that people are soon tired of descriptive poetry, it is still more incontestable that the descriptive style is ill suited to music.

We must make an exception for certain powerful physical effects, such as tempest under all its forms; and yet here again what we are most sensible of in the storms of Gluck, Beethoven, and Weber is the troubled state of the human mind in presence of the disturbance of nature.

One day, when the genius of the great and good Haydn was taking a nap, it came into his head to attempt to express in his Creation the roaring of lions and tigers, the swiftness of the stag, together with other equally unmusical ideas; he consequently fell into the grotesque. Schubert had to describe the joyous sportings of the trout “in its limped crystal.” He had the good taste to trouble himself very little about it. To find a melodic phrase full of charm and feeling was his first care; and need we say that he succeeded? The light and graceful design of the accompaniment may perhaps remind us of the trout—“His graceful dartings and his rapid course” (“Ses Élans gracieux, sa course volage”)—but it is nothing more than a detail of the description which comes merely as an addition to the dominant sentiment.

“Le Nautonnier” is the triumphal song of the mariner who, after braving the violence of the tempest, returns safely into port. Rapid as the wind which fills the sails of his bark, agitated as the waves which threaten to engulf him—such is the rhythm of the two first phrases; but soon, with the major and the E flat of the treble, the song of victory bursts forth: man has conquered the force of the elements. This is undeniably one of the most vigorous melodies ever written by Schubert.

“Le DÉpart” is a no less powerful production. It is not a little surprising to read, as the title of a song by the melancholy Schubert: “Le DÉpart: Chant de Joie.” It is, in fact, the song of one carried away by a love of change and a thirst for new pleasures—one who can say with Byron that

“I, who am of lighter mood,

Will laugh to flee away.”[167]

This song is remarkable for the proud loftiness of its melodious march, and for the ardor which impregnates its rhythm. It is a wonderful intermingling of carelessness and eagerness, the more observable because it was so rarely that Schubert was called upon to express feelings too exterior and noisy for his timid and concentrated nature.

Beethoven, who had made deep acquaintance with human suffering, and in whose wondrous pages it is expressed with so much power, would nevertheless at times sing also his notes of gladness. He built the immensely grand finale of the “Symphony and Chorus” upon Schiller’s “Hymn of Joy.”

It is a wondrous hymn! After a splendid opening by the orchestra alone follows the phrase in D major, of antique nobleness and simplicity; but, alas! this moment of interior calm is cruelly expiated. The grand phrase is made to undergo successive tortures; after changing into a plaint of sorrow, it becomes a cry of despair, almost of madness.

Elsewhere again, in the incomparable finale of the Symphony in A, Beethoven has sung of joy—joy carried to its utmost limits of enthusiasm and ecstasy. To follow Beethoven in his impetuous course produces an indescribable emotion, less akin to pleasure than to pain, since violent feeling, from whatever cause it may arise, is invariably attended by suffering. Excess, whether of joy or love, is pain, very pure but very penetrating; for it is one of the conditions of our human nature to be unable to rise on high without suffering here below.

“Jamais entiÈre allÉgresse:

L’Âme y souffre de ses plaisirs,

Les cris de joie ont leur tristesse,

Et les voluptÉs leurs soupirs.”[168]

Besides, after the mysterious nuptial march of the Symphony in A can we be surprised that the joy of Beethoven is only a delusion of the heart, and beneath this feverish ardor must not some great moral suffering be hidden?

But we must return from the digression into which we have been led by the consideration of the “Chant de Joie,” whose great author, however, would not reproach us for it, being himself a profound admirer of Beethoven. We have now to see how Schubert has rendered the sentiment of terror.

Only to name “The Erl King” and “The Young Nun” is a sufficient reminder of the greatness of this composer in the expression of dramatic feeling. These two Lieder are known all over the world; “The Erl King,” more especially, popularized by Mme. Viardot, is one of those few melodies of Schubert which have crossed the Alps and become favorites in Italy.

Criticism has for so long past awarded its admiration to the strangely fascinating song of the black spectre and the terrified cries of the child that it would be superfluous to do more than allude to them; but it will be well to devote a few lines to the consideration of “The Young Nun,” which has been very little studied.

In the first part what an intermingling there is of terror and wild love! Listen to this fragment of two bars, thrice interrupted, more by the storm within the heart than the outward fury of the elements, and thrice resumed with a chromatic scale.[169] After the triple reiteration of ascendants, three new fragments descend, also chromatically, with a bass accompaniment of a lugubrious character, and a harmonic sequence expressive of acute distress:

“Partout l’ombre,

Et la nuit sombre;

—Deuil et terreur.”[170]

From the depths of this abyss, with the words souvenir de douleur (remembered pain), which evoke a whole past, there springs up a new thought of exquisite tenderness; and here we have a glimpse of the key of F major, but only for a moment, the melody falling back into F minor.

“L’orage grondait ainsi en mon coeur” (Thus rolled the storm within my heart). Here, for the moment, passion carries the day; the three cries of terror, interrupted at the opening, are uttered again, more hurriedly, at the remembrance of this distracting love “which agitated her by day and night,” then a fresh burst of despair recurs in the chromatic descent which takes us back to F minor.

“Ainsi flÉtrie, ma triste vie se consumait.”[171]

In this line we hear once more, but for the last time and very softly, the gloomy burden of the bass, immediately after which reappears the A natural, which victoriously restores the key of F major. Light has banished darkness, and life has vanquished death.

“La paix est rentrÉe À jamais dans mon coeur” (Peace has returned to dwell for ever in my heart), sings the young nun in an inspired voice. This time the triumph is complete. At the words, “Descend, my Saviour, from the eternal home,” the musical phrase mounts like a thanksgiving hymn. The effect is marvellous, and what is not less so is the fact that Schubert has recourse only to the most natural means to produce it. A simple change of key, the passage in the major—a form so frequently insipid—is, in his hands, invested with a surprising power.

Among the other Lieder of the sombre kind is one deserving especial attention—namely, “The Young Girl and Death” (La Jeune Fille et la Mort). In this we are attracted not so much by the beauty of the melody as by the musical problem which it may help us to solve. How ought music to speak of supernatural beings? How is it to be made suitable to the utterances of the Divinity, of demons, or of Death? We have here a serious difficulty. Is it fitting that the musician should put a melody into the mouths of abstract beings? Whatever may be the beauty of the phrase that is sung, the effect does not meet the requirements of the case or answer our expectations. Is it, then, needful to have recourse to recitative? But recitative has not the depth demanded by the subject. What, then, must be done? Let us refer to Gluck; this great master has more than one secret to reveal to those who thoroughly study him.

Gluck was the first to discover the most suitable form in which to represent spiritual voices, and so well has he succeeded that no one has been able to ignore his influence. At the risk of being otherwise either cold or ridiculous, it has been necessary for all to adopt, in this particular, his manner.

“Tremble, ton supplice s’apprÊte” (Thy doom is even now prepared), says a mysterious voice to Thoas (Iphigenia in Tauris). The phrase, given slowly and softly by voices and trombones in unison, on re penetrates us with a mysterious fear.

In Alcestis, listen to the lugubrious effect of the voice of the oracle, saying on a sustained note: “The king to-day must die, if in his stead none other offers up his life.”[172] It is full of a sombre beauty, and the terrible persistency of the rhythm is very expressive of the antique fatalism.

Must it be added that Gluck has proved by his own example the inevitable absurdity of a melodic phrase in the mouth of a divinity who is made to intervene in human events?

Diana appears in order to save Iphigenia and her brother; the goddess sings her aria, and we see with pain one of the most admirable chefs-d’oeuvre of dramatic music finish as miserably as the utterly forgotten Iphigenia of Piccini.

Again, Mozart wishes to evoke the shade of the Commander; the statue becomes animated and speaks:

“Before the dawning thou wilt cease to smile.”[173]

This phrase, by its harmonies and rhythm, reminds us of the voice of the oracle:

“Le roi doit mourir aujourd’hui.”

Here an objection will probably be made that the statue lays aside this uniform tone, and that Mozart ventures to entrust it with a more melodic phrase. The answer is simple: the form created by Gluck is necessary when the supernatural being preserves its mysterious character, and issues not from the cloud that conceals it from our eyes. But if the statue descends from its pedestal and again becomes the Commander, if the oracle or the god takes a body, if you allow him human feelings, there can be no reason against his expressing them. It is no longer the hidden divinity who dictates an inevitable decree, but one who, having taken the form of a man, speaks in man’s language.

In the same way Wagner, when making gods and genii the personages of his dramas, gives them the accents of the human voice. Mingling among men, they too may well love and suffer, weep and sing.

After Gluck and Mozart,[174] Schubert also makes Death speak; he also accepts as necessary the form given by Gluck. To the young girl’s supplication Death answers by a phrase the rhythm and harmonies of which perhaps too much recall the voice of the oracle in Alcestis.

If we may venture to say so, Schubert seems to have found himself in one of those exceptional cases in which the Gluckist form was not suitable. Why this sombre coloring, when Death was doing his utmost to charm the young girl?

“Give me thy hand, nor tremble thus,

Enfolded in my arms, thou’lt sink

Into a sleep more sweet than life.”[175]

Here a more melodic phrase would appear to us more suitable.

Having no intention of giving a catalogue of the works of Schubert,[176] we will not group together his Lieder, but merely observe that all his melodies belong to one of three divisions, which express either love, or splendor, joy, and triumph, or, lastly, terror. Many combine two of these divisions. In “MarguÉrite” the principal idea is that of love, and the secondary one the drama; on the contrary, in “La Jeune Religieuse” the drama occupies the first place, and the earthly love is subordinate.

Our notice would be too incomplete without at least a rapid survey of the other works of Schubert besides the Lied, in which he is unequalled, but he has also tried symphonies, operas, and oratorios. Of his operas, which are numerous, two only have obtained some reputation—namely, Alfonso and Estrella, chiefly famous for its reverses, and La Guerre Domestique (The Domestic War), known in France by the name of La Croisade des Dames. This charming opera in one act was played with success a few years ago at the ThÉÂtre des Fantaisies in Paris, and in every page could be recognized with pleasure the author of the Lieder. Its distinguishing qualities are the touching tenderness of the melody, the brilliancy and delicacy of the organ accompaniment, and the perfection in the manner of writing for the voices.

Schubert undertook also some more extensive works, many of which, unfortunately, were never completed, while the rest are lost in consequence of that absence of care and order which has probably cost us the loss of more than one valuable composition. Ought we to regret that Schubert has not left one great opera in which he might have displayed all his faculties? We think so, although we do not say that he would have proved himself to be a musician like Mozart, a master of tragedy like Gluck or gifted with Weber’s power of fantastic coloring, capable of the sustained passion of Meyerbeer or the powerful developments of Wagner. But tenderness and sweetness would have flowed in streams from his heart, and the work would have been so full of poetry and so rich in characteristic beauties that his place would still have been a glorious one. Who can deny that M. Gounod is a great composer? And yet it would be difficult to name a really powerful page, unless it be the church scene in Faust, and the finale in Sappho. Posterity will say of him that he was deficient in force, but that MarguÉrite is very enchanting, Romeo and Juliet full of tenderness, and Mireille of poetry; and doubtless as much as this would have been said of Schubert.

In his symphonies and drawing-room music Schubert, no longer carried on by feeling, frequently fails. The subscribers to the popular concerts of the Cirque d’hiver in Paris have not forgotten the fragments of his symphonies which were at various times executed under the able direction of M. Pasdeloup. These selections were taken from the best, and there was certainly here and there a page which breathed inspiration. But praise like this is no small blame, and it is a severe criticism on a symphony to detach merely an isolated portion from it, and condemn the remainder to oblivion.

What was the reason of this inferiority in Schubert’s symphonic music? One of the most serious appears to be the fact that he had not made a very deep or advanced study of music. He was preparing to study the fugue when carried off by death. Now, it is precisely symphonic composition that demands the most extensive and thorough knowledge of the science of music. GrÉtry and Montigny, who were but ordinary contrapuntists, have written admirable operas, but we might seek in vain for a great symphonist who had not at the same time a deep knowledge of music as a science.

Besides, Schubert, whose inspirations, as we have already remarked, were essentially lyric, was not in the habit of working out his thoughts, and lacked the capacity for giving them the powerful developments required by the symphony. Spoiled also by his extraordinary facility, he wrote too fast. In a lyric composition like the Lied the facility of the hand is no hindrance to the inspiration, which should be ardent and rapid, but the formation and unfolding, as it were, of a symphony require a powerful inspiration joined to the patient reflection and incessant labor which twenty times over modifies its work before giving its definitive form.

The symphonic music of Schubert will pass away, but he will find a place in the hearts of posterity as the inspired singer of the Lieder, the beautiful completeness of which, as a whole, is the result of his having known how to enshrine in these short poems rapid and living dramas, full by turns of joy and sorrow, love and triumph, or despair He was one of those men whose greatness is rather of the heart than the intellect; and if to others great conceptions are due, few like him have given expression to the deepest feelings of the heart, and the most refined and elevated accents of the soul.

[160] Critique et LittÉrature Musicales, vol. i. p. 322.

[161] Franz Schubert: sa Vie et les Œuvres. Par Mme. Audley. Paris: Didier.

[162] Thou who seemest to be sleeping.

[163] When thou sleepest.

[164] All is over; he forgets me—the ungrateful one whom I have loved.

[165] My days are withered.

[166] “All soon will end for me. Return again, return one moment more, that I once more may see thy face and die.” In the Faust of M. Gounod we have MarguÉrite at the wheel. The French composer has treated this scene in a very touching and striking manner, especially on the words, “Il ne revient pas.” It is a beautiful page, but not so deep as Schubert.

[167] Childe Harold.

[168]

Reboul. Not here is perfect joy:

Suffering attends the soul’s delights,

Our notes of gladness have their sadness,

And every pleasure has its sighs.

[169] M. Gounod, in the duo of the first act of Romeo and Juliet, has found a chromatic ascendant which has some analogy with that of Schubert, but which, in the hands of the French composer, takes quite a different coloring. Sombre in La Jeune Religieuse, it is in RomÉo et Juliette sparkling with light. In the line “Vois ces rayons jaloux dont l’orient se dore” (“Behold these envious beams which gild the east”) the brilliant ground-work added by M. Gounod contributes not a little to render the effect of light.

[170]

Gloom over all

And the dark night;

—Terror and woe.

[171] Thus withered, my sad life consumed away.

[172]

Le roi doit mourir aujourd’hui,

Si quelqu’autre au trÉpas ne se livre pour lui.

[173] Tu cesseras de rire avant l’aurore.

[174] Not having space to multiply examples, we say nothing of the Oracle of Spontini, which, moreover, has the form of Gluck.

[175]

“Donne ta main. Ne tremble pas.

Tu vas dormir entre mes bras.

D’un sommeil plus doux que la vie.”

[176] Schubert is known to have composed more than five hundred melodies, most of which are admirable. Those we mention are merely taken as examples from among numerous others of equal beauty.

Theologia Moralis Novissimi EcclesiÆ Doctoris S. Alphonsi. Auctore A. Konings, C.S.S.R. Editio Altera, Aucta et Emendata. Benziger Fratres, 1876.

We have already noticed the first edition of this work, which is certainly a valuable and excellent one in many respects. It has received the approbation of his Eminence the Cardinal, and of many others of the prelates of this country, has apparently been well received by the clergy in general, and it will not be at all surprising if it becomes the standard text-book of moral theology in the seminaries of the United States. This success it goes far to deserve. It supplies a great want in the treatises previously used, by bringing in many points relating to the laws and customs existing among us; and this alone might seem a sufficient reason for its adoption. It has also many other advantages, partly due to the ability of the author, partly to the works which he has taken (as all writers on this subject must at the present day) for his basis. Among these he has principally followed Gury, adhering more, perhaps, to his language than to that of St. Alphonsus.

But, in spite of the many advantages and excellences of the book, we must enter a protest against its use, at least as the sole authority on which the minds of theological students are to be formed. And this protest is on account of the system of equi-probabilism taught in it, which we should be very sorry to have prevail, both on the ground of its unreasonableness, and on that of its bad practical effects.

We should have no space in a notice of this kind to discuss fully this very important and much vexed question. But the point of our criticism can be sufficiently made by simply referring to the author’s definitions of the grades of probability in opinions (p. 27).

The obvious objection to these definitions, which are made the basis of his system, and which must, indeed, be made the basis of any system of equi-probabilism, is that, according to them, an opinion cannot be notably or decidedly more probable than its contradictory without making that contradictory “not solidly probable,” to use the author’s words, which are the usual technical ones.

Now, we venture to think that such a statement as this with regard to probability would hardly be made in treating of any other subject than that at present in hand. Suppose, for instance, the question to be one of physical science,—that, for example, of the solar parallax. Now, we think we are not wrong in saying that it is decidedly more probable that this parallax is greater than 8-8/10 seconds of arc than that it is less than this amount. Be that as it may, it is certain that there is some value, perfectly ascertainable by methods of computation on which astronomers would agree, for which, in the present state of science, we could say that the probability of the parallax exceeding this value is once and a half times as great as that of its falling short of it. Certainly in this case it would be decidedly more probable that it does exceed this value than that it does not. Yet who would say that the probability of its not exceeding that value was destitute of any solidity?

We may take a case in which probability is susceptible of exact numerical computation. Suppose two balls, one white and one black, to be together in a box, and that we draw twice from this box, putting back the ball drawn the first time. The probability that we shall not draw the white ball twice is three times as great as that we shall; yet would any one say that there was no solid probability of so drawing it? If it was a question of drawing it five times, then the probability of this, being only 1/31 of that of the contradictory, might, indeed, not be “solid.”

The whole case can, as it would seem, be put in the following form: It is agreed, by equi-probabilists, as well as by probabilists, that a solidly probable opinion against the law can be followed. If the former choose to call an opinion only slightly less probable than its contradictory, till its probability becomes so small that it really, in the common judgment of men, ceases to be solid, they depart from the common use of language, but the controversy between them and the latter is merely one of the use of words.

But if the equi-probabilists refuse to call an opinion solidly probable as soon as its probability becomes what men would generally call decidedly less than that of its contradictory (two-thirds of it, for instance), they depart, as seems evident from the above cases, again from the common use of words, and the statement—the complement of the former one, and on which also both parties agree—that an opinion against the law not solidly probable cannot be followed, has, in their mouths, a new meaning, which the judgment of mankind will, it seems to us, hardly accept, and which will lead to perpetual and most embarrassing changes of doctrine and practice. The author undoubtedly believes that he is following St. Alphonsus in his system; it seems to us that he has, with other equi-probabilists, not rightly apprehended the meaning of certain passages in the works of that illustrious Doctor, which seem certainly at first sight to have such a sense. But to discuss this matter would lead us too far.

The Faith of Our Fathers: Being a Plain Exposition and Vindication of the Church founded by Our Lord Jesus Christ. By Rt. Rev. James Gibbons, D.D., Bishop of Richmond and Administrator-Apostolic of North Carolina. Baltimore: Murphy & Co.; London: Washbourne. 1877.

We have rarely met with a book which pleased us so thoroughly as this little volume of the Bishop of Richmond. It is popular, and is therefore not addressed to the few who are interested in the philosophical and scientific controversies of the age, but to the people, to the multitude, as were the words of Christ. It is a thoroughly honest book, written by a man who loves the church and his country and who is deeply interested in whatever concerns the welfare of mankind. From the start we are convinced of his perfect sincerity. Not to make a book has he written; but he believes, and therefore speaks. It is this that gives value to literature—the human life, the human experience, which it contains. Bishop Gibbons has labored for several years with great zeal in North Carolina and Virginia, where there are few Catholics, where the opportunities of dispelling Protestant prejudice are rare, but where the people are generally not unwilling to be enlightened. Learned arguments are less needed than clear and accurate statements of the doctrines, practices, and aims of the church. Catholic truth is its own best evidence: is more persuasive than any logic with which the human mind is able to reinforce it.

To the right mind and pure heart it appeals with irresistible force; and therefore the great work of those who labor for God is to put away the mental and moral obstructions which shut out the view of the truth as it is in Christ. In setting forth in clear and simple style “the faith of our fathers” Bishop Gibbons is careful to meet all the objections which are likely to be made to the church. He is thoroughly acquainted with the American people; is himself an American; and his book is another proof that the purest devotion to the church is compatible with the deepest love for the freest and most democratic of governments. Sympathy gives him insight, reveals the matter and the manner that suit his purpose best. The skill with which he has compressed into a small volume such a variety of topics, giving to each satisfactory treatment, is truly admirable. He seems to have forgotten nothing, and has consequently produced a complete popular explanation and vindication of Catholic doctrine. We cannot praise too highly the tone and temper of this book.

The author is not aggressive; is never bitter, never sneers nor deals in sarcasm or ridicule; does not treat his reader as a foe to be beaten, but as a brother to be persuaded. His sense of religion is too deep to allow him to make light of any honest faith. We perceive on every page the reverend and Christian bishop who knows that charity and not hate is the divine power of the church; the fire that sets the world ablaze. It is not necessary that we should say more in commendation of this treatise. It will most certainly have a wide circulation, and its merits will be advertised by every reader. Bishop Gibbons has written chiefly for Protestants, but we hope his book will find entrance into every Catholic family in the land.

Deirdre. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1876.

The poet who ventures on an epic in these days deserves well of literature. To turn from the puling, weak, or nauseous themes which form the subjects of most of the contemporary English poetry is in itself a sign of a strong and healthy temperament. Nevertheless, the venture is a bold one. Pretty and graceful lyric verse may pass easily enough and win a transient popularity without challenging any strong comparison, lost as it is in the crowd of its fellows. But when an epic is mentioned, Homer towers up with Virgil in his train; Dante sweeps along; the shade of Milton oppresses us; we are in the company of giants and breathe reverently. The men who grasp epochs of history and human life, and string them into numbers that resound through all the ages, are few indeed. So we say he is a bold man who would follow in their track; but, at least, his ambition is great, whatever be its execution.

The author of DeirdrÈ is not a Homer or a Virgil; he is not even equal to those fine English echoes of the great masters—Dryden and Pope; and although we do not know him, and are not sure as to who he is, we have little doubt that no man would be readier to concede what we here state than the author of DeirdrÈ himself. At least, he will consider it no dishonor that his song should wake the memory of those great singers in our mind.

DeirdrÈ is an Irish story of pre-Christian times. Like the Iliad, it has its Helen, who gives her name to the poem, and around her the story centres. The beauty of DeirdrÈ, like that of Helen, is her curse. Wherever she goes she is a brand of discord. Heroes fight for her, wars are waged for possession of her, great deeds are done in her name, and the end is disaster for all. She is unlike her Greek prototype only in her Irish chastity, pagan though she was. There have been Irish Helens, and the disaster of her race is to be traced to one of them; but they are only remembered to be cursed. Still, the author was at liberty, if he chose, to follow the prevailing taste of the day, and add a spurious interest to his poem by making its heroine unfaithful to her spouse. He has done the contrary. It is the very fidelity of DeirdrÈ that adds its chief interest to the poem. From the day when first the squirrel cried to her from the tree in the garden where she had been enclosed by the king:

“Come up! come up! Come up, and see the world!”

and she obeyed the promptings of her nature and went up, and for the first time looked over the garden wall and saw “the great world spread out,” she lost her heart, for here is what she saw:

“Three youthful knights in all their martial pride,

With red cloaks fluttering in the summer breeze,

And gay gems flashing on their harnesses,

And on the helm that guarded each proud head,

And on each shield where shone the Branch of Red.

And, as they passed, the eldest of the three,

With great black, wistful eyes looked up at me;

For he did mark this yellow head of mine

Amid the green tree’s branches glint and shine.

And oh! the look—the fond, bright look—he gave!…”

These were the three heroic sons of Usna, and the eldest of the three is Naisi, who finds his way into the charmed forest where DeirdrÈ is kept by the king until she should grow to an age ripe enough to fit her to be made his queen. The young lady objects—as young ladies will do sometimes—to be disposed of in this manner, and Naisi, having first stolen her heart, completes his theft by stealing herself. They fly from Eman, and Clan Usna accompanies them. The rest of the poem is made up of their wanderings and final luring back to Eman, when the king wreaks his vengeance upon them. With the fate of the sons of Usna and DeirdrÈ the poem closes.

There is much that is admirable in the whole work. The scenes are wonderfully well localized. One never strays into to-day. The author has completely mastered the difficult geographical terminology, and makes it sweet and pleasant to the ear. The men are cast in heroic mould, and a tinge of chivalry added to them that beautifies and ennobles them. DeirdrÈ is a sweet, pure, and loving woman; her early youth in the garden of the king is in itself an idyllic gem. The battle scenes are strong and vigorous, and not too long drawn out; a sea-fight in particular is wonderfully well described. The glimpses of natural scenery given here and there are varied and picturesque. Indeed, there is everything that is good in the poem, but nothing that can be called great; and greatness is the standard and measure of an epic.

We think the author, too, has been careless in the construction of his verse. It is unequal. Half-rhymes abound: “bird” and “stirred,” “house” and “carouse,” “restored” and “board,” “hum” and “room,” “jollity” and “company,” “heath” and “breath,” cannot be considered good rhymes, yet they are all found within the first three pages. They are to too great an extent characteristic of the whole. Then there is an abundance of weak and commonplace couplets, such as the following:

“The earth’s dark places, felt himself full sad,

He knew not why, and sent, to make him glad.”

* * * * *

“From the bright palace straightway to his house,

That they might hold therein a gay carouse.”

* * * * *

“Yet higher rose the joy and jollity

Of the Great King and all that company.”

* * * * *

“Till morn’s gay star rose o’er the golden sea,

And sent to slumber all that company.”

* * * * *

Now, such lines should never have passed the censorship of one who can give such other lines as these:

“Whose fierce eye o’er the margin of his shield

Had gazed from war’s first ridge on many a field.”

“Many a field” is weak, but the picture is very good. Strange to say, the two lines immediately following are these:

“Unblinking at the foe that on him glared,

And might be ten to one for all he cared.”

The epic spirit contained in the last line needs no comment.

Again, here is a strong picture:

“Since Mananan, the Sea-God, first upthrew

The wild isle’s stony ribs unto the blue.”

And here a sweet one:

“… Then from her forehead fair

She brushed a silken ripple of bright hair

That from the flood of her rich tresses stole,

And looked with wordless love into his soul.”

Sometimes we fall upon lines that we fancy we have heard before—as these, for instance, which anybody might claim and not be proud of:

“The merry village with its sheltering trees,

The peaceful cattle browsing o’er the leas,

The hardy shepherd whistling on the plain

With his white flock, by fields of ripened grain,” etc., etc.

And here are lines which we fancy Mr. Tennyson might with justice claim:

“… And velvet catkins on the willow shone

By lowland streams, and on the hills the larch

Scented with odorous buds the winds of March.”

One more objection we must make, and that is to the tiresomely frequent use of the word “full.” It occurs everywhere, sometimes twice or thrice in one page. Feilimid feels himself “full sad” (p. 1). In p. 46 Caffa shakes his head “full dolefully.” In p. 49 “The east and north a strong Wind blew full keen.” In p. 55 DeirdrÈ grows “full pale”; in p. 58 she goes “to and fro” “full secretly”; in p. 59 she has thoughts “full sad”; while Naisi (p. 62) laughs to himself “full low,” his heart with love’s ardor grows “full warm” (p. 65). Maini watches Naisi “full treacherously” (p. 69), and three lines lower on the same page he is still watching him “full warily.” The loyal wife grasps her babe “full firm” (p. 164)—an expression that, allowing even for poetic license, is very doubtful grammar; “full soon” adorns p. 165; “full stern” shall be the fight (p. 166); “full many” a mile (p. 166); “full many” a festal fire (p. 167); even the very babe crows “full lustily” (p. 131).

Of course repetition is allowable and, if rightly used, a beauty. In Homer Juno is always “white-armed,” Venus “ox-eyed,” Apollo “far-darting,” Agamemnon a “king of men,” Achilles “swift-footed,” the dawn “rosy-fingered,” the sea “hoarse-resounding,” and so on. But we need not dwell on the point that this is a very different kind of repetition from that in DeirdrÈ, which is faulty and tiresome in the extreme.

The defects we have pointed out are such as might have been easily avoided by care in the supervision. As it is, they seriously mar a work of real power, much promise, and undeniable beauty.

Religion and Education. By the very Rev. Thomas S. Preston, V.G. New York: Robert Coddington. 1876.

There is much matter for thought and reflection in this pamphlet of forty-six pages. It treats of what is now an old subject, yet a subject about which new issues are constantly being raised, not only in this country but all the world over. And as the subject is far from being settled, and is likely so to remain for some time to come, one cannot but welcome the observations and pronounced expression of such a mind as that of the distinguished author regarding a vital question of this and all countries and of all time. The question of education has been treated time and again in these pages. Indeed, many of the articles which have appeared in The Catholic World have been collected and published in book-form (Catholics and Education), and combined make an excellent treatise in defence of Catholic education as opposed to the popular objections of non-Catholics. Father Preston necessarily travels over old ground here, but with a freshness, vigor, and clearness of statement and exposition that will amply repay the reader. His lecture—for such it was—bears all the marks of a strong and trained mind, fully alive to the difficulties that beset the vexed question of which he treats, yet of one who knows exactly where strength ends and extravagance begins. There is, perhaps, no question to-day more open to extravagant demands and declamation on both sides than this of education. The tendency of the times regarding it is in a radically wrong direction. Hot words will not mend matters, but calm reason, such as this pamphlet affords, will in the long run tell. To sincere and rightly-instructed Catholics there is no question at all in the matter. Education is as much a subject of religious discipline as is the guiding of a man’s life, and to banish God from the school is no more justifiable than to banish him from the church or the home. No Catholic dare say to God: We will admit you here, but not there. At the same time we must take into serious account the opinions of men who, having practically lost faith, cannot be expected to look upon everything in the same light as ourselves. More especially is this the case in a country like our own, where all things are still more or less in a state of formation. It is very certain that the Fathers of this Republic, to whom in our emergencies we often vaguely appeal, never dreamed that the whole machinery of a republic which, in its present vastness, power, and future import, could scarcely have flashed even on their happiest dreams, would be perfectly adjusted in a century. We must make the best of things as they exist, work earnestly, untiringly, and hopefully to make them still better, but not slap the whole world in the face for the poor satisfaction of the slap. Father Preston is an excellent guide in this matter. There is not a waste word in all that he says. He has a reason, and gives it, for every statement, and he strengthens his position by the testimony of honored men among those opposed to him. It is strange that this country should be behind every other civilized nation in the fair adjustment of the educational question. They do the best they can for all denominations; we seem to have one predominating idea—to wit, that Catholic children, so far as the States can prevent it without absolute force, shall not have the right of Catholic education. Education is not and never can be a purely abstract affair as regards religion. It must have some informing moral principle, which will be right or wrong according to circumstances. Catholics refuse, on their conscience, to have any doubt about the matter. Others may do as they think fit under a government which professes to respect absolute freedom of conscience. Their freedom of conscience recognizes and claims education for their children in the spirit of their faith. To deny this is coercion. To make them contribute to a system of education based on its denial is coercion and extortion. To see how fully enlightened Protestants and enlightened governments uphold this view, we can recommend nothing better in a brief form than the pages of this admirable pamphlet.

Wit, Humor, and Shakspeare. Twelve Essays. By John Weiss. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1876.

There could be no better proof of the large tolerance of literary charlatanism by the American public than that a shrewd Boston firm should in such times as the present consent to publish a book like this. Mr. Weiss evidently has nothing to say which can be of interest to a sensible man, and his style is as bad as his thought. His chief aim, it would appear, is to be odd, unnatural, and barbarous. Like the clown in the circus, he hopes to amuse us by his antics, if not by his wit. But fantastic and affected phraseology cannot hide poverty or barrenness of thought. If a man has nothing to say, grimaces only make him ridiculous in the eyes of the judicious. It would seem, too, that the author is under the delusion that he may succeed in making us believe that he means something by striving to render it as difficult as possible to find out what he means. Here are specimens of his style: “The life-breaths of joy and grief tend primitively to the lungs, and they voice the mother-tongue of all emotions.” “What a wide range of nature’s curious freakery a forest has!” “Only those who are capable of annihilating capricious distinctions by feelings of common humanness are capable of enjoying the union of heterogeneous ideas.”

It is Mr. Weiss’ great misfortune to believe that he is witty; and the attempts which reveal this deep conviction might indeed make us laugh, if they did not make us grieve.

“What mutual impression do a dog and a duck make? He runs around with frolic transpiring in his tail, and barks to announce a wish to fraternize; or perhaps it is a short and nervous bark, and indicates unsettled views about ducks. Meantime, the duck waddles off with an inane quack, so remote from a bark that it must convince any well-informed dog of the hopelessness of proposing either business or pleasure to such a doting and toothless pate.” “But as yet no cosey couples of clever apes have been discovered in paroxysms of laughter over the last sylvan equivoque; nor have elephants been seen silently shaking at a joke too ponderous for their trunks to carry.” “We cannot imagine that a turtle’s head gets tired lying around decapitated for a week or more.”

We cannot pardon Mr. Emerson for having made such men as Mr. Weiss possible. He is a morbid product—one of the sick multitude whose disease he has himself diagnosed. “Multitudes of our American brains are badly drained in consequence of a settling of the wastage of house-grubbing and street-work into moral morasses which generate many a chimera.” This is on the twelfth page, and to this point we followed the author with a kind of interest; for it was still possible to hope that he might not be an American. The English critics, however, may find his humor capital, since they think Walt Whitman our greatest poet; and Mr. Weiss finds examples of wit and humor in this country truly Shaksperean:

“There was a man who stood on his head under a pile-driver to have a pair of tight boots driven on. He found himself shortly after in China, perfectly naked and without a cent in his pocket.” “There is a man in the West so bow-legged that his pantaloons have to be cut out with a circular saw.” “Some of the Texan cows have been lately described as so thin that it takes two men to see one of them. The men stand back to back, so that one says, ‘Here she comes!’ and the other cries, ‘There she goes!’ Thus between them both the cow is seen.”

“All these American instances”—we quote the thoughtful and profound observation of Mr. Weiss—“are conceived in the pure Shakesperean blending of the understanding and the imagination.” But one more of them, perhaps the most artistically perfect of all, must suffice. “A coachman, driving up some mountains in Vermont, was asked by an outside passenger if they were as steep on the other side also. ‘Steep! Chain lightnin’ couldn’t go down ’em witheout the breechin’ on!’”

Nothing could be finer than the epigrammatic style in which Mr. Weiss throws some of Shakspere’s characters into a crisp Emersonian sentence: “Pistol is the raw article of poltroonery done in fustian instead of a gayly-slashed doublet. Bardolph is the capaciousness for sherry, without the capacity to make it apprehensive and forgetive; it goes to his head, but, finding no brain there, is provoked to the nose, where it lights a cautionary signal. Nym is the brag stripped of resource, shivering on prosiness.” We are quite prepared, after all this, to find that Mr. Weiss belongs to the class of enlightened men who, in the name of science, sneer at religion. It is hardly worth while to attempt his conversion.

Poems: Devotional and Occasional. By Benjamin Dionysius Hill, C.S.P. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1877.

In his last sermon on “Subjects of the Day” (“The Parting of Friends”), Dr. Newman exclaims: “O my mother, whence is this unto thee, that thou hast good things poured upon thee and canst not keep them, and bearest children, yet darest not own them? Why hast thou not the skill to use their services, nor the heart to rejoice in their love? How is it that whatever is generous in purpose, and tender or deep in devotion, thy flower and thy promise, falls from thy bosom and finds no home within thine arms?” The author of these poems gives to his Mother the whole—not a part—of a delicate poetic talent that would have found a warm welcome in the world which knows her not. The art in the poems is unaffected and genuine; there is no pretence of artistic ambition, nor any provoking involution of the thought in order to display the tricks and pretty devices of metre which would have come easily to one whose sense of poetic tune is so true. The verse, although by no means monotonous, is uniformly simple; the rhymes are never weak and are always sweet—qualities rarely combined—and the infallible poetic instinct fills the lines with melody, which, at first so subtle and fine that it almost eludes, is soon discovered to be exquisitely and permanently sweet.

The dominant thought is religious rapture. Father Hill was not always under the benign influence which has brought this guerdon to his gifts. He was outside the only church which offers man’s heart an ideal of absolute perfection.

“A barren creed had starved me.”

God called him

“to fill the place of some

Ingrate who had thrown his childhood’s faith away,”

and within the consecrated precincts of the priesthood he discovered a gracious light upon his imagination—the light of Our Lady. So he has proved her poet; and the tributes that he lays at her feet are rich and warm with the full beating ardor of manhood’s love. The pure sensuousness which gives strikingly what the painters would call “fine flesh-tint” to the poems will prove a strong attraction to the fervent hearts of thousands who, like Father Hill, love the Mother of our Lord with an uncontrollable intensity of human affection, but who, unlike him, are unable fittingly to express that affection to her, or even to define it to themselves or to others. Father Hill is literally the knight of Mary, and he does more than the obligations of knighthood required; for, in addition to loving, fighting for, and seeking his reward from her, he sings her praise. He gives her at once his sword and his lyre. The beauty of this chivalry of the soul is not easily to be understood by the shallow or the thoughtless; yet even the irreverent will acknowledge its holiness, and the commonest mind will be unable to resist its singular charms. Who can be insensible to such loyalty to the religious ideal as this?

“TO BE FORGIVEN.

“I call thee ‘Love’—‘my sweet, my dearest Love’

Nor feel it bold, nor fear it a deceit.

Yet I forget not that, in realms above,

The thrones of Seraphs are beneath thy feet.

“If Queen of angels thou, of hearts no less:

And so of mine—a poet’s, which must needs

Adore to all melodious excess

What cannot sate the rapture that it feeds.

“And then thou art my Mother—God’s, yet mine!

Of mothers, as of virgins, first and best:

And I as tenderly, intimately thine

As He, my Brother, carried at the breast.

“My Mother! ’tis enough. If mine the right

To call thee this, much more to muse and sigh

All other honeyed names. A slave I might—

A son, I must. And both of these am I.”

This exquisite piety is entitled “Love’s Prisoner”:

* * * * *

“But is He lonely? Bend not here

Adoring angels as on high?

Ah yes: but yet, when we appear,

A softer glory floods His eye.

’Tis earth’s frail child He longs to see;

And thus He is alone—for me!

* * * * *

“Then, best of lovers, I’ll draw near

Each day to minister relief.

For tho’ the thought of year on year

Of sin should make me die of grief,

Yet day by day my God I see

‘Sick and in prison’—all for me!”

Those whose imagination is without devotion, or whose devotion lacks imagination, will look upon the author of these poems as one indeed “set apart.” Yet even Dr. Newman, the giant intellect of modern thought, looked upon Keble, as he tells us himself, with awe, simply because Keble was a true religious poet; and these two came to love each other with a tenderness that did not expire, but was rather increased, when the one passed within the gates of Mother Rome, and the other, faltering in tears, sadly loitered, then suffered himself to be led away. So many a lesser Newman will learn to love this lesser and more melodious poet within the sanctuary, and his glowing soul will distribute some of its own warmth into the hospitable recesses in which this little book will find nooks the hosts never thought of.

Life of Mother Maria Teresa, Foundress of the Congregation of the Adoration of Reparation. By the AbbÉ Hulst. Translated by Lady Herbert. London: Burns & Oates. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.)

To many people there is no reading so pleasant as a biography; but when, as in the life of a great servant of God, solid instruction and sweet devotion are found united in the details of personal history, the work becomes a hand-book in a Christian’s library. Of this kind is the present work, which, although only a small volume, contains a great deal of matter, and is written with all that ease and naÏvetÉ which are so often found in French biographies. It is translated into English by Lady Herbert, who is thoroughly competent for the task.

Theodolind DubouchÉ was born at Montauban, in France, on the 2d of May, 1809; but her mother was of Italian origin, and it is a little singular that the daughter’s portrait prefixed to this Life bears a remarkable resemblance to that of Dante. Neither of her parents was more than a nominal Catholic, and Theodolind grew up in a cold and formal atmosphere of morality which would have chilled for ever the heart of one less naturally generous, pure-minded, and energetic, and over whom God had not extended a particular protection. Her path to perfection was long and beset with many dangers—although not at any time of the grosser sort—but the Lord was her shepherd, and she was led on, step by step, to the crowning-point of her career, which was the establishment of an Order for women whose special object should be the perpetual adoration of Jesus in the Holy Eucharist, and the continual reparation to his divine Majesty. Theodolind assumed the name in religion of Maria Teresa, and her congregation, which was originally engrafted on the vigorous and venerable stem of Carmel, was begun at Paris on the 6th of August, 1848. In the year 1853 it received a Laudatine Brief from the Holy See. This was the first step towards the full official approbation of the Sovereign Pontiff, which was given only three years after the death of the foundress. Her death occurred at Paris on Sunday, 30th of August, 1863. The congregation or Institute of “L’Adoration RÉparatrice” has already four houses in France, in each of which adorers in large numbers, consecrated by religious profession, succeed one another day and night before the Blessed Sacrament exposed, and in a spirit of deep recollection make the adoration of reparation the principle of a special vocation and the occupation of a whole life.

The Order will certainly continue to spread, and we hope to see it introduced into this country, where devotion to the Blessed Sacrament is comparatively cold and scattered. We recommend the present work to all the holy spouses of Christ and true lovers of Jesus in the Holy Eucharist.

Githa of the Forest; or, the Burning of Croyland. A Romance of early English History. By the author of Lord Dacre of Gilsland, Royalists and Roundheads, etc., etc. London: D. Stewart, 1876. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.)

This is just one of those books that are in every way to be commended. It illustrates an early and most interesting period of English and Catholic history with remarkable power and vividness. It is a constant wonder to us that Catholics who have a taste for the writing of fiction do not more frequently take up such epochs as this, which are full of heroic deeds and romantic episodes, instead of vainly attempting to weave a romantic interest about the commonplace subjects and persons of the day. The history of the world for the last eighteen centuries is theirs to choose from, all its interest centres around Christianity; and we are not quite so much in love with to-day that we cannot thoroughly enjoy a trip back into the past when led by so skilful and true a hand as that of the author of Githa.

THE

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