If I had wished to break the ice on our arrival at Mauverstown, this

incident would effectually have accomplished it. But the party consisted

of Mrs. Connor; her son, a youth of twenty; Katie, a daughter of

twenty-nine, and a handsome, black-eyed, fair-complexioned young lady,

Miss Florence O’Grady, come on a visit “all the way from Kerry.” Poor

Harry! At a glance I saw that he was in my power, and he gave me such

an imploring look that my lips were sealed, in the hope of saving him

from the tender mercies of the merry young ones. Not a word did I say of

the adventure. It was not to be expected, however, that Dan would show

him equal mercy; and young Connor’s roguish expression next morning,

when he came in late to breakfast after a visit to the stables, told me

that he had heard the story, and, moreover, that it had lost nothing in

the telling. Fortunately Harry, who was by nature the kindest and most

amiable of men, had thoroughly recovered his ordinary good temper, and

joined in the laugh against himself so cordially that the hearts of all

were at once gained. Had he by chance done otherwise, his life would

have been made miserable; but now one and all declared that they would

only punish him by making him acquainted with every hedge and bush in

the country, and that he should not leave until he “made restitution”

by singing the praises of “ould Ireland.” Charlie Connor would help him

in the shooting, the young ladies could take him across country--for

“cub-hunting” had begun, though it was too early yet for the regular

hunt--while Mrs. Connor mentioned a list of gentlemen’s places far and

near which she would show him, that he might tell his English friends it

was not quite so barbarous a land as they evidently imagined.

Good-natured though he was, Harry’s face lengthened at a prospect which

would involve a longer stay than he had intended; but there was no time

for reflection, for Charlie led him off to inspect the farm, the young

ladies took him through the pleasure-grounds on his return, and in the

afternoon we all drove to a croquet party more than eight miles off.

Henceforward most faithfully did they carry out their resolutions,

leaving no morning or afternoon unappropriated to some pleasure. Of all

counties in Ireland, Westmeath is remarkable for its many handsome seats,

well-timbered parks, and the pleasant social intercourse maintained

amongst their owners. At this season, too, every one was at home, and

croquet parties, _matinées musicales_, or dinner parties were countless.

The shooting filled a certain place in the programme for the gentlemen,

no doubt; still, Harry, announcing that he saw more of the country by

following the ladies, always managed to accompany us. The gardens and

conservatories interested him, he said; and the luxuriance of the shrubs

and evergreens always attracted his admiration, and was an invariable

excuse for a saunter with the young ladies, though oftener with only one

of the party. When we had inspected those in our immediate vicinity,

a flower-show at Kells, in the bordering county of Meath (also under

the Peace-Preservation Act!), displayed to us in addition the “beauty,

gallantry, and fashion” of both neighborhoods. Nothing, perhaps, on

these occasions is more striking to a stranger than the sort of family

life which seems to exist in Irish counties, every one knowing the other

from boyhood intimately--nay, from generation to generation. Above all is

it remarkable how every one can tell at once by the family name what part

of Ireland a new-comer springs from, or whether Celtic, of “the Pale,” or

Cromwellian, with most unerring accuracy. The majority of land-owners in

Meath and Westmeath belong to the latter--Cromwellian--class; but this in

no way hinders their living on the best terms--unlike what occurs in the

“Black North”--with their Catholic neighbors, few and far between though

these undoubtedly are.

One of the prettiest and most interesting places in this

neighborhood--Ballinlough Castle--belongs to the descendants of the

very ancient sept of O’Reilly, although within the present century

they have taken the name of Nugent, in consequence of a large property

having been left to them by one of that family. As the word implies,

it is situated on a lough, or small lake, and the house consists of an

old building to which several large rooms have been added within the

present century. The northwest front is now completely covered with

ivy, thickly intermingled with Virginia creepers, the deep-red leaves

of which amidst the dark green of the ivy made a beautiful picture at

this autumnal season. Embedded in the foliage, a tablet over the door

records the date, 1614--thirty-five years before the invasion of Ireland

by Cromwell. In the dining-room are two deep recesses, still called by

the family Cromwell’s stables; for tradition relates that in one his

horse, in the other his _cow_, rested during the one night he slept in

the castle. Early on the following day he left the place to continue his

march; but before he had proceeded far, having repented that he had not

seized so fine a property, he sent back one of his officers with an order

to the O’Reilly, the owner, to surrender at once, giving the officer

permission--as was his wont on such occasions--to take and keep the

castle for himself. Not so easy was this, however, as they had imagined

from their previous day’s experience; for “forewarned is forearmed,”

and the instant Cromwell departed the house had been barricaded. His

messenger, therefore, seen returning along the avenue, was communicated

with now only from behind closed doors. Yet the owner did not refuse in

so many words. He merely presented the house-key hanging on the end of a

pistol, through an opening over the door, desiring the man to seize it

if he dared! Not of a daring character, however, was the officer, and he

took a few moments to consider; then, throwing a _would-be_ contemptuous

look at the coveted house and land, he turned away, was soon out of

sight, and no Cromwell or Cromwellian ever troubled Ballinlough again.

The castle contains, besides some most beautiful carvings from Spain,

Aubusson tapestries from France, marble chimney-pieces and paintings

from Italy, collected in his travels by Sir James Nugent some fifty

years since; also many relics of past times--for example, one very fine

Vandyke; a full-length portrait of Lady Thurles, widow of the Duke of

Ormond’s son, and afterwards allied to the O’Reillys; another, of the

famous Peggy O’Neil, only daughter of Sir Daniel O’Neil, the hero at

the battle of the Boyne, who is said to be the one who exclaimed when

the day was over: “Change kings, and we will fight the battle over

again.” He then accompanied King James to France, but, being subsequently

pardoned by William and recalled to take possession of his estates, he

died at Calais on his road home. King William, strange to relate, is

stated notwithstanding, in a fit of generosity, to have given a large

dower to this his only daughter Peggy when she soon afterwards married

Hugh O’Reilly, of Ballinlough Castle, and thus became the ancestress of

the present family. A satin quilt embroidered by her hands still exists

amongst the castle treasures; but most interesting of all the relics is

an old chalice dating from that period.

On our road thither we had passed by the ruins of a small chapel

carefully preserved, standing in a field still called Cromwell’s field,

because there the priest was saying Mass when a scout returned and gave

the alarm that the invader and his troops were speedily advancing. In

consternation, the congregation fled; but the priest neither could nor

would interrupt the Holy Sacrifice, and he had just time to finish it

when the enemy’s soldiers appeared in sight. Then, and then only, he

took flight across the fields; but his foot slipped as he was crossing

the nearest hedge, and the chalice which he held in his hand was bent by

his fall. And this same chalice, notched and bent, we now saw carefully

preserved by the gracious _Dame-Châtelaine_ of Ballinlough. And here it

may be noticed that similar relics and traditions are found all over

Ireland. Another family of our acquaintance possesses the diminutive,

plain chalice used by a priest of their blood--his name being engraven on

the base--for saying Mass behind a hedge when even this was penal both

for priest and people. In that particular case, too, this steadfastness

to his duty did end fatally; for this same priest was one of those killed

at Drogheda. In the grounds of another friend a small, thickly-wooded

eminence is shown, with a grotto which served to shelter the priest when

officiating, whilst the congregation knelt in groups around, with scouts

outside ready to give warning of any unfriendly approach. Elsewhere the

“priest’s hill,” enclosed within the demesne walls, bears its name from

the sad fate of another of the sacred ministry killed there whilst caught

in the act of saying Mass. Two hundred years and more have elapsed since

Cromwell’s day, but it is no wonder that the memory of these events is

still fresh in the minds of a faithful posterity, or that they should

delight to speak of deeds which would honor any people.

Deeply impressed as Harry West was by traditions which until then had

been unknown to him, he was further edified by the manner in which the

Irish poor flock from far and near on Sunday mornings to the parish

church, often walking thither many a long mile in hail, rain, and snow.

Sometimes it stands at a central point, on a hill or in the middle of

a field, no village even near; but many handsome new churches are in

course of erection from contributions gathered chiefly amongst the poor.

Some of these collections are wonderful, considering the localities,

seven and eight hundred pounds--nay, a thousand--being often the result

of the “laying the foundation-stone,” or “opening day,” in a district

solely inhabited by farmers and peasants--especially, be it added, if the

favorite Father Burke be the preacher. Many and many a time, however,

large sums are sent on such occasions back from America from some old

parishioner whose fortune has increased since he left the “dear ould

country,” but whose heart still clings to it faithfully and tenderly.

Most remarkable, too, is the correspondence kept up by emigrants with

their families, and the large presents in money “sent home” from sons to

fathers, brothers to sisters. It was our friend’s custom--as it is at

Ballinlough Castle and many other houses--to let the poorer cottagers

come up to the hall-door for doles of bread, or presents of clothes at

certain seasons, and at all times for medicine, of which the ladies have

knowledge just sufficient for all minor wants. One morning I was watching

Mrs. Connor’s distribution, when old Biddy Nolan produced a letter which

she begged her honor to read for her. The postmark was Chicago, and it

came from her son _Mike_, who had not written since he left home; but now

he gave a full account of his adventures, winding up by enclosing his

mother, who was bathed in tears of joy, a draft for twenty pounds--his

savings during the last few months!

Another characteristic of the County Westmeath consists in its many

pretty lakes; and as picnics, fishing and boating excursions, were

not forgotten in the Connor hospitalities, these--Lough Derrevarra in

particular--could not be omitted. The road to the lakes lay across

a bog, moor, and wild, deserted-looking tract, the exact reverse of

the neighborhood we were living in. Dismal enough it was returning

sometimes in the dark without meeting a human being perhaps for miles,

and difficult to me now and then to resist a shudder. Strange, however,

is the world, and in nothing did it appear to me stranger than in Harry

West’s air of tranquillity and perfect security.

He never dreamt of jumping off of the car (he would have left a pretty

neighbor if he had!), nor seemed to remember the existence of the police,

Ribbonmen, or Peace-Preservation Act! He heard no one mention them, and

he had given up thinking about them.

Truly, a second change had come over the spirit of his dream. And in

proportion to his aversion to my Irish visit, so now he was the one that

experienced difficulty in ending it. Not days but weeks passed by; yet

there he lingered, to the inconceivable surprise of his friends at home.

Not to mine, however. The cause was patent to every one on the spot; nor

could I wonder when, one morning, throwing off his customary reserve,

he asked me to welcome as a cousin his Irish _fiancée_, the beautiful

Florence O’Grady. Short had been the wooing, he said, but none the less

thorough his conversion. A curious mixture of love and religion those

outside-car excursions must certainly have been (these two never would

avail themselves of carriage or other vehicle); for not only had she

conquered his Saxon, but even his religious prejudices so fully that he

voluntarily offered to place himself at once under some able teacher.

Christmas was not long in coming round under these circumstances, nor

Harry West in returning as a Catholic to claim his Kerry bride, blessing

me for having accepted his escort, whilst I regarded the event as a

reward for that act of self-denial on his part. Nor could he, at the

joyous wedding breakfast, resist describing the scene of his leap from

the car on the evening of his arrival, giving a cheer at the same time

for the Peace-Preservation Act, which, to him at least--although only

from the terror it had inspired--had been the primary cause of so much

happiness.

THE LEGEND OF FRIAR’S ROCK.

The thing long hoped for had come to pass (though, alas! by what a

way of grief) and I was visiting my school friend, Anne d’Estaing,

in Bretagne. It was six years since we had met, but we had kept up a

constant correspondence; and by letter when absent, as well as by word

when together, I had become so familiar with her home and her family that

I did not go there as a stranger.

They lived in an old castle partly fallen into picturesque decay. In

the eastern tower was a small chapel, which they had put into complete

repair, and there daily they had service, and Anne found her great

delight in decking the altar with flowers, and keeping everything in

exquisite order and neatness with her own hands. They had had great

sorrows in the six years of our separation. Only Anne and her parents

were left of the loving family that once numbered eleven. Two of the

sons fell in battle, a contagious disease swept off the three youngest

children in one week; Anne’s favorite brother Bertrand became a

missionary priest, and went to China under a vow never to return; and her

twin sister faded away in consumption.

It had seemed to me, in my Irish home, as if such sorrows could scarcely

be borne; but I had never been able to come to my friend with visible,

face-to-face, heart-to-heart consolation, for my daily duty was beside a

couch where my precious mother lay, suffering from an incurable disease.

When her long trouble was at last over my strength and spirits were much

shattered, and I longed to accept Anne’s pressing invitation. My father

was very unwilling that I should go--he thought it would be so sad and

dreary there; but Anne’s letters had revealed to me such a life of peace

and prayer and happy service that it seemed to me that Château d’Estaing

must be a very haven of rest.

And so I found it. From the moment that I looked on Anne’s pale but

placid face; from the time that her mother’s arms held me as those other

arms, which I had missed so sorely, used to do; from the first words

of fatherly welcome that the old count gave me, I was at home and at

peace. And when at sunset I went to Vespers, and the dying light shone in

through the lancet windows, along the aisle, and on the richly-decorated

altar, and Anne’s voice and fingers led the soothing _Nunc Dimittis_, it

was as if the dews of healing fell on my bruised heart.

They made no stranger of me; they knew too well what sorrow was, and how

its sting for them had been withdrawn. So together, in the early dawn,

we knelt for the holiest service, beginning the day in close intercourse

with Him whose “compassions fail not,” and finding that they are indeed

“new every morning.” Together we kept the Hours, and did plain household

duties, and visited in the village, dispensing medicines, reading to old

women, caring for the sick. Two afternoons in the week classes came to

the castle for instruction; every Wednesday evening the children came

to practise the church music--and, oh! how sweet that music was; and on

one afternoon we used to mount our shaggy ponies and ride to a distant

hamlet, to teach the children there. Together we took care of the garden,

where grew the flowers for the altar and for weddings and funerals; and

of the trellis of rare grapes, from which came the sacramental wine.

Every pleasant day we went out upon the bay in Anne’s boat, rowed by two

strong-armed Breton girls, visiting the rocky coves and inlets, startling

the sea-fowl from their nests, and enjoying the sea-breeze and crisp

waves.

Where the bay and the sea join is a headland, which commands the finest

view for miles around; yet, much as we loved that view, we were oftenest

to be found at the base, where we sat idly, while the boat rocked on the

water, which lapped with lulling sound against the rock. It was a pretty

sight, the face of that cliff, where wild vines crept and delicate wild

flowers bloomed, and an aromatic odor rose from the herbs that grew

there, and some small, weather-beaten firs found footing in the crevices.

On the summit were a few ruins. But the chief natural point of interest,

and that from which the Head derived its name, was a curious rock which

stood at its base. It was called the Friar. At first I saw little about

it which could lay claim to such a name; but the more I watched it, the

more the likeness grew upon me, till it became at times quite startling.

It was a massive stone, some thirty feet above the water at low tide,

like a human figure wrapped in a monk’s robe, always facing the east,

and always like one absorbed in prayer and meditation, yet ever keeping

guard. One day I asked Anne if there was not some legend about it, and

she replied that the country people had one which was very interesting,

and partly founded on fact. Of course I begged for it, and she was ready

to tell me.

As I write, I seem to see and hear it all again--the rocking boat; the

two girls resting on their oars and talking in their broad _patois_;

the twittering, darting birds; the butterfly that fluttered round us;

the solemn rock casting its long shadow on the water, that glittered in

the light of a summer afternoon; Anne’s pale, thin, sparkling face, and

earnest voice. I see even the children at play upon the shore, acting out

the old Breton superstition of the washerwomen of the night, who wash the

shrouds of the dead; and their quaint song mingles with Anne’s story:

“Si chrétien ne vient nous sauver,

Jusqu’au jugement faut laver;

Au clair de la lune, au bruit du vent,

Sous la neige, le linceul blanc;”

and the little bare feet are dancing through the water, and the little

brown hands wash and wring the sea-kale for the shrouds, and it all seems

as yesterday to me. But it was years and years ago.

“You know that this is a very dangerous coast,” Anne said. “The tide runs

fast here, and the rocks are jagged and dangerous. Row out a few strokes,

Tiphaine and Alix, and let Mlle. Darcy see what happens.”

A dozen strokes of the oars, and we were in an eddy where it took all the

strength of our rowers to keep back the boat; and beyond Friar’s Rock the

tide-race was like a whirlpool, one eddy fighting with another.

“We would not dare go further,” Anne said. “No row-boats venture there,

and large sailing-vessels need a cautious helmsman. In a storm it is

frightful, and the men and the boats are not few that have gone down

there. But never a board or a corpse has been found afterwards. There is

a swift under-current that sweeps them out to sea. Now, Tiphaine, row

back again.”

A white, modern lighthouse stands on a rock on the outer shore; its

lantern was visible above the Head. Anne pointed to it.

“That has been there only a century,” she said. “Before it we had another

and a better light, we Bretons. Where those ruins are, Joanne dear, there

was a small chapel once, and on the plain below the Head was a monastery.

It was founded hundreds of years ago, by S. Sampson some say, and others

by the Saxon S. Dunstan himself, or, as they call him here, S. Gonstan,

the patron of mariners. I do not know how long it had been in existence

at the time of the legend, but long enough to have become famous, quite

large in numbers, and a blessing to the country round about. The monks

were the physicians of the place; they knew every herb, and distilled

potions from them, which they administered to the sick, so that they came

to the beds of poverty and pain with healing for soul and body both. They

taught the children; they settled quarrels and disputes; on Rogation days

they led the devout procession from field to field, marking boundary

lines, and praying or chanting praises at every wayside cross.

“But that which was their special work was the guarding of this coast.

Instead of that staring white lighthouse, there was on the top of the

chapel’s square tower a large lantern surmounted by a cross, and all

through the night the monks kept it burning, and many a ship was saved

and many a life preserved by this means. At Vespers the lamp was lighted,

and one monk tended it from then till Nocturns, giving his unoccupied

time to prayer for all at sea, both as to their bodily and spiritual

wants, and to every one in any need or temptation that night. At Nocturns

he was relieved by another monk, who kept watch till Prime. Such for

three centuries had been the custom, and never had the light been known

to fail.

“It must have been a strange sight--that band of men in gown and cowl

engaged in the never-omitted devotions before the altar, then departing

silently, leaving one alone to wrestle in prayer for the tried souls that

knew little of the hours thus spent for them. O Joanne! what would I not

give to have it here again; to know that this was once more the Holy

Cape, as it used to be called; and that here no hour went by, however it

might be elsewhere, that prayers and praises were not being offered to

our dear Lord, who ever intercedes for us!”

Anne was silent for a while, and I felt sure that she was praying. When

she roused herself, it was to bid the rowers pull home fast, as it was

almost time for Vespers.

“You shall hear the rest, dear,” she said, “when we go up-stairs

to-night.” So after Compline, and after Anne and I had played and sung

to her parents, as we were wont to do, she came into my room and lighted

the fire and the tall candles, and we settled ourselves for a real

school-girl talk. Anne showed me a sketch which her brother Bertrand had

made, partly from fancy, and partly from the ruins, of the monastery and

chapel.

“It looks like a place of peace and holiness, where one might be safe

from sin for ever,” I said; but Anne shook her head.

“The old delusion,” she sighed. “As if Satan would not spread sore

temptations just in such abodes as these. Don’t you remember how often

we have spoken of it--the terrible strength and subtlety of spiritual

temptations, simply because they are less obvious than others? The legend

of the Friar witnesses to that, whether you take the story as true or

false. I am going to give myself a treat to-night, and I am sure it will

be one to you. Bertrand wrote out the legend after he made the sketch.

Will you care to hear it?”

“Indeed I would,” I answered; and Anne unfolded her precious paper.

“It is only a fragment,” she said, “beginning abruptly where I left off

this afternoon; but perhaps it will show you more of what Bertrand is.”

“Anne,” I asked suddenly, “don’t you miss him--more than any of the

others?”

“No--yes,” she answered, then paused thoughtfully. “Yes,” she said at

last, “I suppose I do. Because, so long as I know he is living somewhere

on this earth, it seems possible for my feet to go to him and my eyes to

see his face. But, after all, none of them seem far away. We are brought

so near in the great Communion, in prayers--_in everything_. In fact,

Joanne--does it seem very cold-hearted?--oftenest I do not miss them at

all; God so makes up for every loss.”

I was crying by this time, for my heartache was constant; and Anne came

and kissed me, and looked distressed. “I ought not to trouble you,” she

said. “Did I? I did not mean to hurt you.”

“Oh! no,” I answered. “Only why should I not be as resigned as you?”

“Joanne darling!” she exclaimed, “you are _that_ much more than I am.

Can’t you see? You feel--God causes you to feel it--keenly. That is

your great cross; and so, when you do not murmur, but say, ‘God’s will

be done,’ you are resigned. But that is not the cross he gives to me.

Instead, he makes bereavement light to me by choosing to reveal his

mercies; and I must take great care to correspond to his grace. Bertrand

warned me solemnly of that. And yet this is not all I mean. Perhaps you

will understand better when you have heard the legend.”

She sat on the floor close beside me, and held my hand. I thanked God for

her, she comforted me so. I was always hungry then for visible love; but

by degrees, and partly through her, he taught me to be content with a

love that is invisible.

“There was once a monk,” she read, “the youngest of the brotherhood, who

was left to keep the watch from midnight until dawn. Through the windows

the moonbeams fell, mingling with the light that burned before the

tabernacle, and with the gleam of the monk’s small taper. Outside, the

sea was smooth like glass, and the stars shone brightly, and a long line

of glory stretched from shore to shore. Lost in supplication, the monk

lay prostrate before the altar. His thoughts and prayers were wandering

far away--to the sick upon their beds of pain, to travellers on land and

sea, to mourners sunk in loneliness or in despair, to the poor who had no

helper, to little children, to the dying; most of all, to the tempted,

wherever they might be.

“He was intensely earnest, and he had a loving temperament and a strong

imagination which had found fitting curb and training in the devout

practice of meditation. The prayers he used were no mere form to him;

he seemed actually to behold those for whom he interceded, actually to

feel their needs and sore distress. This was nothing new, but to-night

the power of realization came upon him as never before. He saw the dying

in their final anguish; he suffered with the suffering, and felt keen

temptations to many a deed of evil, and marked Satan’s messengers going

up and down upon the earth, seeking to capture souls. Sharper than all

else was the conflict he underwent with doubts quite new to him--doubts

of the use or power of his prayers. Still he prayed on, in spite of the

keen sense of unworthiness to pray. He would not give place for a moment

to the suggestion that his prayers were powerless. Again and again he

fortified himself with the Name of all-prevailing might. And then it

seemed to him, in the dim candle-light and among the pale moonbeams, that

the Form upon the crucifix opened its eyes and smiled at him, and that

from the lips came a voice saying, ‘Whatsoever ye shall ask in my name,

that will I do.’

“The hour came to tend the light; he knew it. But he knew, too, that the

sea without was calm, even like the crystal sea before the Throne, save

where the wild currents that never rested were surging white with foam

and uttering hoarse murmurs. He knew that the night was marvellously

still; that there was no wind, not even enough to stir the lightest leaf.

What mariner could err, even though for once the light of the monks grew

dim--nay, even if it failed? Could he leave that glorious vision, in

order to trim a lantern of which there was no need; or cease his prayers

for perishing souls, in order to give needless help to bodies able to

protect themselves? These thoughts swept through his mind, and his choice

was hastily made to remain before the altar; and even as he made it the

vision faded, yet with it, or with his decision, all temptation to doubt

vanished too. If devils had been working upon him to cause him to cease

from intercession, they left him quite free now to pray--with words, too,

of such seeming power as he had never used before.

“Suddenly a sound smote upon his ear--such a sound as might well ring

on in one’s brain for a lifetime, and which he was to hear above all

earthly clamor until all earthly clamor should cease. It was the cry of

strong men who meet death on a sudden, utterly unprepared; the crash of

timbers against a rock; the groan of a ship splitting from side to side.

He sprang to his feet and rushed to the door. Already the great bell of

the monastery was tolling, and dark, cowled figures were hastening to

the shore. He looked up. In the cross-topped tower, for the first time

in man’s knowledge, the lamp of the monks was out. Just then the prior

hurried by him and up the stairs, and soon, but all too late, the beacon

blazed again.

“With an awful dread upon his heart he made his way to the coast. The

water foamed unbroken by aught save rocks; but pallid lips told the

story of the vessel that had sailed thither, manned by a merry crew made

merrier by drink, careless of their course, depending on the steadfast

light, and sure, because they did not see it, that they had not neared

the dangerous whirlpool and hidden rocks. Only one man escaped, and,

trembling, told the story. He had been the only sober man on board; and

when he warned the captain of their danger, he was laughed and mocked at

for his pains, and told that all true mariners would stake the monks’

light against the eyes of any man on earth. It was not the Holy Cape that

they were nearing, but Cape Brie, they said, and every one knew it was

safe sailing there. With jests and oaths instead of prayers upon their

lips, with sin-stained souls, they had gone down into that whirling tide,

which had swept them off in its strong under-tow to sea. There were homes

that would be desolate and hearts broken; there were bodies drowned, and

souls launched into eternity--perhaps for ever lost--for lack of one

little light, for the fault of a single half-hour. And still the stars

shone brightly, and the long line of glory stretched from shore to shore,

and the night was marvellously still; but upon one soul there had fallen

a darkness that might be felt--almost the darkness of despair.

“Monk Felix they had called him, and had been wont to say that he did not

belie his name, with his sweet young face and happy smile, and his clear

voice in the choir. He was Monk Infelix now and while time lasted.

“In the monastery none saw an empty place; for the man whose life had

been the only one preserved in that swift death-struggle had begged,

awed and repentant, to be received into the number of these brethren

vowed to God’s peculiar service. But in village and in choir they missed

him who had gone in and out among them since his boyhood, and under their

breath the people asked, ‘Where is he?’ No definite answer was given,

but a rumor crept about, and at length prevailed, that Monk Felix had

despaired of pardon; that day and night the awful death-cry rang in his

ears; and day and night he besought God to punish here and spare there,

imploring that he might also bear some of the punishment of those souls

that had passed away through his neglect. And a year from that night,

and in the very hour, the last rites having been given to him as to the

dying, the rock now called the Friar’s had opened mysteriously. Around it

stood the brotherhood, chanting the funeral psalms very solemnly; and as

the words, “De profundis clamavi ad Te, Domine,” were intoned, one left

their number, and, with steady step and a face full of awe and yet of

thankfulness, entered the cleft, and the rock closed.

“Years came and went, other hands tended the lantern, till in the

Revolution the light of the monks and the Order itself were swept away,

and the monastery was laid in ruins. But the legend is even now held for

truth by simple folk, that in Friar’s Rock the monk lives still, hearing

always the eddying flood about him, that beats in upon his memory the

story of his sin; and they say that with it mingles ever the cry of men

in their last agony, and the cry is his name, thus kept continually

before the Judge. There, in perpetual fast and vigil, he watches and

prays for the coming of the Lord and the salvation of souls, and the

rock that forms his prison has been made to take his shape by the action

of those revengeful waves. What he knows of passing events--what added

misery and mystery it is that now no longer the holy bell and chant echo

above him--none can tell. But there, they say, whatever chance or change

shall come to Bretagne, he must live and pray and wait till the Lord

comes. Then, when the mountains fall and the rocks are rent, his long

penance shall be over, and he shall enter into peace.”

Anne looked at me. “Was it very hard--too hard?” she asked.

“O Anne!” I cried, “it is not true?”

She smiled. “I have more to read,” she said; “more of fact, perhaps.” So

she went on.

“There is, in the archives of this domain, an account of a settlement

some twenty miles from here, where a horde of outlaws dwell in huts and

caves, their hand against every man, and every man’s hand against them.

It was as much as one’s life was worth to go among them, unless one was

ready to live as they lived, and sin as they sinned. But it is recorded

that in the same year in which is also recorded the loss of a Dutch

vessel by reason of the failure of the light of the monks--an event never

known before, and never again till the Revolution in its great guilt

quenched it and shattered the sacred walls--there came to these men a

missionary priest, seeking to save their souls. They say he was a man

who never smiled, yet his very presence brought comfort. Little children

loved him; and poor, down-trodden women learned hope and patience from

him; and men consented to have him there, and not to slay him.

“Yet what he underwent was fearful. He lived in a hovel so mean that the

storms drove through it, and the floor was soaked with rain or white with

frost or snow. No being in that place poorer, more hungry, more destitute

of earthly comfort. Yet his crusts he shared with the beggar, his pallet

of straw far oftener held the child turned out from shelter, the sick,

the dying, than him. There the leper found a home, and tendance, not only

of pity but of love--hands that washed, lips that kissed, prayers that

upbore him in the final struggle.

“We read of temptations from devils which the saints have undergone;

there are those who presume to doubt them. This man wrestled with

temptations from his brother men, who seemed like very fiends, and often,

often, the anguish of despair came upon him, and he thought he was

already lost, and a wild desire almost overwhelmed him to join them in

their evil ways. For, by some horrible instinct, they seemed to divine

that pain to the body would be slight to him compared to the tortures

which they could invent for his soul. They came to his ministrations, and

mimicked him when he spoke, and set their ribald songs to sacred tunes.

Before his door they parodied the holiest rites. They taught the children

to do the same things at their sports.

“And he--it is said that in the pauses of midnight or noontide rout and

wild temptation they heard him praying for them, and praying for himself,

like one who had bound up his own life in the bundle of their lives, and

believed that he would be lost or saved with them. It is said that at

times he rushed out among them like S. Michael, and his voice was as a

trumpet, and he spoke of the wrath of God; and, again, he would open his

door, and his face would be like death, and he would tremble sorely, as

he begged them, like some tortured creature, to cease from sin. What they

did was to him as if he did it. He was so of them that their temptations

were his also, till he often seemed to himself as sunk in sin as any of

them.

“Yet, one by one, souls went to God from that fiend-beleaguered place;

babes with the cross hardly dry upon their foreheads; children taught to

love the God whom once they had only known to curse; some of those sick

made for ever well, some of those lepers made for ever clean. The priest

set up crosses on their graves, and sacrilegious hands broke them down;

but no hands could stop his prayers and praises for the souls that by

God’s blessing he had won. He tried to build a little chapel, and they

rent it stone from stone; but none could destroy the temple of living

stones built up to God out of that mournful spot.

“A Lent came when as never before he strove with and for these people.

It was as if an angel spoke to them. An angel? Nay, a very man like

themselves, as tempted as any of them, a sinner suffering from his sin;

yet a man and a sinner who loved God, believed in God, knew that he would

come to judge, yet knew he was mighty to save. That Lent, Satan himself

held sway there; new and more vile and awful blasphemies surged through

the place; it was his last carnival, and it was a mad one. Men held women

back from church if they wished to worship, but followed them there and

elsewhere to darker deeds of sacrilege and revelry than even they had

known before. Yet in the gray dawn, when sleep overpowered the revellers,

a few people crept to that holy hut round which the sinners had danced

their dance of defiance and death and sin, and there sought for pardon

and blessing, and knelt before the Lord, who shunned not the poor

earth-altar where a priest pleaded daily for souls, as for so long he had

done, except on the rare occasions when he would be gone for a night and

a day, they knew not where, and return with fresh vigor and courage.

“Thursday in Holy Week he kept his watch with the Master in his agony.

Round him the storm of evil deeds and words rose high. In the midst of

it the rioters thought they saw a vision. It was a moonlight night, and

marvellously still; no wind moved the trees, and the water was like

glass. But all the silence of earth was broken by hideous shout and

song, and all its brightness turned to darkness by such deeds of evil as

Christians may not name. Before those creatures steeped in sin, wallowing

in it, one stood suddenly, haggard, spent as beneath some great burden,

wan as with awful suffering. The moonbeams wrapped him in unearthly

light, he seemed of heaven, and yet a sufferer. He did not speak; how

could he speak, who had pleaded with them again and again by day, and

spent his nights in prayer, for such return as this? He lifted up his

eyes, and spread his arms. He looked to them like one upon a cross. ‘The

Christ! The Christ!’ they murmured, awestruck. And then, ‘Slay him!’ some

one shouted frantically. There came a crash of stones, of wood, of jagged

iron, and in the midst a distinct, intense voice, ‘O Lord Jesus, forgive

us.’ They had heard the last of the prayers that vexed them.

“On Good Friday morning, as the brotherhood came from Prime, a strange

being, more like a beast than a man,, approached them. ‘Come to us,’ he

said in a scarcely intelligible dialect--‘come to the _Dol des Fées_: The

abbot asked no questions, and made no delay. He bade one of the older

monks accompany him, and together they sought the place. Before they

reached it, sounds of loud, hoarse wailing were borne to them upon the

breeze; and their guide, on hearing them, broke forth into groans like

the groans of a beast, and beat his breast, and cried, ‘My father, my

father! My sin, my sin!’

“They saw hovels and caves, deserted; among the poorest, one still

poorer; about it, men, women, and children wrung their hands or sobbed

and tore their hair, or lay despairing on the ground. Entering, four bare

walls met their view; then a pallet, where an idiot grinned and pointed.

Following his pointing finger, they saw an earth-altar where the light

still burned. Before it one lay at rest. Wrapped in his tattered robe;

his hands clasped, as though he prayed yet, above the crucifix upon his

heart; hands, neck, and face bruised and battered and red with blood; his

face was of one at peace. The contest was ended. He who lay there dead

lay there a victor, by the grace of God. Around him his people, for whom

he gave his life, begged for the very help they had so long refused. And

soon, where so long he labored, sowing good seed in tears, the reapers

went with shouting, bringing their sheaves with them. That which had been

the abode of sinners has become years since the abode of saints.

“Thanks be to God!”

“But it was such a little sin,” I said, as Anne put the paper by.

“How great a sin lost Eden?” she asked gravely. “Besides, we cannot tell

what spiritual pride or carelessness, unknown or hidden, may have led to

such a fall. But, dear, it was not anything of that sort I wanted to talk

about, but the mercy, and how it explains what we were speaking of.”

“The mercy?” I repeated.

“Yes,” she said fervently. “To be punished, and yet the very punishment

to contain the power to pray on still--to speak to God--to plead with

him for souls, the souls he died for on the cross. What though one were

shut for all time in Friar’s Rock, if one trusted that at the end the

Vision of God would be his for ever, and till then could and must ask him

continually to have mercy on immortal souls? Or who would not live that

living death in _Dol des Fées_ to live it in prayer at the altar, and to

die a martyr’s death?

“Joanne, my darling, what, after all, are sorrow and death and separation

and loneliness to us who can speak to God? In him we are all brought

near. His blood makes each of his children dear to those who love him.

Day by day to forget self in them, in him; day by day to let grief or

pleasure grow less and less in one absorbing prayer that his kingdom

come; day by day to lose one’s self in him--_that_ is living, and _that_

is loving. I cannot mourn much for my precious ones that are only absent

from my sight, but safe and present with him; my tears are for souls that

are _not_ safe, the wide world over; and I cannot miss much what I have

never really lost. A thousand times Friar’s Rock speaks to me, and this

is what it says:

“‘If thou, Lord, wilt mark iniquities, Lord, who shall stand it?

“‘For with thee there is merciful forgiveness; and by reason of thy law I

have waited--_for thee_, O Lord.

“‘From the morning watch even until night, let Israel hope in the Lord.

“‘Because with the Lord there is mercy, and with him plentiful redemption.

“‘And he shall redeem Israel from all his iniquities.’”

It was years ago, as I have said, that Anne d’Estaing told me this

legend. Since then, her parents have died, the château has passed into

other hands, she is head of a convent in Bretagne, and I--I lie here,

the last of my name, a hopeless invalid, with not a penny to call my

own. Rich once, and young, and fair, and proud; sad once, and doubting

how to bear a lonely future, I know the meaning of Anne’s story now. “I

have waited _for thee_, O Lord! And he shall redeem Israel from all his

iniquities.”

While I wait for him, I pray. It does not grieve me that I do not hear

from Anne. La Mère Angélique is more to me, and nearer to me, than when,

in days long past, we spoke face to face. For I _know_ we meet in the

sure refuge of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and that, with saints on earth

and saints in glory, and the souls beneath the altar, we pray together

the same prayer--“Thy kingdom come.”

DUNLUCE CASTLE.

(COUNTY ANTRIM.)

Oh! of the fallen most fallen, yet of the proud

Proudest; sole-seated on thy tower-girt rock;

Breasting for ever circling ocean’s shock;

With blind sea-caves for ever dinned and loud;

Now sunset-gilt; now wrapt in vapor-shroud;

Till distant ships--so well thy bastions mock

Primeval nature’s work in joint and block--

Misdeem _her_ ramparts, round thee bent and bowed,

For thine, and on _her_ walls, men say, have hurled

The red artillery store designed for thee:--

Thy wars are done! Henceforth perpetually

Thou restest, like some judged, impassive world

Whose sons, their probatory period past,

Have left that planet, void amid the vast.

AUBREY DE VERE.

SPACE.

III.

Bodies have bulk or volume, whereby they are said to occupy a certain

place, and to fill it with their dimensions. Hence, to complete our task,

we have now to consider space in relation with the volumes and places of

bodies. To proceed orderly, we must first determine the proper definition

of “place,” and its division; then we shall examine a few questions

concerning the relation of each body to its place, and particularly the

difficult and interesting one whether bodies can be really bilocated and

multilocated.

_Place._--Aristotle, in the fourth book of his _Physics_, defines

the place of a body as “the surface by which the body is immediately

surrounded and enveloped”--“_Locus est extrema superficies corporis

continentis immobilis._” This definition was accepted by nearly all

the ancients. The best of their representatives, S. Thomas, says:

“_Locus est terminus corporis continentis_”--viz., The place of a body

is the surface of the body which contains it; and the Schoolmen very

generally define place to be “the concave surface of the surrounding

body: _Superficies concava corporis ambientis._” Thus, according to the

followers of Aristotle, no body can have place unless it is surrounded by

some other body. Immobility was also believed to be necessarily included

in the notion of place: _Superficies immobilis._ Cardinal de Lugo says:

“the word _place_ seems to be understood as meaning the real surface of

a surrounding body, not, however, as simply having its extension all

around, but as immovable--that is, as attached to a determinate imaginary

space.”[179] We do not see what can be the meaning of this last phrase.

For De Lugo holds that “real space” is the equivalent of “place,” and

that space, as distinguished from place, is nothing real: _Non est

aliquid reale._[180] His imaginary space is, therefore, a mere nothing.

How are we, then, to understand that a real surface can be “attached

to a determinate imaginary space”? Can a real being be attached to a

determinate nothing? Are there many nothings? or nothings possessing

distinct determinations? We think that these questions must all be

answered in the negative, and that neither Cardinal de Lugo, nor any one

else who considers imaginary space as a mere nothing, can account for the

immobility thus attributed to place.

The reason why Aristotle’s definition of place came to be generally

adopted by the old Schoolmen is very plain. For, in the place occupied

by any given body, two things can be considered, viz., the limiting

surface, and the dimensive quantity which extends within the limiting

surface. Now, as the ancients believed the matter of which bodies are

composed to be endowed with continuity, it was natural that they should

look upon the dimensive quantity included within the limiting surface as

an appurtenance of the matter itself, and that they should consider it,

not as an intrinsic constituent of the place occupied, but as a distinct

reality through which the body could occupy a certain place. According to

this notion of dimensive quantity, the limiting surface was retained as

the sole constituent of the place occupied; and the dimensions within the

surface being thus excluded from the notion of place, were attached to

the matter of the body itself, as a special accident inhering in it.

This manner of conceiving things is still looked upon as unobjectionable

by those philosophers who think that the old metaphysics has been carried

to such a degree of perfection by the peripatetics as to have nothing or

little to learn from the modern positive sciences. But whoever has once

realized the fact that the dimensions of bodies are not continuous lines

of matter, but intervals, or relations, in space, will agree that such

dimensions do not _inhere_ in the matter, but are extrinsic relations

between material terms distinctly ubicated. What is called the volume of

a body is nothing but the resultant of a system of relations in space.

The matter of the body supplies nothing to its constitution except the

extrinsic terms of the relations. The foundation of those relations is

not to be found in the body, but in space alone, as we have proved in our

last article; and the relations themselves do not _inhere_ in the terms,

but only _intervene_ between them. Hence the dimensive quantity of the

volume is intrinsically connected with the place it occupies, and must

enter into the definition of place as its material constituent, as we are

going to show.

As to the Aristotelic definition of place, we have the following

objections: First, a good definition always consists of two notions,

the one generic and determinable, as its material element, the other

differential and determinant, as its formal element. Now, Aristotle’s

definition of place exhibits at best only the formal or determinant, and

omits entirely the material or determinable. It is evident, in fact, that

the surface of any given body determines the limits and the figure of

something involved in the notion of place. But what is this something?

It cannot be a mere nothing; for nothing does not receive limits and

figure, as real limits and real figure must be settled upon something

real. This something must therefore be either the quantity of the matter,

or the quantity of the volume enclosed within the limiting surface. And

as we cannot admit that the quantity of the place occupied by a body is

the quantity of matter contained in the body (because bodies which have

different quantities of matter can occupy equal places), we are bound

to conclude that the quantity of the place occupied by a body is the

quantity of the volume comprised within the limiting surface. This is the

determinable or material constituent of place; for this, and this alone,

is determined by the concave surface of the surrounding body. In the same

manner as a cubic body contains dimensions within its cubic form, so also

a cubic place contains dimensions under its cubic surface; hence the

place of a body has volume, the same volume as the body; and therefore

it cannot be defined as a mere limiting surface.

Secondly, the definition of a thing should express what every one

understands the thing to be. But no one understands the word “place” as

meaning the exterior limit of the body which occupies it, therefore the

exterior limit of the body is not the true definition of place. The minor

of this syllogism is manifest. For we predicate of place many things

which cannot be predicated of the exterior limit of the body. We say, for

instance, that a place is full, half-full, or empty; that it is capable

of so many objects, persons, etc.; and it is plain that these predicates

cannot appertain to the exterior limit of the body, but they exclusively

belong to the capacity within the limiting boundary. Hence a definition

of place which overlooks such a capacity is defective.

Thirdly, to equal quantities of limiting surfaces do not necessarily

correspond equal quantities of place. Therefore, the limiting surface is

not synonymous with place, and cannot be its definition. The antecedent

is well known. Take two cylinders having equal surfaces, but whose bases

and altitudes are to one another in different ratios. It is evident by

geometry that such cylinders will have different capacities--that is,

there will be more occupable or occupied room in the one than in the

other. The consequence, too, is plain; for, if the room, or place, can

be greater or less while the limiting surface does not become greater or

less, it is clear that the place is not the limiting surface.

Fourthly, what Aristotle and his school called “the surface of the

surrounding body,” is now admitted to be formed by an assemblage of

unextended material points, perfectly isolated; and therefore such

a surface does not constitute a continuous material envelope, as it

was believed in earlier times. Now, since those isolated points have

no dimensions, but are simply terms of the dimensions in space, the

so-called “surface” owes its own dimensions to the free intervals between

those points, just as the dimensions also of the volume enclosed owe

their existence to similar intervals between the same points. Therefore

the same terms which mark in space the limit of place, mark also its

volume; and thus the volume under the surface belongs to the place itself

no less than does the limiting surface.

Fifthly, a body in vacuum would have its absolute place; and yet in

vacuum there is no surface of surrounding bodies. Therefore an exterior

surrounding body is not needed to constitute place. In fact, the body

itself determines its own place by the extreme terms of its own bodily

dimensions. This the philosophers of the peripatetic school could not

admit, because they thought that the place of the body could not move

with the body, but ought to remain “attached to a determinate imaginary

space.” But, in so reasoning, they confounded the absolute place with

the relative, as will be shown hereafter. Yet they conceded that a body

in vacuum would have its place; and, when asked to point out there

the surface of a surrounding body, they could not answer, except by

abandoning the Aristotelic definition and by resorting to the centre and

the poles of the world, thus exchanging the absolute place (_locus_)

for the relative (_situs_), without reflecting that they had no right

to admit a relative place where, according to their definition, the

absolute was wanting.

Sixthly, the true definition of place must be so general as to be

applicable to all possible places. But the Aristotelic definition does

not apply to all places. Therefore such a definition is not true. The

major of our argument needs no proof. The minor is proved thus: There

are places not only within surfaces, but also within lines, and on the

lines themselves; for, if on the surface of a body we describe a circle

or a triangle, it is evident that a place will be marked and determined

on that surface. Its limiting boundary, however, will be, not the surface

of a surrounding body, but simply the circumference of the circle, or the

perimeter of the triangle.

For these reasons we maintain that place cannot properly be defined as

“the surface of the surrounding body.” As to the additional limitation,

that such a surface should be considered as “immovable”--that is,

affixed to a determinate space (imaginary, of course, according to the

peripatetic theory, and therefore wholly fictitious)--we need only say

that even if it were possible to attach the surface of a body to a

determinate space, which is not the case, yet this condition could not be

admitted in the definition of place, because the _absolute_ place of a

body is invariably the same, wherever it be, in absolute space, and does

not change except as compared with other places. Absolute place, just as

absolute ubication, has but one manner of existing in absolute space; for

all places, considered in themselves, are extrinsic terminations of the

_same_ infinite virtuality, and are all _equally_ in the centre, so to

say, of its infinite expanse, whatever be their mutual relations.

_True Notion of Place._--What is, then, the true definition of place?

Webster describes it in his _Dictionary_ as “a particular portion of

space of indefinite extent, occupied, or intended to be occupied, by any

person or thing, and considered as the space where a person or thing does

or may rest, or has rested, as distinct from space in general.” This is

in fact the meaning of the word “place” in the popular language. The

philosophical definition of place, as gathered from this description,

would be: “Place is a particular portion of space.” This is the very

definition which all philosophers, before Aristotle, admitted, and which

Aristotle endeavored to refute, on the ground that, when a body moves

through space, its place remains intrinsically the same.

We have shown in our last article that space considered in itself has no

parts; but those who admit portion of space, consider space as a reality

dependent on the dimensions of the bodies by which it is occupied--that

is, they call “space” those resultant relative intervals which have their

foundation in space itself. If we were to take the word “space” in this

popular sense, we might well say that “place is a portion of space,”

because any given place is but one out of the many places determined

by the presence of bodies in the whole world. On the other hand, since

space, properly so called, is itself _virtually_ extended--that is,

equivalent in its absolute simplicity to infinite extension, and since

_virtual_ extension suggests the thought of _virtual_ parts, we might

admit that there are _virtual_ portions of space in this sense, that

space as the foundation of all local relations corresponds by its

virtuality to all the dimensions and intervals mensurable between all

terms ubicated, and receives from them distinct extrinsic denominations.

Thus, space as occupied by the sun is virtually distinguished from itself

as occupied by the moon, not because it has a distinct entity in the

sun and another in the moon, but because it has two distinct extrinsic

terminations. We might therefore admit that place is “a virtual portion

of space determined by material limits”; and we might even omit the

epithet “virtual” if it were understood that the word “space” was taken

as synonymous with the dimensions of bodies, as is taken by those who

deny the reality of vacuum. But, though this manner of speaking is and

will always remain popular, owing to its agreement with our imagination

and to its conciseness, which makes it preferable for our ordinary

intercourse, we think that the place of a body, in proper philosophical

language, should be defined as “a system of correlations between the

terms which mark out the limits of the body in space”; and therefore

place in general, whether really occupied or not, should be defined as

“a system of correlations between ubications marking out the limits of

dimensive quantity.”

This definition expresses all that we imply and that Webster includes

in the description of place; but it changes the somewhat objectionable

phrase “portion of space” into what people mean by it, viz., “a system

of correlations between distinct ubications,” thereby showing that it

is not the absolute entity of fundamental space, but only the resultant

relations in space, that enter into the intrinsic constitution of place.

By “a system of correlations” we mean the adequate result of the

combination of all the intervals from every single term to every other

within the limits assumed, in every direction. Such a result will

therefore represent either a volume, or a surface, or a line, according

as the terms considered within the given limits are differently disposed

in space. Thus a spherical place results from the mutual relations

intervening between all the terms of its geometric surface; and therefore

it implies all the intervals which can be measured, and all the lines

that can be traced, in all directions, from any of those terms to any

other within the given limits. In like manner, a triangular place results

from the mutual relations intervening between all the terms forming

its perimeter; and therefore it implies all the intervals and lines of

movement which can be traced, in all directions, from any of those terms

to any other within the given limits.

In the definition we have given, the material or determinable element

is the system of correlations or intervals which are mensurable within

the limiting terms; the formal or determinant is the disposition of

the limiting terms themselves--that is, the definite boundary which

determines the extent of those intervals, and gives to the place a

definite shape.

Thus it appears that, although there is no place without space,

nevertheless the entity of space does not enter into the constitution of

place as an intrinsic constituent, but only as the extrinsic foundation.

This is what we have endeavored to express as clearly as we could in our

definition of place. As, however, in our ordinary intercourse we cannot

well speak of place with such nice circumlocutions as are needed in

philosophical treatises, we do not much object to the common notion that

place is “space intercepted by a limiting boundary,” and we ourselves

have no difficulty in using this expression, out of philosophy, owing

to the loose meaning attached to the word “space” in common language;

for all distances and intervals in space are called “spaces,” even

in mechanics; and thus, when we hear of “space intercepted,” we know

that the speakers do not refer to the absolute entity of space (which

they have been taught to identify with nothingness), but merely to the

intervals resulting from the extrinsic terminations of that entity.

Most of the Schoolmen (viz., all those who considered void space as

imaginary and unreal) agreed, as we have intimated, with Aristotle, that

the notion of place involves nothing but the surface of a surrounding

body, and contended that within the limits of that surface there was

no such chimerical thing as mere space, but only the quantity of the

body itself. Suarez, in his _Metaphysics_ (Disp. 51, sect. 1, n. 9),

mentions the opinion of those who maintained that place is the space

occupied by a body, and argues against it on the ground that no one can

say what kind of being such a space is. Some have affirmed, says he,

that such a space is a body indivisible and immaterial--which leads to

an open contradiction--though they perhaps considered this body to be

“indivisible,” not because it had no parts, but because its parts could

not be separated. They also called it “immaterial,” on account of its

permeability to all bodies. But this opinion, he justly adds, is against

reason and even against faith; for, on the one hand this space should

be eternal, uncreated, and infinite, whilst on the other no body can be

admitted to have these attributes.

Others, Suarez continues, thought that the space which can be occupied by

bodies is mere quantity extending all around without end. This opinion

was refuted by Aristotle, and is inadmissible, because there cannot be

quantitative dimensions without a substance, and because the bodies

which would occupy such a space have already their own dimensions, which

cannot be compenetrated with the dimensions of space. And moreover,

such a quantity would be either eternal and uncreated--which is against

faith--or created with all other things, and therefore created in space;

which shows that space itself is not such a quantity.

Others finally opine, with greater probability, says he, that space, as

distinct from the bodies that fill it, is nothing real and positive, but

a mere emptiness, implying both the absence of bodies and the aptitude to

be filled by bodies. Of this opinion Toletus says (4 _Phys._ q. 3) that

it is probable, and that it cannot be demonstratively refuted. Yet, adds

Suarez, it can be shown that such a space, as distinct from bodies, is in

fact nothing; for it is neither a substance nor an accident, nor anything

created or temporal, but eternal.

Such is the substance of the reasons adduced by Suarez to prove that

the space occupied by bodies is nothing real. Had he, like Lessius,

turned his thought to the extrinsic terminability of God’s immensity, he

would have easily discovered that, to establish the reality of space,

none of those old hypotheses which he refuted were needed. As we have

already settled this point in a preceding article, we will not return

to it. It may, however, be remarked that what Suarez says regarding the

incompenetrability of the quantity of space with the quantity of the body

is based entirely on the assumption that bodies have their own volume

independently of space--an assumption which, though plausibly maintained

by the ancients, can by no means be reconciled with the true notion of

the volume of bodies as now established by physical science and accepted

by all philosophers. As all dimensive quantity arises from relations

in space, so it is owing to space itself that bodies have volume;

and therefore there are not, as the ancients imagined, two volumes

compenetrated, the one of space, and the other of matter; but there is

one volume alone determined by the material terms related through space.

And thus there is no ground left for the compenetration of two quantities.

S. Thomas also, in his Commentary to the _Physics_ of Aristotle (4

_Phys._ lect. 6), and in the opuscule, _De Natura Loci_, argues that

there is no space within the limiting surface of the body, for two

reasons. The first is, that such a quantity of space would be an accident

without a subject: _Sequitur quod esset aliquod accidens absque subjecto;

quod est impossibile_. The second is, that if there is space within the

surface of the body, as all the parts of the body are in the volume of

the same, so will the places of all the parts be in the place of the

whole; and consequently, there will be as many places compenetrated with

one another as there can be divisions in the dimensions of the body. But

these dimensions admit of an infinite division. Therefore, infinite

places will be compenetrated together: _Sequitur quod sint infinita loca

simul; quod est impossibile_.

These two reasons could not but have considerable weight in a time when

material continuity formed the base of the physical theory of quantity,

and when space without matter was considered a chimera; but in our time

the case is quite different. To the first reason we answer, that the

space within the surface of the body will not be “an accident without

a subject.” In fact, such a space can be understood in two manners,

viz., either as the foundation of the intervals, or as the intervals

themselves; and in neither case will there be an accident without a

subject. For, the space which is the foundation of the intervals is no

accident; it is the virtuality of God’s immensity, as we have proved;

and, therefore, there can be no question about its subject. Moreover,

such a space is indeed within the limits of the body, but it is also

without, as it is not limited by them. These limits, as compared with

space, are extrinsic terms; and therefore they do not belong to space,

but to the body alone. Lastly, although without space there can be no

place, yet space is neither the material nor the formal constituent of

place, but only the extrinsic ground of local relations, just as eternity

is not an intrinsic constituent of time, but only the extrinsic ground

of successive duration. Whence it is manifest that the entity of space

is not the dimensive quantity of the body, but the eminent reason of its

dimensions.

If, on the other hand, space is understood in the popular sense as

meaning the accidental intervals between the limits of the body, then it

is evident that such intervals will not be without their proportionate

subject. Relations have a subject of predication, not of inhesion; for

relation is a thing whose entity, according to the scholastic definition,

consists entirely of a mere connotation; _cuius totum esse est ad aliud

se habere_. Hence all relation is merely _ad aliud_, and cannot be _in

alio_. Accordingly, the intervals between the terms of the body are

_between_ them, but do not inhere in them; and they have a sufficient

subject--the only subject, indeed, which they require, for the very

reason that they exist _between_ real terms, with a real foundation. Thus

the first reason objected is radically solved.

To the second reason we answer, that it is impossible to conceive an

infinite multitude of places in one total place, unless we admit the

existence of an infinite multitude of limiting terms--that is, unless

we assume that matter is mathematically continuous. But, since material

continuity is now justly considered as a baseless and irrational

hypothesis, as our readers know, the compenetration of _infinite_ places

with one another becomes an impossibility.

Yet, as all bodies contain a very great number of material terms, it

may be asked: Would the existence of space within the limits of place

prove the compenetration of a _finite_ number of places? Would it prove,

for instance, that the places of different bodies existing in a given

room compenetrate the place of the room? The answer depends wholly on

the meaning attached to the word “space.” If we take “space” as the

foundation of the relations between the terms of a place, then different

places will certainly be compenetrated, inasmuch as the entity of space

is the same, though differently terminated, in every one of them. But,

if we take “space” as meaning the system of relative intervals between

the terms of a body, then the place of a room will not be compenetrated

with the places of the bodies it contains; because neither the intervals

nor the terms of one place are the intervals or the terms of another, nor

have they anything common except the absolute entity of their extrinsic

foundation. Now, since place is not space properly, but only a system of

correlations between ubications marking out the limits of the body in

space, it follows that no compenetration of one place with another is

possible so long as the terms of the one do not coincide with the terms

of the other.

S. Thomas remarks also, in the same place, that if a recipient full of

water contains space, then, besides the dimensions of the water, there

would be in the same recipient the dimensions of space, and these latter

would therefore be compenetrated with the former. _Quum aqua est in vase,

præter dimensiones aquæ sunt ibi aliæ dimensiones spatii penetrantes

dimensiones aquæ._ This would certainly be the case were it true that

the dimensions of the body are materially continuous, as S. Thomas with

all his contemporaries believed. But the truth is that the dimensions of

bodies do not consist in the extension of continuous matter, but in the

extension of the intervals between the limits of the bodies, which is

greater or less according as it requires a greater or less extension of

movement to be measured. The volume of a body--that is, the quantity of

the place it occupies--is exactly the same whether it be full or empty,

provided the limiting terms remain the same and in the same relation

to one another. It is not the matter, therefore, that constitutes its

dimensions. And then there are, and can be, no distinct dimensions of

matter compenetrating the dimensions of place. But enough about the

nature of place. Let us proceed to its division.

_Division of Place._--Place in general may be divided into _real_ and

_imaginary_, according as its limiting terms exist in nature or are only

imagined by us. This division is so clear that it needs no explanation.

It might be asked whether there are not also _ideal_ places. We answer,

that strictly ideal places there are none; for the ideal is the object of

our intellect, whilst place is the object of our senses and imagination.

Hence the so-called “ideal” places are nothing but “imaginary” places.

Place, whether real or imaginary, is again divided by geometers into

_linear_, _superficial_, and _cubic_ or solid, according to the nature of

their limiting boundaries. A place limited by surfaces is the place of

a volume or geometric solid. A place limited by lines is the place of a

surface. A place limited by mere points is the place of a line.

The ancients, when defining place as “the surface of the surrounding

body,” connected the notion of place with the quantity of volume, without

taking notice of the other two kinds just mentioned. This, too, was a

necessary consequence of their assumption of continuous matter. For,

if matter is intrinsically extended in length, breadth, and depth, all

places must be extended in a similar manner. But it is a known fact that

the word “place” (_locus_) is used now, and was used in all times, in

connection not only with geometric volumes, but also with geometric

surfaces and with geometric lines; and as the geometric quantities

have their counterpart in the physical order, it is manifest that such

geometric places cannot be excluded from the division of place. Can we

not on any surface draw a line circumscribing a circle or any other

close figure? And can we not point out the “place” where the circle or

figure is marked out? There are therefore places of which the boundaries

are lines, not surfaces. And again, can we not fix two points on a

given line, and consider the interval between them as one of the many

places which can be designated along the line? The word “place” in its

generality applies to any kind of dimensive quantity in space. Those

who pretend to limit it to “the surface of a volume” should tell us

what other term is to be used when we have to mention the place of a

plane figure on a wall, or of a linear length on the intersection of

two surfaces. It will be said that the ancients in this case used the

word _Ubi_. But we reply that _Ubi_ and _Locus_ were taken by them as

synonymous. The quantities bounded by lines, or terminated by points,

were therefore equivalently admitted to have their own “places”; which

proves that the definition of place which philosophers left us in their

books, did not express all that they themselves meant when using the

word, and therefore it was not practically insisted upon. With us the

case is different. The _Ubi_, as defined by us, designates a single

point in space, and is distinct from _locus_; hence we do not admit

that our _ubi_ is a place; for there is no place within a point. But

the philosophers of the old school could not limit the real ubication

of matter to a mere point, owing to their opinion that matter was

continuous.

Thus we have three supreme kinds of place--the linear, with one

dimension, length; the superficial, with two dimensions, length and

breadth; the cubic or solid, with three dimensions, length, breadth, and

depth. The true characteristic difference between these kinds of place is

drawn from their _formal_ constituents, viz., from their boundaries. The

cubic place is a place terminated by surfaces. The superficial place is a

place terminated by lines. The linear place is a place terminated by two

points.

These supreme species admit of further subdivision, owing to the

different geometrical figures affected by their respective boundaries.

Thus the place of a body may be tetrahedric, hexahedric, spherical, etc.,

and the place of a surface may be triangular, polygonal, circular, etc.

Place is also divided into _absolute_ and _relative_. It is called

absolute when it is considered _secundum se_--that is, as to its entity,

or as consisting of a system of correlation within a definite limit. It

is called relative when it is considered in connection with some other

place or places, as more or less distant from them, or as having with

respect to them this or that position or situation.

The absolute place of a body, whatever our imagination may suggest to the

contrary, is always the same as long as the body remains under the same

dimensions, be it at rest or in movement. In fact, whenever we speak of a

change of place, we mean that the place of a body acquires a new relation

to the place of some other body--that is, we mean the mere change of its

relativity. When the world was believed to be a sphere of continuous

matter with no real space outside of it, the absolute place of a body

could be considered as corresponding to one or another definite portion

of that sphere, and therefore as changeable; but since the reality of

infinite space independent of matter has been established, it is manifest

that absolute place has no relation to the limits of the material world,

but only to the infinity of space, with respect to which bodies cannot

change their place any more than a point can change its ubication. Hence,

when a body moves, its relative place, or, better, the relativity of

its place to the places of other bodies, is changed; but its absolute

place remains the same. Thus the earth, in describing its orbit, takes

different positions round the sun, and, while preserving its absolute

place unchanged, it undergoes a continuous change of its relativity.

Lastly, place is also divided into _intrinsic_ and _extrinsic_. Omitting

the old explanations of this division, we may briefly state that the

intrinsic place is that which is determined by the dimensions and

boundary of the body, and therefore is coextensive with it. The extrinsic

place of a body is a place greater than the body which is placed in it.

Thus Rome is the extrinsic place of the Vatican Palace, and the Vatican

Palace is the extrinsic place of the Pope; because the Vatican Palace is

in Rome, and the Pope in the Vatican Palace.

_Occupation of Place._--We have now to answer a few questions about the

occupation of place. The first is, whether bodies fill the space they

occupy. The second is, whether the same place can be simultaneously

occupied by two bodies. The third is, whether the place limits and

conserves the body it contains. The fourth is, whether the same body can

be miraculously in two places or more at the same time.

That bodies fill place is a very common notion, because people do not

make any marked distinction between filling and occupying. But to fill

and to occupy are not synonymous. To fill a place is to leave no vacuum

within it; and this is evidently impossible without continuous matter.

As we have proved that continuous matter does not exist, we cannot

admit that any part of place, however small, can be _filled_. Place,

however, is _occupied_. In fact, the material elements of which bodies

are ultimately composed, by their presence in space occupy distinct

points in space--that is, take possession of them, maintain themselves

in them, and from them direct their action all around, by which they

manifest to us their existence, ubication, and other properties. This is

the meaning of _occupation_. Hence the formal reason of occupation is

the presence of material elements in space. Therefore, the place of a

body is occupied by the presence in it of discrete material points, none

of which fill space--that is to say, the place is occupied, not filled.

The common expression, “a place filled with matter,” may, however, be

admitted in this sense, that when the place is occupied by a body, it

does not naturally allow the intrusion of another body. This amounts to

saying, not that the place is really filled, but that the resistance

offered by the body to the intrusion of another body prevents its passage

as effectually as if there were left no occupable room. So much for the

first question.

The second question may be answered thus: Since space is not filled by

the occupying bodies, the reason why bodies exclude one another from

their respective places must be traced not to a want of room in them, but

only to their mutual opposite actions. These actions God can neutralize

and overcome by an action of His own; and if this be done, nothing will

remain that can prevent the compenetration of two bodies and of their

respective places. It is therefore possible, at least supernaturally, for

two bodies to occupy the same place. Nevertheless, we must bear in mind

that, as the elements of the one body are not the elements of the other,

so the ubications of the first set of elements are not the ubications of

the second, and consequently the correlations of the first set are not

identically the correlations of the second. Hence, if one body penetrates

into the place of another body, their places will be intertwined, but

distinct from each other.

The third question must be answered in the negative, notwithstanding the

contrary opinion of all the Peripatetics. The place does not limit and

conserve the body by which it is occupied; it is the body itself that

limits and conserves its own place. For what is it that gives to a place

its formal determination, and its specific and numeric distinction from

all other places, but its extreme boundary? Now, this boundary is marked

out by the very elements which constitute the limits of the body. It is,

therefore, the body itself that by its own limits defines the limits of

its own place, and constitutes the place formally such or such. There

is the same connection between a body and its place as between movement

and its duration. There is no movement without time, nor time without

movement; but movement does not result from time, for it is time itself

that results from movement. Hence, the duration of the movement is

limited by the movement itself. In like manner, there is no body without

place, and no place without a body; but the body does not result from the

place, for it is the place itself that results from the presence of the

body in space. Hence, the place of the body is formally determined by

the body itself. Therefore, it is the body that limits and conserves its

place, not the place that limits and conserves the body.

This conclusion is confirmed by the manner in which our knowledge of

place is acquired. Our perception of the place of a body is caused, not

by the place, but by the body, which acts upon our senses from different

points of its surface, and depicts in our organs the figure of its

limits. This figure, therefore, is the figure of the place only inasmuch

as it is the figure of the body; or, in other terms, it is the body

itself that by its limits determines the limits of its place.

From this it follows that, when a body is said to be in a place

_circumscriptively_, we ought to interpret the phrase, not in the sense

that the body is circumscribed by its place, as Aristotle and his

followers believed, but in this sense, that the body circumscribes its

place by its own limits. And for the same reason, those beings which do

not exist _circumscriptively_ in place (and which are said to be in place

only _definitively_, as is the case with created spirits) are substances

which do not circumscribe any place, because they have no material terms

by which to mark dimensions in space.

The fourth and last question is a very difficult one. A great number

of eminent authors maintain with S. Thomas that real bilocation is

intrinsically impossible; others, on the contrary, hold, with Suarez

and Bellarmine, that it is possible. Without pretending to decide the

question, we will simply offer to our reader a few remarks on the

arguments adduced against the possibility of real bilocation.

The strongest of those arguments is, in our opinion, the following. The

real bilocation of a body requires the real bilocation of all its parts,

and therefore is impossible unless each primitive element of the body can

have two distinct, real ubications at the same time the one natural and

the other supernatural. But it is impossible for a simple and primitive

element to have two distinct, real ubications at the same time, for two

distinct, real ubications presuppose two distinct, real terminations of

the virtuality of God’s immensity, and two distinct, real terminations

are intrinsically impossible without two distinct, real terms. It is

therefore evident that one point of matter cannot mark out two points in

space, and that real bilocation is impossible.

To evade this argument, it might be said that it is not evident, after

all, that the same real term cannot correspond to two terminations.

For to duplicate the ubication of an element of matter means to cause

the same element, which is _here_ present to God, to be _there_ also

present to God. Now this requires only the correspondence of the material

point to two distinct virtualities of divine immensity. Is this a

contradiction? The correspondence to one virtuality is certainly not the

negation of the correspondence to another; hence it is not necessary to

concede that there is a contradiction between the two. It may be added

that the supernatural possibility of bilocation seems to be established

by many facts we read in ecclesiastical history and the lives of saints,

as also by the dogma of the Real Presence of Our Lord’s Body in so many

different places in the Sacrament of the Eucharist. Lastly, although real

bilocation is open to many objections on account of its supernatural

character, yet these objections can be sufficiently answered, as may be

seen in Suarez, in part. 3, disp. 48, sec. 4.

These reasons may have a certain degree of probability; nevertheless,

before admitting that a point of matter can mark two points in space

at the same time, it is necessary to ascertain whether a single real

term can terminate two virtualities of God’s immensity. This is a thing

which can scarcely be conceived; for two distinct ubications result from

two distinct terminations; and it is quite evident, as we have already

intimated, that there cannot be two distinct terminations if there be

not two distinct terms. For the virtualities of divine immensity are

not distinct from one another in their entity, but only by extrinsic

denomination, inasmuch as they are distinctly terminated by distinct

extrinsic terms. Therefore, a single extrinsic term cannot correspond to

two distinct virtualities of divine immensity; whence it follows that a

single material point cannot have two distinct ubications.

As to the facts of ecclesiastical history above alluded to, it might be

answered that their nature is not sufficiently known to base an argument

upon them. Did any saints ever _really_ exist in two places? For aught we

know, they may have existed really in one place, and only phenomenically

in another. Angels occupy no place, and have no bodies; and yet they

appeared in place, and showed themselves in bodily forms, which need not

have been more than phenomenal. Disembodied souls have sometimes appeared

with phenomenal bodies. Why should we be bound to admit that when saints

showed themselves in two places, their body was not phenomenal in one and

real only in the other?

The fact of the Real Presence of Christ’s body in the Blessed Sacrament,

though much insisted upon by some authors, seems to have no bearing

on the present question. For, our Lord’s body in the Eucharist has no

immediate connection with place, but is simply denominated by the place

of the sacramental species, as S. Thomas proves; for it is there _ad

modum substantiæ_, as the holy doctor incessantly repeats, and not _ad

modum corporis locati_.[181] Hence, S. Thomas himself, notwithstanding

the real presence of Christ’s body on our altars, denies without fear the

possibility of real bilocation properly so called.

Though not all the arguments brought against real bilocation are equally

conclusive, some of them are very strong, and seem unanswerable. Suarez,

who tried to answer them, did not directly solve them, but only showed

that they would prove too much if they were applied to the mystery of the

Real Presence. The inference is true; but S. Thomas and his followers

would answer that their arguments do not apply to the Eucharistic mystery.

One of those arguments is the following: If a man were simultaneously in

two places, say, in Rome and in London, his quantity would be separated

from itself; for it would be really distant from itself, and relatively

opposed to itself. But this is impossible. For how can there be real

opposition without two real terms?

Some might answer, that a man bilocated is one term _substantially_,

but equivalent to two _locally_, and that it is not his substance nor

his quantity that is distant from itself, but only one of his locations

as compared with the other. But we do not think that this answer is

satisfactory. For, although distance requires only two _local_ terms, we

do not see how there can be _local_ terms without two distinct beings.

One and the same being cannot be actually in two places without having

two contrary modes: and this is impossible; for two contraries cannot

coexist in the same subject, as S. Thomas observes.[182]

Another of those arguments is based on the nature of quantity. One and

the same quantity cannot occupy two distinct places. For quantity is the

formal cause of the occupation of place, and no formal cause can have two

adequate formal effects. Hence, as one body has but one quantity, so it

can occupy but one place.

This argument cannot be evaded by saying that the quantity which is the

formal cause of occupation is not the quantity of the mass, but the

quantity of the volume. In fact, the duplication of the volume would

duplicate the place; but the volume cannot be duplicated unless each

material term at the surface of the body can acquire two ubications.

Now, this is impossible, as a single term cannot correspond to two

extrinsic terminations of divine immensity, as already remarked. Hence,

the quantity of volume cannot be duplicated in distinct places without

duplicating also the mass of the body--that is, there cannot be two

places without two bodies.

A third argument is as follows: If a body were bilocated, it would be

circumscribed and not circumscribed. Circumscribed, as is admitted,

because its dimensions would coextend with its place; not circumscribed,

because it would also exist entirely outside of its place.

This argument, in our opinion, is not valid; because it is not the place

that circumscribes the body, but the body that circumscribes its own

place. Hence, if a body were bilocated, it would circumscribe two places,

and would be within both alike. It will be said that this, too, is

impossible. We incline very strongly to the same opinion, but not on the

strength of the present argument.

A fourth argument is, that if a thing can be bilocated, there is no

reason why it could not be trilocated and multilocated. But, if so, then

one man could be so replicated as to form by himself alone two battalions

fighting together; and consequently such a man might in one battalion be

victorious, and in the other cut to pieces; in one place suffer intense

cold, and in another excessive heat; in one pray, and in another swear.

The absurdity of these conclusions shows the absurdity of the assumption

from which they follow.

This argument is by no means formidable. Bilocation and multilocation

are a duplication and multiplication of the place, not of the substance.

Now, the principle of operation in man is his substance, whilst his place

is only a condition of the existence and of the movements of his body.

Accordingly, those passions of heat and cold, and such like, which depend

on local movement, can be multiplied and varied with the multiplication

of the places, but the actions which proceed from the intrinsic

faculties of man can not be thus varied and multiplied. Hence, from the

multilocation of a man, it would not follow that he, as existing in one

place, could slay himself as existing in another place, nor that he could

pray in one and swear in another. After all, bilocation and multilocation

would, by the hypothesis, be the effect of supernatural intervention,

and, as such, they would be governed by divine wisdom. Hence it is

unreasonable to assume the possibility of such ludicrous contingencies

as are mentioned in the argument; for God does not lend his supernatural

assistance to foster what is incongruous or absurd.

To conclude. It seems to us that those among the preceding arguments

which have a decided weight against the possibility of real bilocation,

are all radically contained in this, that one and the same element of

matter cannot have at the same time two modes of being, of which the

one entails the exclusion of the other. Now, the mode of being by which

an element is constituted in a point, _A_, excludes the mode of being

by which it would be constituted in another point, _B_. For, since the

ubication in _A_ is distant from the ubication in _B_, the two ubications

are not only distinct, but relatively opposed, as S. Thomas has remarked:

_Distinguuntur ad invicem secundum aliquam loci contrarietatem_; and

therefore they cannot belong both together to the same subject. On the

other hand, we have also proved that a single element cannot terminate

two distinct virtualities of God’s immensity, because no distinct

virtualities can be conceived except with reference to distinct extrinsic

terms. Hence, while the element in question has its ubication in _A_, it

is utterly incapable of any other ubication. To admit that one and the

same material point can terminate two virtualities of divine immensity,

seems to us as absurd as to admit that one and the same created being is

the term of two distinct creations. For this reason we think, with S.

Thomas, that bilocation, properly so called, is an impossibility.

AN EPISODE.

The caption “episode” is advisedly adopted, inasmuch as we are going to

transcribe only one short chapter from a large manuscript of several

hundred pages containing “The Life of Sixtus V.”

However, it is to be regretted that such a life is not published. For it

would reveal unto us the _man_, whereas Ranke and Hübner describe only

the _prince_.

Sixtus V. fell into that mistake, which has proved disastrous to many

popes, and has afforded a weapon, however silly and easily broken, yet

a real weapon to the enemies of the Papacy--nepotism. The charge is

exaggerated of course: in fact, what our enemies assert to have been the

universal failing of all the popes, the true historian avers to have been

the mistake of a few, whereas the examples of heroic detachment from

kindred given by the vast majority of the Pontiffs are wonderful. S.

Gregory the Great says, “better there should be a scandal than the truth

were suppressed”; and surely the church needs no better defence than the

truth. For the present purpose, suffice it to quote the Protestant Ranke,

who, after a thorough investigation of the subject, gave it as his honest

opinion that only _three_ or _four_ popes are really liable to the charge

of nepotism. It is pleasant to be able to quote such an opinion of an

eminent non-Catholic writer against scores of wilful men, who sharpen

their weapons and discharge their shafts, not after honest study and

investigation, but merely on the promptings of blind hatred.

Pope Sixtus V. was the second son of Piergentile Peretti of Montalto.

His eldest brother was Prospero, who married Girolama of Tullio Mignucci,

and died A.D. 1560, without issue.

Camilla was his only sister. She was led to the altar by Gianbattista

Mignucci, brother to Girolama. To an exquisite correctness of judgment,

and great generosity of heart, she joined a quick apprehension of the

importance of circumstances by which she might find herself suddenly

encompassed. The _Anonimo_ of the _Capitoline Memoirs_ says that when

Camilla was unexpectedly raised from the obscure life of a _contadino’s_

wife to the rank of a Roman lady, she was not stunned, but felt perfectly

at ease, whilst her society was coveted by the choicest circles of the

nobility. Cardinal d’Ossat, in his _Letters_, informs us that she was

greatly esteemed and dearly beloved by Louise de Lorraine, queen-dowager

of the gifted but perverse Henry III. of France. The works of her

munificence and public charity in her native Grottamare are many, and

enduring to our day.

Father Felix Peretti had already mounted all the rounds but one of

ecclesiastical preferment--the cardinal’s hat was almost within his

reach. He was a bishop, and occupied some of the highest offices in the

_Curia Romana_. He thought the time had come to satisfy a long-felt

desire--the ennoblement of his family. Hence, in 1562, he called his

sister to Rome, having obtained a sovereign’s rescript by which his

brother was allowed to change his name, Mignucci, into that of Peretti.

On the 17th day of May, 1570, Pius V. raised Mgr. Felix Peretti to the

dignity of cardinal. Thenceforward he is more generally known in history

as Cardinal Montalto, from the place of his nativity.

Thus, even previous to his brother-in-law’s elevation, Gianbattista

Mignucci enters Rome transformed into Peretti, to join his wife and their

two children Francis and Mary.

_O fallaces cogitationes nostras!_ The friar hopes his name, made

illustrious by himself, will not become extinct; but he is mistaken;

if recorded on the tablets of time it will not surely be by a worldly

alliance, which is doomed to a dishonored extinction. The church will

inscribe the Peretti name and fame on the adamantine records of her

immortality.

Verily, if we understand aright the professions of recluses, the

Franciscan friar should have done away with his relations for ever; at

least, so far as not to allow himself to be blinded by human affection.

He should have remembered that he was under no obligation to them, that

from his earliest boyhood he had been taken in hand by churchmen, and

that only through scientific and moral resources acquired in a friary

he had received strength to climb up so high in the ecclesiastical

hierarchy. The world is keen in its observations, and Peretti did not

escape its strictures, seldom erring when established on principles and

facts universally admitted, and moreover sanctioned by divine teaching.

And has not _the_ example been set for those who profess the perfection

of evangelical counsels of how they should behave towards their kindred?

Be that as it may, Fra Felice paid dearly for his ambition.

His niece, Donna Maria Peretti, was soon married, and a dowry granted

her from the revenues of her uncle of three thousand crowns a year.

Mary’s children, two boys and two girls, became allied to some of the

most distinguished families of Italy, and the plebeian blood of Peretti

mingled with that of the simon-pure aristocracy. Out of this issue arose

eminent men who did honor to cross and sword. But enough of this branch

of the friar’s adoption.

About the time of Mgr. Felix Peretti’s elevation to the cardinalate, his

nephew Francesco was wedded to Donna Vittoria Accoramboni of Gubbio, in

Umbria, praised by the _Gentiluomo_, Aquitano (vol. ii., b. vi.), as “a

woman of high mind, of great beauty of soul and body.” Her family still

exists in Italy, and a lineal descendant occupies important posts in the

household of Pius IX.. Her suitors had been many and of princely caste;

among the rest Paolo Giordano Orsini, Duke of Bracciano, formerly married

to the sister of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, Francesco Medici. Paolo,

_homo ruptus disruptusque_, stands charged in history with the murder of

this his former wife, the accomplished Isabella, daughter of Cosmo, whom

he strangled on the 16th of July, 1576. But Vittoria’s father cut short

all suits, and gave her in holy wedlock to Francesco Peretti, nephew of

the mysterious cardinal, whose future elevation to the papal throne was

held _in petto_ by every discerning Roman.

However, Vittoria’s mother gave her consent reluctantly; for wearing the

ducal coronet seemed preferable to being the prospective niece of the

sovereign--_uccello in tasca è meglio che due in frasca_[183] the shrewd

Italian lady thought. But whereas Lady Accoramboni forgot that the Orsini

family owed their power to Nicholas III. (A.D. 1277-80), an Orsini by

birth, who, by the lever of nepotism, had raised an already celebrated

family to the highest standing of European nobility, her husband, on the

other hand, said to her: “Can’t you see? Vittoria will be the head of a

new, powerful family!” Still Lady Accoramboni did not see it, and the

loss of the coronet rankled for ever in her breast.

Indeed, in these days when tales of fiction are the almost exclusive

reading of the youth of both sexes, an accomplished writer might

weave out of the following events a story of stirring interest; not

sensational, indeed, but freighted with most salutary lessons.

Vittoria Accoramboni Peretti had three brothers:

Ottavio was, through the recommendation of Cardinal Peretti, nominated by

the Duke of Urbino for, and by Gregory XIII. appointed to, the bishopric

of Fossombrone. He adorned his see with all the virtues becoming a

scholar, a gentleman, a patriot, and a true apostolic prelate.

Giulio became one of the private household of Cardinal Alessandro

Sforza, by whom he was held in great favor, and employed as confidential

secretary.

Marcello was outlawed for his misdeeds, and a price set on his head. But

Cardinal Peretti obtained his pardon; yet leave to return to Rome was not

granted to him.

“A wise woman buildeth her house: but the foolish will pull down with

her hands that also which is built,” saith the Wise Man. The house of

Francesco and Maria Peretti _was_ built, and it was the home of comfort

and honor, enclosing within its walls the choicest gifts of the world;

and of its brightest ornament, the Lady Vittoria Peretti, it might be

said she was the cynosure of Roman society. The evening _conversazioni_

drew the _élite_ of Rome, graced as they were by the presence of the

cardinal, who, with his proverbial regularity, would attend them for a

definite length of time. His wise sayings, dignity of deportment, and

agreeableness of manners, mingled with an independence of character that

made him almost redoubtable at the Roman court, enhanced the charm of

the family circle. Young prelates prized highly the privilege of being

admitted amongst the visitors. The spacious halls of the Villa Negroni

were adorned with paintings and statuary, and the noblest specimens of

the art of painting; the gardens were reckoned the most tasteful of those

of any princely family in Rome. While he was scrupulous in his attention

to consistorial meetings, and the affairs of the _Curia Romana_ over

which he was appointed, Cardinal Peretti never gave his time to what he

would consider frivolous etiquette. His library, his gardens, afforded

him all the relaxation he needed; his life was most exemplary and devout.

Happy, indeed, was the home built by such hands; but a foolish woman

pulled it down!

At the depth of night, not many months after Vittoria had been wedded,

a note is hurriedly carried by a chambermaid to Francesco; it had been

left at the entry by a well-known friend, and the messenger had left

immediately. It was written by Marcello, who at times entered the city

under protection of night, or of some leaders of political factions, with

which the city swarmed--barons and princes who, under the mild government

of Gregory XIII., had everything their own way.

The letter summoned Francesco to repair at once to the Esquiline hill,

there to meet some gentlemen on a business the nature whereof could not

be entrusted to paper, and admitted of no delay. Hurriedly does the

devoted man dress himself, and, his sword under his arm, forces his way

through the servants who beseech him to halt, disentangles himself from

his wife and mother, who, prostrated before him, cling to his knees,

begging of him not to trust himself to the outlawed Marcello. In vain!

Preceded by a servant with torch in hand, no sooner had he reached the

brow of the Quirinal than the contents of three arquebuses were lodged in

his breast; whereupon four men fell upon him, and finished him with their

stilettos. “Thus,” says an old historian, “fell a youth whose only crime

was to be the husband of a most beautiful woman.” Another chronicler

calls Francesco _Cale e di gran correttezza di costumi_.

The commotion in the family when the ensanguined and ghastly corpse was

carried home can easily be imagined. The lamentations of the women and

the uproar of the servants awoke the cardinal, who slept in a distant

apartment--his palace, the Villa Negrone, as mentioned above, and by that

name known to modern tourists, extending from the Esquiline (Santa Maria

Maggiore) to the Piazza de’ Termini. It is said that on hearing the

dreadful news Montalto fell upon his knees, and prayed God to grant rest

to the soul of his nephew, and to himself fortitude, such as became his

character and dignity. His presence not only brought, but forced calm on

the distracted household. On the next day the Holy Father was to hold a

Consistory, and, contrary to the expectation of all, Cardinal Montalto

was at his post, as usual, among the first. His colleagues offer their

condolence, which he accepts with a resignation almost akin to stoicism.

But when he approaches the throne to give his opinion on the matters

debated, and the pope, with moist eyes and greatly moved, expresses a

heartfelt sympathy in the cardinal’s affliction, pledging his word that

the perpetrators shall be visited with summary and condign punishment,

Montalto thanks the Pontiff for his kind sympathy, protests that he has

already forgiven the murderers, and begs that all proceedings may be

stayed, lest the innocent should be punished for the guilty. Having thus

disposed of the matter, he proceeds with his wonted calmness to discuss

that which was before the Consistory.

Referring to this impassiveness of Peretti, the pope remarked, with an

ominous shake of the head, to his nephew, Cardinal San Sisto, “Indeed,

Montalto is a great friar!” And those of Peretti’s own times, and

subsequent historians, seem to have had an insight of his mind and

motives. In the sober language of Ranke, “His character does not appear

to have been so guileless as it is occasionally represented. As early

as 1574 he is described as learned and prudent, but also crafty and

malignant. He was doubtless gifted with remarkable self-control. When his

nephew was assassinated, he was himself the person who requested the

pope to discontinue the investigation. This quality, which was admired by

all, very probably contributed to his election” to the papal throne.

Those among our readers who have resided among Italians, and especially

in Rome, need not be told of the tremendous excitement which seized

the holy city as it awoke on that dreadful morning. Cardinal Peretti

of Montalto became the observed of all observers; nobles and prelates

thronged the avenues to his villa to assure him of their loyalty and

condolence; very few, indeed, as the world goes, honestly and sincerely;

many simply from custom; almost all, however, moved by a motive of

curiosity to see how the “Picenian packhorse” bore the great calamity,

and, above all, what feelings he would betray towards Paolo Giordano

Orsini, to whom the finger of public opinion already pointed as the

murderer of Vittoria’s husband. By some manœuvre of the “gossiping

committee” the day and the hour on which even Giordano would present

himself at the palace became known, and the throng at the drawing-rooms

was exceedingly great. When the murderer stood face to face before his

victim’s best friend and only avenger, not the least twitch in the

cardinal’s nerves, not a falter in the voice, nor the slightest change of

color betrayed the conflict in his soul. He received Orsini’s treacherous

sympathy as he had received the truest expressions of condolence.

Peretti stood there, the prince, not the avenger. Even the accursed

soul of Giordano was lost in wonderment; he became embarrassed and

disconcerted, and he was reported to have exclaimed as he re-entered his

carriage--“Montalto is a great friar; no mistake about it!” (Montalto è

un gran frate; chi ne dubita!)

Vittoria had no children. Hence, after the funeral, the cardinal sent

her home to her mother, bestowing upon her costly gifts, and giving her

the jewels, plate, and precious articles of furniture and apparel, which

had been the bridal presents of husband and friends. _Ora ti credo_,

said Pasquino to Marforio, in allusion to Montalto’s forbearance and

disinterested magnanimity.

The sequel to this tragedy is so thrilling in interest, so characteristic

of the times about which we write, and must have taxed the feelings of

the future pope so much, that a succinct account thereof cannot but prove

interesting to our readers.

Gregory XIII. urged with energy and perseverance the necessary inquests

to ferret out the murderers of Francesco Peretti. But wily old Giordano

Orsini (he was on the other side of fifty) knew how to baffle the

requisitions of justice, by no means a difficult task in those lawless

times. He sent the waiting-maid to Bracciano, to be protected by the

feudal immunities of the Orsini castle. Vittoria and her mother were

sheltered in Rome in the Orsini palace. The feudal power was still

great in those days, and often a franchise was secured to the premises

of Roman nobles by foreign princes, to the infinite annoyance of the

local sovereign, and often clogging the workings of justice. One

Cesare Pallentieri, an outlawed ruffian, was then bribed to write to

the governor of Rome avowing himself the plotter of Peretti’s death

to revenge himself for personal injuries received at that gentleman’s

hands. Nobody believed the story; and the verdict of public opinion was

sanctioned when, in February, 1582, Mancino, the bearer of the fatal

note, declared, under oath and without compulsion, that the whole plot

had been woven by Vittoria’s mother; that the servant-maid had been made

privy to it; and moreover revealed the names of two of the emissaries,

it being well known in whose pay they bore arms, although he stated no

employer’s name.

At this stage of the proceedings Cardinal Montalto, with persevering

endeavors with the pope and the interposition of friends, stayed all

prosecutions, and on December 13, 1583, obtained from the sovereign

pardon for Mancino, who was, however, banished from Rome, and

relegated--_interned_, in modern parlance--to Fermo, his native city,

being forbidden to quit it under penalty of death. But it was too evident

that there was a trifling with justice, and in the uncertainties between

which public opinion seemed to fluctuate, wiser counsels attempted to

vindicate the necessity of a just retribution. Hence, at the instance of

several cardinals and of the Spanish ambassador, Gregory was prevailed

upon to confine Vittoria to the castle Sant’ Angelo, and by a special

decree forbade her marrying Paolo Giordano Orsini, unless by a reserved

dispensation from himself or his successor, under attaintment of felony.

However, after two years of imprisonment she was declared innocent of

any share in or knowledge of the plot, and discharged. This happened on

the very day of Gregory’s death, April 10, 1585. Still Orsini could not

wed her, because of the forbidding clause in the pope’s order. But some

accommodating casuist came to the rescue, and averred that the defunct

pope’s brief was binding no more. Whereupon the duke hastened, by

special couriers on post-horses, to notify the good Bishop of Fossombrone

of his intended alliance with Vittoria, and to solicit his gracious

consent. Mgr. Ottavio refused his assent decidedly, nor would he allow

himself to change his refusal, although Orsini despatched messenger after

messenger, anxious, as he was, to accomplish his purpose ere a new pope

was elected. But the new pope was elected far sooner than the duke or

any one else expected, and in defiance of the express command of the

defunct pontiff, and in shameless disregard of the feelings of the new

sovereign, the very morning on which Cardinal Peretti, Vittoria’s uncle,

was proclaimed, she was wedded to Paolo Orsini, Duke of Bracciano. Rome

was bewildered at the announcement; and although no one could guess what

the consequences of the rash act might be, or how the pope would show his

displeasure, because Fra Felice never made any one the confidant of his

thoughts, yet the general impression was that sooner or later the duke

would be made to pay dearly for his daring and reckless disregard of the

commonest principles of decency.