Finally, at an advanced age, he left his cell to visit Arbon, and

after preaching to the people, he was attacked by a fever as he

was about to return. The malady became so violent that he could

no longer take any food. The eternal reward of his great works

and services approached.

{346}

His strength almost gone, almost reduced to skin and bone by

disease, he nevertheless persevered in prayer, held pious

conversations, and remained faithful to the service of Christ to

the end of his life. He rendered his soul to God, after fourteen

days' illness, on the 16th of October, A.D. 640. His body was

brought by Bishop John to the monastery which the saint had

inhabited, and buried between the altar and the wall, with

mournful chanting. Many infirm persons were healed, partially or

entirely, at his sepulchre.

Even during his life Gall was compared to the early fathers;

after his death, the Church honored him as a saint; holy Mass was

offered at his tomb; his intercession was invoked with success;

and his life presented as a model for Christians to imitate.

Eleven years after the death of the saint, his tomb was broken

open by robbers; but shortly after replaced by Bishop Boso, of

Constance. (A.D. 642-676.) When the great monastery church was

consecrated, on October 17th, 839, by Abbot Gotzbert, the bones

of the saint were placed on the high altar. They are partially

preserved there to this very day.

A glance now at the disciples of Gall. The disciples of this

great apostle went forth in all directions from his sepulchre to

evangelize the nations, and establish among them new foundations

and centres of learning and piety. Theodore built the abbey of

Kempten, in ancient Norica; Magnus travelled on foot to the

entrance of the Julian Alps; Sigibert, Gall's former

fellow-student, went to Dissentis, in Croatia, where they founded

monasteries which, after a lapse of more than a thousand years,

still exist as firm supports of the Christian religion, learning,

and civilization. These monasteries must be considered as

daughters of the great metropolis which the holy Irish missionary

built on the side of the lofty Alps. The monastery of Reichenau,

in Untersee, and that of Braganza, were closely united with St.

Gall's foundation. The former was founded, under Charles Martel,

by the Irishman Pirminus; the latter, 130 years earlier, by

Columbanus and Gall, in the beginning of their missionary labors.

The countless churches and chapels built even at an early period

in honor of St. Gall, as well as the numerous acts of donation to

the monastery bearing his name, prove the powerful influence of

the disciples and successors of the saint in spreading

Christianity, education, and civilization to the farthest

regions. The bishoprics in Switzerland, Germany, and in the

Austrian provinces, in the Tyrol and Bohemia, hold a special

festival in honor of St. Gall, and give him a special office,

honoring him now as well as formerly as the Apostle of Alemania.

"The temporal inheritance which St. Gall left to his people was

long enjoyed: the higher inheritance which he has left us with

the eternal possessions of Christianity in our Church is still

with us; and our constant prayer to God and strenuous effort must

be to guard it intact, and render it fruitful in the future."

(_Greith_, p. 401.)

----------

{347}

Translated From The French.

The Story Of Marcel,

The Little Mettray Colonist.

Chapter VI.

"Dark the evening shadows rolled

On the eye that gleamed in death,

And the evening dews fell cold

On the lip that gasped for breath."

James Montgomery.

A year had passed away when one day Pelagie Vautrin went out in

the morning, as usual, with her hand-cart, but did not return as

usual in the evening. Marcel had been on a spree with Polycarpe,

and was glad, when he crept to bed late at night, all muzzy with

tippling, to find his dirty home vacant.

But when, at a late hour the next day, he opened his hot, aching

eyes and looked around him, he was at first astonished and then

frightened to see that he was still alone. He started up and ran

down-stairs to ask the neighbors if they had seen Madame Vautrin

that morning. There was soon a great excitement in the house; for

no one had seen her, and it was well known that Pelagie never

staid out at night; she was generally very regularly drunk in bed

by ten o'clock.

"Go to the prefect of police," cried one to the anxious boy,

"they'll find her for you!"

"Go to the Morgue," cried another. "I shouldn't wonder if she had

fallen into the river."

"Or been run over by an omnibus, the drunken slut!" cried a

third.

"Ay, go to the Morgue, Marcel," said Polycarpe, who had just got

up, and had hurried down to take part, as usual, in what was

going on. "Come, I'll go with you."

Marcel was by this time as pale as death: the idea of Pelagie

being dead was dreadful to him; for though the poor boy could not

love the cruel woman who had worked him so unsparingly for her

own profit, still she seemed something more to him than the rest

of the world; she had sheltered him when he had no shelter; she

had given him a dry crust when he knew not where to find one; and

the child's heart was made of such tender stuff that the

slightest kindness could kindle in it a flame of never forgetful

gratitude.

Pale and trembling, he now followed Polycarpe to the low, black,

sinister-looking building then situated close by St. Michael's

bridge, on the right bank of the Seine. [Footnote 131] Many

persons were going in and out of the horrible place, some seeking

missing friends; others, and the greater number, urged on by a

depraved curiosity and love of excitement.

[Footnote 131: It has since been pulled down, and rebuilt

more handsomely behind the cathedral of Notre Dame.]

The two boys entered; Polycarpe noisily, and with an air of busy

importance that would have been ludicrous under any other

circumstances; Marcel sick and faint with anxiety and fear; and

awful indeed was the interior of that house of death. At one end

of the stone-floored room in which they found themselves was an

iron grating, behind which, on marble slabs, were laid out the

perfectly naked forms of the unknown dead, victims of accident or

of violence.

{348}

The bloated body of a drowned man, whose starting eyes first

caught the scared glance of the shuddering child, made him start

with horror and surprise. He had often thought, from all he had

heard, that the sights to be seen in the Morgue must be dreadful,

but the reality surpassed all his imaginings. He closed his eyes,

but opened them an instant after to take a look at the corpse of

a woman, whose blood-clotted hair and battered features showed

but too plainly that the wretched creature had been the victim of

some foul crime.

"'Tis she!" cried Polycarpe. But Marcel could bear no more; the

child's nerves and heart had been tried to the uttermost, and he

fell insensible on the cold, damp floor. Polycarpe and two or

three bystanders dragged him out of the building, and, getting

some water from the river, soon brought him to again, but very

shaky and weak.

Polycarpe Poquet was a regular scamp, an idle beggar, a

street-thief; nevertheless very gently and lovingly did he help

his friend on his legs again, and very softly did he speak to him

as they walked slowly away from that horrible place. "Come in

here, old fellow," said he, when they arrived before the door on

the second landing. "Mother wants to see you," he added, as he

perceived that Marcel hesitated.

Madame Poquet and Loulou were both at home; for the charwoman was

just then at liberty, her last mistress having been mean enough

to lock up the charcoal and bread and butter, and various other

useful items in housekeeping, and as Madame Poquet said to her

neighbors, "After that evident want of confidence, she felt

herself obliged to leave, especially as the wages were so low

that without the perquisites the place was worth nothing!" She

was a good-natured woman, notwithstanding her dishonesty, and

received poor Marcel in a kind, motherly manner that contributed

much to soothe and console him. "Now, you see, Marcel," said she,

"you need not feel so bad; you shall come and live with us;

there's room for four, and so there's room for five. I'm sure I

always wanted to have you, for Madame Vautrin was not good to

you--you know that she wasn't--everybody knows that she wasn't.

Now, come, don't cry so; it shows that you've a good heart, but

it is not reasonable, and I can't bear to hear you. I never could

bear to hear any one cry. Come, courage, courage!" And the old

thieving charwoman kissed the weeping boy tenderly, and then

wiped her own overflowing eyes. He threw his arms around her neck

and sobbed aloud, and the motherly old soul sobbed with him.

"Come now," said she presently, and she placed him as she spoke

on a chair by the table, "here's some good hot coffee and milk,

and a piece of nice fresh bread. I got it ready for you half an

hour ago. There, you and Polycarpe sit down and take your

breakfast; that'll do you good, and comfort you."

And certainly the good meal did much to calm him, though perhaps

the sympathy of Madame Poquet and her children did more.

And so it was settled; the landlord sold the few miserable sticks

of furniture belonging to Pelagie Vautrin for the arrears of

rent, and Marcel became one of the Poquet family.

As for the battered corpse lying on the marble slab in the

Morgue, it was never reclaimed, but was hurriedly buried in the

pauper grave that the state provides for the unknown dead. Yet it

was a long time before the orphan whom Pelagie Vautrin had so

cruelly ill-treated ceased to think of her, or shudder as he

remembered her terrible death.

{349}

It was an end, however, as _we_ know, to be expected for one

cursed with so wicked a temper and of such dissolute habits.

Drunkenness, quarrels, blows, and death! It is a natural

sequence!

Poor Marcel gained by the change; at least, his life was not so

hard a one as it had been. He was no longer obliged to bring home

a certain quantity of rags and old iron every day; he had no

regular task set him. But Monsieur and Madame Poquet nevertheless

fully expected him to pick up his own living and something more,

in the same way as did their son Polycarpe.

The two boys after a time adopted, as their principal source of

income, the business of gathering cigar-ends and converting them

into pipe-tobacco. It was a profession that required early

rising, quick eyes, and light heels, for there were other lads in

the same walk of life, but who could be better fitted for such a

pursuit than Marcel and Polycarpe? At four every morning they

sallied forth to make their round; hunting for the precious bits

on the sidewalks and in the gutters of the most frequented and

fashionable streets, the Boulevards, the Champs Elysées, and the

purlieus of the theatres. Sometimes, when they were flush of

money, they bought from the waiters in the coffee-houses the

permission to pick up the ends that might be under the tables.

The harvest made, they hastened down to the river's side, and

there, seated under or near the dry arches of one of the bridges,

they emptied their bags on the ground beside them and commenced

the sorting of their merchandise. The prime or first quality

consisted of the ends of Havana cigars, regalias, londres, etc.;

the second quality, of those of home growth, or bits picked up in

dirty gutters, and consequently somewhat deteriorated. The

sorting finished, our young tobacconists commenced their work of

metamorphosis. Each one was furnished with a small square of

smooth wood, a sharp, thin-bladed knife, and a whetstone, for the

knife required frequent sharpening during the operation of

cutting up the ends. This was performed on the square of wood,

and as fine as possible, so as to resemble _new_ smoking

tobacco. Paper parcels were then made up of this novel

manufacture; the inferior quality selling at one sou the packet;

the superior fetching as much as fifty sous the pound.

The rest of the day was passed in disposing of their morning

labors, and this was never difficult; they found plenty of

customers, masons, street-sweepers, and rat-catchers, and often

made as much as three francs each in the day. They might have

gained an honest living by this humble means, had they only

possessed an honest home. But Monsieur and Madame Poquet were

thieves, and the more the lads gained the more was exacted from

them. And then in the dreadful drinking-dens they frequented to

sell their merchandise they became each day initiated in some new

vice. There was indeed nothing to stop them on their downward

course; and soon, alas, the orphan boy, intelligent, and

naturally conscientious, became versed in knavery and a common

street-thief! Poor, poor Marcel!

{350}

Chapter VII.

"Soon, like captives, shall ye learn

Ways less wild and laws more stern."

Anon.

Days and weeks and months had passed away in this kind of life,

when one morning, while Marcel and Polycarpe were still yawning

and stretching themselves in their dirty bed, Loulou, who had

gone round the corner to fetch some ready-made hot coffee and

milk, for their breakfast, rushed back again with cheeks as white

as it was possible for her rarely washed face to show.

"Get up quick and run!" cried she as she burst into the room,

"the police are coming this way; I'm sure they're coming here to

look for father, and, if they find you, they'll grab you too."

The two boys needed no further calling; indeed, they were out of

bed before Loulou had ended her cry of danger. Old Poquet had

become a marked man at the Prefecture of Police, and his

reputation was very bad among his neighbors. He had been fearing

a visit of this kind during the last eight days, and had taken

himself off no one knew whither. So the boys, knowing this, would

not have been so much afraid for their own safety, had they not

done the preceding day what they called "good business," and had

in their possession this morning more money and a greater variety

of purses than they could well have accounted for.

So they jumped out of bed at the first word of alarm, and huddled

on their clothes in less time than it takes to write the fact;

and precipitating themselves down the stairs, were out of the

house and out of sight, just as two policemen turned into the

street. It was not until they had threaded many narrow, dirty

streets behind the Pantheon, diving into dark passages, and

passing through houses which were thoroughfares, as there are

many in the great city, and at last found themselves near the

Barrière of St. Jacques, that they felt secure enough to walk

slowly and take time to ask each other where they should go.

"Parbleu!" cried Polycarpe, who was the first to break silence,

"at any rate our pockets are not empty! Liberty for ever! Hurrah

for pleasure and potatoes! Never say die, old fellow!" And he

clapped his friend on the back and laughed as if it were the

pleasantest thing in life to be running away from the police.

Marcel was not so gay: the boy's instincts, perverted as they

were by the depraved influences that surrounded him, became

restive at times; mysterious aspirations, and disgust of he knew

not what, agitated strangely the poor child's aching heart, and

gave him sometimes an appearance of timidity that had acquired

for him among his profligate companions the _sobriquet_ of

"_la demoiselle_" the young lady. He was now more moved than

usual, his cheek was very pale, and his large blue eyes wore a

more thoughtful expression than ever before.

Making a violent effort over himself, he at length replied to his

companion's vivacity by asking what would become of Loulou.

"Loulou!" cried Polycarpe, "why, she's safe enough; she'll get

out of the scrape, and there's nothing against her and mother.

You needn't think of her, but of us, I can tell you. Now, what do

you think I'm thinking of, eh?"

"I suppose of where we must go to-night."

"Exactly so, mademoiselle, and can you guess? No, that you can't,

so you needn't try. Well, we must go hide in the quarries at

Issy; we shall be safe there, and we won't come back to Paris

before two months."

"The quarries!" cried Marcel, "How dreadful!"

"Not so dreadful as Mazas," replied Polycarpe, "as you'll know

one of these days."

{351}

"I hope not," ejaculated Marcel, shuddering.

"You hope not, you idiot!" said Polycarpe angrily, "why, how can

it be otherwise? One can't be always in luck. Don't you know that

every one gets to prison at last? Every one that I know has been

there, and why should I escape, I should like to know? Of course

my time will come, and your time will come, and what we have to

do then is to show game. No cry-baby goings on then, if you

please, Master Marcel, or you and I'll part company when we come

out!"

Marcel did not answer, and they continued silently their way

until they had passed the fortifications.

"Now," said Polycarpe at last, "we must try to kill time as

pleasantly as possible until the night, and then we'll go

straight to the quarries; we can't go there during the day, for

there is always danger from spies."

"I'm very hungry," remarked Marcel.

"And so am I," answered his friend, "my inside has let me know

for a long time that it didn't get any coffee this morning."

It was not long before the two boys found a kind of nondescript

_cabaret_ and restaurant--one of those drinking and eating

houses that do most business with Sunday-breakers and

holiday-makers, if not with worse gentry. They were soon seated

before a smoking omelette, which, with a great loaf of bread and

a bottle of sour claret, they pronounced to be a first-rate

breakfast. The meal finished and paid for, they bought a couple

of bottles of brandy, and then strolled off again to the

fortifications, where, choosing a sunny spot on the grassy side

of the deep, dry moat that surrounds the massive walls, they

snoozed away the rest of the day.

The quarries of Issy had long been the rendezvous of all sorts of

young scamps. Idle, vicious boys who had run away from home;

unfaithful apprentices who had robbed their master's tills;

pickpockets whose successful operations had rendered their

absence from the scene of their labors desirable for a period;

hardened vagabonds waiting an opportunity to rob or murder, as

the case might be--all found there a hiding-place and congenial

society. Carefully concealed from any passers-by or workmen, they

slept the daylight away, but as soon as darkness had rendered the

place secure, the wretched youths commenced their orgies. Gorging

on the provisions provided by two or three of their number in

turn, and bought or stolen in the neighboring villages of Issy,

Clamart, and Meudon; guzzling, singing, and swearing; boasting of

their skill in every cunning and thieving art; teaching and

learning all manner of vice--thus passed they their turbulent

night, while outside the stifling hole that screened their

wickedness the starry sky spread cool and calm over the sleeping

village and peaceful fields and woods.

How the contrast between the within and the without struck Marcel

a few hours after he had entered that ignoble hiding-place! He

and Polycarpe had quitted the moat at nightfall and had found

themselves about ten o'clock at the rendezvous. The place was

well-known to the cobbler's son; many and many a time had he come

hither to see some friend in hiding, and he now advanced without

hesitation. At a certain distance from the entrance, he put his

fingers to his lips and uttered a shrill, peculiar cry, then

seizing his companion's arm hurried in. They were met by Guguste,

and received an enthusiastic welcome, not only from that young

rascal, but also from the rest of the band, which contained a

great many at that moment, and consisted almost entirely of old

acquaintances. The two bottles of brandy were hailed with

acclamations, and the donors invited to take part in the eating

and drinking that was about to commence.

{352}

Used as our young hero was to all kinds of wickedness, he at

first listened with fear to what he heard around him now; but the

brandy and the example of his companions soon acted on his

impressionable nature, the revolting instincts were stifled as

usual, and Marcel quickly became one of the noisiest and most

cynical of those wretched children.

One half of the company was already nearly drunk, and the other

half at the height of its revelry, when a sound of many feet

marching in step and close at hand silenced each and all in an

instant. The lights were suddenly extinguished, pistols

cocked--for most of the young miscreants were armed; then came a

rush from the outside, a struggle, several shots, smothered

groans, oaths, and all was over. Law had conquered, and the whole

band was in the power of a _posse_ of gendarmes under the

command of an officer.

To handcuff the young ruffians and lead them one by one out of

their den was soon accomplished; and it was then that Marcel,

emerging into the tranquil night, was struck by the contrast.

Within, drunkenness and crime, false, feverish merriment ending

in bloody strife; without, the cool, fresh air of early morn, the

first streak of breaking day in the far east, the market-carts

wending their plodding way to the great metropolis--all telling

of peace, all so quiet! Beautiful nature and humble toil!

Poor Marcel! he could not understand his feelings, for his

intelligence was warped and dwarfed with his conscience; but his

young heart ached with vague aspirations and regrets, and he wept

bitterly.

Chapter VIII.

"We travel through a desert, and our feet

Have measured a fair space, have left behind

A thousand dangers and a thousand snares.

...

... The past temptations

No more shall vex us."

Watts.

"'Tis beauty all, and grateful song around,

Joined to the low of kine, and numerous bleat

Of flocks thick-nibbling through the clovered vale."

Thomson.

A few weeks after this catastrophe, the whole band was tried and

condemned to various degrees of punishment and correction.

Nothing had been proven against Marcel and Polycarpe further than

that they had been found among recognized thieves, and were by

that fact alone suspicious characters in the eyes of the law. The

answers elicited from Marcel on his examination had excited the

compassion of the tribunal, and the president declared his

intention of giving him the opportunity of redeeming the past and

of becoming an honest man. Polycarpe Poquet, also, had been

judged leniently; his frank, generous nature had been discovered

amidst all the vice that overshadowed it.

Very beautiful and touching were the words in which the worthy

president announced to the two boys that he acquitted them

because he believed that they had acted without discernment, but

that, fearing for their future, he should send them to a house of

correction where they would be detained until they had each

reached the age of twenty-one. He reminded them that at least six

years lay before them to reform and elevate themselves.

{353}

He promised them that every means should be given to them to

improve, and that they should be taught a trade or profession,

and thus enabled by their own labor to gain their living and

become respectable citizens. Obedience and industry would be

expected from them, he said; and he entreated them to have pity

on themselves, and to aid by their own exertions the efforts of

those who sincerely desired their welfare, both temporal and

eternal.

Marcel's tears flowed plentifully while the good magistrate thus

addressed them; he had never before heard such things, and he

wept as much from gratitude as from fear.

Imprisonment for six years seemed terrible; but if those six

years were to give him the very thing for which he yearned--a

different life from that he had hitherto led, in which all was

fear and pain!

As for Polycarpe, he was more silent than usual, but he seemed

neither afraid nor sorry. He felt the influence of virtue and

truth, however, and the president's discourse made more

impression on him than he cared to confess even to Marcel; for in

minds rendered obtuse by vicious habits a good feeling or impulse

is generally considered as a weakness, and resisted or concealed.

The boys were conducted back to the depot of the prefecture as

soon as the president had finished speaking to them, there to

await their removal to the House of Correction that should be

appointed by the authorities.

In 1839, a few noble-hearted, philanthropic men conceived the

idea of founding at Mettray, near the beautiful town of Tours, in

almost the heart of France, a colony of young convicts, to whom

should be given a moral and religious training, and the blessings

of a home. These benevolent men had studied with profound

attention the admirable penitentiary system of the United States

of America; compared with it, the system of correction as

practised in the state prisons of France had struck them as

singularly ineffective and quite inadequate to attain the end and

aim of all punishment, the eradication of vice, and the awakening

of a desire to practise industry and honesty. The published

reports of these prisons had even proved that, far from the

morality of the unfortunate children detained there being

improved, these unhappy victims did actually become more

confirmed in their perversity by their sojourn in the house of

correction. Though restrained by the prison discipline, they were

not actually taught; for it is not intimidation that can teach a

fallen nature how to rise, nor inculcate the love of honor and

virtue. The helter-skelter way of these houses was fatal to their

utility. Young offenders, guilty of comparatively slight

offences, were associated with scoundrels versed in every mystery

of crime. The burglar and the highway robber, the coiner and the

assassin, became the companions of the child so apt to learn, so

ready to receive any impression whether of good or evil. Want of

space was pleaded in extenuation of this great, this fundamental

error in the work of reformation; and thus justice and social

good were sacrificed to considerations of economy!

The system of detention, too, as applied to children, did not

render it obligatory on the administration of the prison to

continue its care of the child after he had quitted the walls

where he had passed the last five or six years of his young life.

On the day of his liberation, the rule was to give him a few

clothes and a part of the products of his labor during his

detention, and then all was ended between him and those who were

supposed to have been his teachers and protectors.

{354}

Thus thrown all at once into a world from which he had been

sequestered for years, without any family traditions of industry

and probity to guide and uphold him, the unhappy youth found it

impossible to gain a footing among the honest and respectable,

and was soon irretrievably lost.

All the errors, all the consequences of this system, were then to

be avoided in the new colony of Mettray; and guided by sound

sense and a deep love of their kind, the founders of this

admirable establishment undertook the task of endowing the erring

children confided to them by the state with family affections and

habits, with the love of order, and with health. Their minds and

hearts were to be cultivated, and they were to be given the

desire and the means of gaining their living by honest labor. It

was to the agricultural colony of Mettray that Marcel and

Polycarpe were sent, a few days after their examination before

the tribunal; and they made the journey thither in the company of

thirty or forty other unfortunate boys of their own age. What

language can express the delight that filled the bosom of the

poor orphan when his eyes first rested on the home that a

merciful Providence had at last given him! Most lovely was the

wide landscape that spread before him; for fertile Touraine is

indeed the garden of beautiful France. The bright waters of the

magnificent river Loire were there to be seen winding amidst

green fields, its shores bordered by strange habitations hollowed

in the rocks, or fringed with waving trees. There were the houses

of the Mettray colonists on the side of a rising ground, the

tapering steeple of their chapel showing itself from the middle

of the group like a giant finger pointing the way to heaven. On

the bank of the little stream that passed close to the settlement

on its way to the great river stood a windmill, turning its sails

right merrily. Plantations of mulberry-trees, beautifully kept

gardens and orchards, and wheat-fields nearly ripe for the

harvest, surrounded the colony; oxen grazing or pulling

heavily-laden carts, sheep browsing with tinking bells, young

colonists smiling, bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, directing, helping,

working in every way and with a will; all the sights and sounds

of husbandry, and among the leaves a whispering breeze, and the

warm air perfumed with the scent of newly-mown hay, and over all

the bright blue, sunny sky. Such was the landscape that met the

eyes of the pale-faced, sin-degraded children of Paris. Such was

the home that a few true men with loving hearts and living

sympathies had provided for the victims of poverty and crime!

Here were they to learn, by the all-powerful lessons of religion

and healthful labor, how to become honest, useful citizens; here

were they to acquire self-respect, love of country and of their

fellow-men.

Oh! blessings on the Christian men who founded the colony of

Mettray! Their names are inscribed on the walls of the chapel;

but those walls will crumble away in time, their names will be

forgotten, but the good they have done will never decay or pass

away, and "_Verily they shall have their reward!_"

{355}

Chapter IX.

Law, conscience, honor, all obeyed, all give

The approving voice, and make it bliss to live;

While faith, when life can nothing more supply,

Shall strengthen hope and make it bliss to die.

The boys at Mettray are divided into families, each inhabiting a

separate house inscribed with the name of certain towns, or of

the generous giver. There is the "House of Paris," the "House of

Limoges," the "House of the widow Hébert," and one is called the

"House of Mary," in which the youngest children are placed. There

were more than a dozen of these dwellings when our two culprits

entered the colony, each directed by a Father and an Elder

Brother, the inmates of each one emulating the inmates of the

others in their progress to reformation, and every family

considering itself a distinct brotherhood.

It was to the "House of Paris," that Marcel and Polycarpe were

consigned; and what a new life began for these poor children

when, after a short sequestration, so that at least the first

elements of religion, order, and honesty might be instilled into

their minds, they were permitted to associate with the older

colonists, and take full part in their lessons and labors.

Strange but sweet did it seem to Marcel when he first felt

himself a member of a family, one among many brothers, where he

was to find those ties and that affection refused to him

hitherto. How soon he came to love his superiors, the Father and

the Elder Brother, and how easy obedience was to him, can be

readily imagined by those who have followed his fortunes so far.

How fond and proud he grew after a while of his home--his saving

ark--can only be conceived by those who have visited Mettray, and

who have seen and heard with their own eyes and ears that every

child there considers himself honored by the title of colonist,

and bound in his own person to prove the worthiness of the

community.

One of the first tasks of the newcomers was to learn the duties

and discipline of the house.

"The colonists' duties are honorable," said the Father of the

family to them the day after their arrival; "they resemble the

soldiers; obedience to superiors and submission to discipline.

Without discipline no association of men is possible. With it a

nation may become invincible!"

To Marcel the discipline of Mettray was not only easy but even

agreeable, and none could be more scrupulously observant of the

regulations than he. At the first sound of the clarion which

awoke the family each morning, he was out of his hammock and

dressing himself with silent haste. Then, folding his bed and

putting it away, he was ready to march with his companions to the

wash-house. Here the ablutions were plentiful and thorough; for

the boys at Mettray are taught that not only is cleanliness

absolutely necessary to health, but that we are also more worthy

to come in prayer before our Maker when purified and refreshed by

his blessed gift of water.

The washing and combing finished, he returned with his brothers

to the dormitory, to render thanks for the peaceful rest of the

past night and to beg God's blessing on the labors of to-day.

Then the clarion sounded again, and each ran to take his place in

the ranks of workers about to march to their daily labors out of

doors. Scarcely would they have been recognized by those they had

left behind them in their old Paris haunts, as, clothed in their

dark-blue blouses, their feet warm and dry in good sabots, their

cheeks glowing with cleanliness and health, they marched in step,

light and brisk, to their respective tasks. Some proceeded to the

fields, where, superintended by an intelligent superior, they

worked with a willing spirit, encouraged and strengthened by the

sight of their teacher laboring with them. Some entered the

out-houses fitted up as work-shops, where, while one learned

tailoring on his brethren's clothes, another worked at his

family's shoes.

{356}

A little farther on, and the young colonists reached the

blacksmith's shop, where they hammered away manfully at the

chains and rails, the gear of the carts, the locks and hinges,

and all the other iron necessities of the place. And near by

stood the carpenter's shop, where another band prepared all the

wood-work of the colony, even to the doors and windows of the new

houses to be built to receive other poor castaways.

Some again, whose turn it was to attend to the farm-yard, went on

to the cow-house, where the cows lowed with content as they

entered. And then began such a currying and cleansing that it

would be difficult to say which enjoyed it the most, the boys or

the cows. Cows are not accustomed to have so much attention

bestowed on them; but the lads took pleasure in it, and each

house had the privilege of participating in rotation, and the

kine profited wonderfully. After the cows came the turn of the

pigs, the horses, and the donkeys, the latter great favorites

generally. And then the dairy with its pans of yesterday's milk

thick with cream, to be skimmed, and then butter-making and

cheese-making.

And thus worked the once idle, quarrelsome boys until the welcome

hour of breakfast summoned them within. The simple but wholesome

meal finished, after a short pause the thanksgiving was said, and

a quarter of an hour's recreation permitted, and then at the

first blast of the clarion they left their play, formed their

ranks, and gayly marched off to labor again. As they passed the

Director on their way out, they greeted him respectfully and

affectionately, their bright and _now honest_ eyes becoming

still brighter as he returned their salutation with a kind word

and fatherly smile.

Marvellous change, operated by the force of enlightened charity

alone, by a few devoted men and women! For there were at Mettray

no manacles nor blows for the refractory; no prison-walls to keep

in the discontented, lazy, thief, or beggar; only labor and

religious influence, justice and love, ever working together to

repair the ravages that sin and ignorance had wrought in the

consciences of these forlorn ones, and endeavoring to extirpate

even the very germ of evil in their souls.

The day of healthful toil in the woods, fields, and workshops

ended at six o'clock, when the clarion's clear voice again

summoned the young laborers, this time to school, whither they

marched in regimental order preceded by a band of military music.

The school-rooms were large, well-ventilated chambers, their

white walls bearing the inscription, "Dieu vous voit," God sees

you, oft-repeated, and decorated with lists, "tablets of honor,"

containing the names of those boys who had for three months

gained an immunity from all punishment. Many of these names had

become "fixtures," they had been there so long; for the erasure

of a name is considered by the colonists as a great disgrace,

while its continuance on the tablet is an honor.

Here during two hours, aided by kind, intelligent teachers, the

boys learned reading, writing, arithmetic, singing, and linear

drawing. The more advanced helped to teach the beginners, and

with few exceptions proved themselves patient, painstaking

tutors.

To Marcel these hours of instruction were the best and sweetest

recreation. The boy seemed to yearn after knowledge, and the

progress he made was really surprising. He was even after a while

able to undertake to teach a class of new-comers to read, and

proud and happy was he the day this honorable task was assigned

to him!

{357}

But music especially soon became his greatest source of pleasure.

It soothed, cheered, and elevated him; it awakened in him the

tenderest and highest sentiments. It saddened him, too,

sometimes, but that was a solemn sadness that refined rather than

depressed the boy's sensitive nature. The patriotic songs taught

in the school roused his enthusiasm and inspired him with the

most ardent love of his country. The soft strains of the simple

catechism-hymns he and his brothers sang when the good chaplain

prepared them for their first communion entered into his inmost

heart, bringing peace and hope. But deep, very deep was his

emotion when they sang some of those pieces composed expressly

for them, and bearing reference to their past or present state.

How his heart swelled when he joined his voice, high and sweet,

to his fellow castaways, as they chaunted--

"Droop not, though _shame, sin_, and _anguish_ are round thee;

Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee;

Look at yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee;

Rest not content in thy darkness a clod.

_Work_ for some good--be it ever so slowly,

Cherish some flower--be it ever so lowly.

Let thy good deeds be a prayer to thy God."

How every stirring line re-echoed in his inmost soul, awakening

there gratitude so deep and full to all those who had rescued him

from sin that no language could have expressed it. We are told

that there is "joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth;" how

many blessings, then, must rest on the heads of those who have

conducted sinning _children_ to repentance--children whom

he loves and wishes to be brought to him.

Two hours of school and the clarion sounded for supper. The

repast over, after five minutes' play the refectory was converted

into a dormitory by suspending the hammocks, and then came the

evening prayer and hymn. The day was ended, and our orphan and

his companions climbed into their clean beds, to sleep peacefully

under the protection of that Heavenly Father who had permitted

them in his inscrutable wisdom to bear the brunt of the battle

while unprepared, but had saved them, scotched and bleeding, it

is true, yet still with vitality enough to recover from their

wounds, and fight again, and win at last--if they would!

Chapter X.

"I held it truth, with him who sings

To one clear harp in divers tones,

That men may rise on stepping-stones

Of their dead selves to higher things."

Tennyson.

Polycarpe Poquet found it more difficult to conform himself to

the rules of the establishment, and the law of obedience to the

Elder Brother especially was peculiarly galling to him. The

Father of the Family he could submit to; but this superior, the

Elder Brother, elected every month by themselves from among

themselves, was regarded by him as a kind of hypocritical

upstart, whom he took every opportunity to annoy. Many were the

insulting words he addressed to the poor boys who received this

mark of their companions' esteem, but who by their very position

were forced to report every fault committed by those same

companions, and many a weary hour did he pass in solitary

confinement, making nails, before he had learned that first duty

of a good citizen, obedience to constituted authorities.

{358}

Perhaps the visit of a venerable ecclesiastic who had come to

examine the working-system of the colony might be taken as the

turning-point in Polycarpe's conduct, though not the real date of

his improvement, as we shall see hereafter. The good Abbé had

been questioning the boys of Marcel and Polycarpe's family, when

he suddenly requested them to tell him which were the three best

lads among them. Need we say that our poor orphan was one of

those who were instantly, and without hesitation, pointed out by

their comrades?

"And the worst?" asked the abbé again.

Every eye remained fixed, immovable; every tongue silent. All at

once Polycarpe stepped forward and said in a low but clear voice,

"'Tis I!"

"My boy!" exclaimed the worthy priest, as he clasped the young

convict's hand in both of his, "I cannot believe it! I will not

take even your word for it! This very acknowledgment proves that

you are mistaken."

Polycarpe never from that day forth wore the ignominious mark of

punishment, the ugly black gaiter on the left leg.

His progress in learning was slow, compared with that of Marcel;

but he was an adept in the house-duties, which were performed by

each family of boys in turns of a week at a time. He was skilled

in sweeping and dusting, washing dishes and cleaning knives. He

was the aptest pupil, too, that ever studied the culinary art,

and, after a time, was wont to boast that he could dish up a

savory dinner there where a less gifted individual could find

nothing to eat. Not that Mettray could be considered as one of

the best schools for learners, nor its wholesome dinners as

specimens of the world-famed French cookery; for they consisted

of vegetables entirely, with the exception of twice in the week,

when bacon and beef figured on the tables; but Polycarpe felt

that he had natural abilities, and could do more than was

required of him in the simple kitchen where he practised. He was

quite a favorite with the good Sisters who presided there; they

were always glad when it was his week to assist them, and praised

him constantly for his activity, good temper, and disposition to

oblige.

But if Polycarpe was useful in the kitchen, he was invaluable in

the infirmary. A handier fellow for helping the suffering never

entered a sick-room. He was quick-eyed and _light-fingered_,

(in the good sense of the word;) he saw in a moment how best to

arrange the pillows for the weary, feverish head; he could dress

a blister without drawing a single exclamation from the patient;

he could make palatable gruel and ptisan; he was punctual in

administering the potions, and, though last not least of his good

qualities, he was wakeful and, at the same time, good-tempered

and cheerful. The kind Hospital Sisters, who had charge of the

infirmary, pronounced him the best of nurses, and would have

rejoiced could they always have had him with them.

The very first week that he was on duty there, a poor boy, who

had only been a month in the establishment, died of the disease

whose germs he had brought with him. Polycarpe watched over him

with the tenderest care, and the child became gratefully attached

to him, and talked much to him of his past life--a short but sad

one. His father, he said, was in the galleys for life; his mother

in the hospital at Tours; his two elder sisters in prison for

theft; his young brother, a miserable deformed child, was a

street-beggar; and he knew not what had become of his little

sister of six years old! The poor fellow loved this little sister

with all the concentrated strength of a heart that had had but

few objects to love, and he cried as he spoke of her.

{359}

When the chaplain came to see him, the last evening of his short

life, Polycarpe related the sad story to the good priest.

"Victor Bourdon," said the abbé gently, as he still knelt by the

side of the bed, after having prayed with the dying boy, "Victor

Bourdon, I will go to Tours, and find your little sister, and I

will place her where she will learn to be a good and industrious

girl. I promise you this, my child."

Victor turned his dim eyes toward his consoler, a smile of

ineffable content played over his pain-drawn features; then,

sighing rather than speaking these last words, "Oh! what a pity

to leave the colony so soon!" the young earth-tried spirit passed

away.

This death made a lasting impression on Polycarpe. The

exclamation, "Oh! what a pity to leave the colony so soon!" was

like a revelation to him; all at once he understood all that he

had escaped--all the privileges he now enjoyed.

The Father of the family found the poor fellow in tears one day,

and, after a few sympathizing questions, drew from him a touching

confession of his repentance. He freely acknowledged that his

good conduct had hitherto been prompted by pride only; "and if,"

added he, "I have not run away, "_it is only because there are

no walls at Mettray_."

Singular proof of the innate sentiment of honor that exists in

France! Even this ignorant boy felt it to be an unworthy,

cowardly act to betray the confidence reposed in him; he

considered himself a prisoner on parole, and scorned to take

advantage of the liberty granted him.

All his in-door talents did not, however, prevent his working

well at the harder labors out of doors. He was great at the

plough, and no one groomed a horse better than he. His

strongly-built frame, too, became admirably developed by the

farm-work and the gymnastic exercises in which all took a part,

but in which none excelled as he did. His stout, muscular form,

the splendid glow of his cheeks, and perfectly healthful

appearance, would have made him remarked anywhere.

He had at first chosen to learn the trade of a baker, as his

future means of gaining a living; but his strong physical nature

and necessity of movement soon inspired him with, a decided

inclination for a military life, and the administration permitted

him to revoke his first choice. Marcel had wished to be a

gardener; he loved nature, and was passionately fond of flowers,

and his desire had been granted.

So the two boys worked hopefully and cheerfully on; one day was a

repetition of the other, until Marcel fully understood that

higher life which brings its own recompense, and Polycarpe

acquired the love of truth and of honest labor.

A year after his admittance into the colony, Polycarpe's name was

inscribed on the tablet of honor by the side of Marcel's, which

had already long gained its place there. A few months later, he

succeeded to his friend as Elder Brother, and, after another

interval of exemplary conduct, both lads received as a recompense

a sum of money which was placed in the savings bank of the

establishment for their future use, and were entitled to wear a

corporal's stripe on their sleeve--a high and envied distinction.

"For the good workers there is a future!" is the hopeful

salutation inscribed over the gate at Mettray.

{360}

Yes! there is a future for all true workers! Labor, then,

steadfastly; labor trustfully, poor children of earth; the good

time cometh--the reward is sure!

To Be Continued.

----------

Catholicity And Pantheism.

Number Two.

Pantheism Examined From The Ontological Point Of View--

The Infinite--

Idea Of The Infinite According To The Pantheist.

The infinite of the pantheist is _something_ stripped of

subsistence, limits, determinations, definiteness, qualities, or

quantity; it is devoid of all consciousness, intelligence, will,

individuality; it is something hanging between reality and

unreality, bordering on possibility and existence; it is not

altogether actual, nor entirely possible, but that which is _in

fieri_, or becoming; in a word, that which is both being and

nothing. It is pure, unalloyed abstraction, without a mind which

makes the abstraction.

We acknowledge that pantheists do not all express themselves in

the above manner with regard to the infinite; but, if we strip

their systems of their various forms, all agree in presenting the

same idea.

Whether, with the materialistic pantheists of old, we call the

infinite a common principle or seed of liquid nature, from which

everything sprang up, and which is the substratum of everything;

or whether we call it the _primitive number_, with the

Pythagoreans; or we like to exhibit it as the first _unity_

or _monas_, with Plotinus and the Neoplatonists; or we look

upon it as the _infinite substance_ of Spinoza; or finally,

with the Germans, we prefer to call it the _ego_ or the

_absolute identity_, or the _ideal-being_; or the

_impersonal reason_, with Cousin--all converge into this

idea, that the infinite is something indeterminate, unconscious,

impersonal; which, by an interior necessity, is impelled to

unfold and develop itself, assuming all kinds of limitations and

forms; and thus, from being undefined, indeterminate, abstract,

it becomes real, defined, determinate, concrete; from being one,

it becomes multiple. The genesis of creation in all its

components, and the history of mankind, are the successive

unfolding and realization of the infinite in a progressive scale.

For, in its necessary development, it becomes matter, organism,

sense; and in man it acquires intellect with the consciousness of

itself. Here commence all the phases of the development of man

recorded in history: phases of a progressive civilization, which

are but necessary unfoldings and modifications of the infinite;

and which will go on progressing perpetually, to what end, or for

how long, pantheists and progressists are unable to determine.

{361}

By means of this theory of the infinite, they endeavor to

reconcile reality with the ontological ideas of being, the

infinite, substance, and the absolute. For they reason thus: The

idea of being is essentially universal, and as such it must

embrace all reality, and therefore it can be but one. The same

must be said of the idea of the infinite. This comprehends

everything, and therefore absorbs everything.

The reader can easily see, from what we have thus far said, that

the first problem which pantheism raises and which is to be

solved, is the following: What is the nature of the infinite? We

accept the problem, and shall discuss it by making the following

inquiries.

1. Does the idea which pantheism gives of the infinite really

resolve the problem?

2. What is the true solution of the problem?

With regard to the first inquiry we answer that the idea of the

infinite, as given by the pantheists, when well examined, leads

to one of two different conclusions:

1. Either it is the idea of finite being, and consequently

requiring the existence of an infinite being as its origin.

2. Or, it is the idea of a mere abstraction, an absolute

nonentity, and hence leading to absolute nihilism. In both cases

pantheism, instead of resolving the problem, destroys it. We

shall endeavor to prove both these propositions, assuming as

granted that the principles of pantheism are these two:

1. The infinite is that the essence of which lies in becoming.

2. It becomes multiplicity, that is matter, organism, animality,

etc., by a necessary interior movement.

The pantheistic idea of the infinite leads either to the idea of

God given by the Catholic Church, or to absolute nihilism. Proven

by the first principle of the pantheists.

Before entering upon the proof, we must lay down a few truths of

ontology which are metaphysically certain.

First Principle. Being and actuality are one and the same thing.

The proof of this principle lies in the explanation of what

actuality really means. Now, actuality is one of those ideas,

called by logicians simple ideas, and which cannot be defined. We

shall endeavor to explain it as follows.

Actuality is but a relation of our mind. When we think of a

being, not as yet existing, but against the existence of which we

see neither an interior nor an exterior reason, we call it

possible being; and the perception of all this, in our mind, we

call the perception of the _possibility_ of a being.

But when we think of the being, not as possible, but as having,

so to speak, travelled from possibility to real existence, we

call that being _actual_; and the perception of the mind,

the perception of the actuality of a being.

It is evident that actuality adds nothing to being, beyond a mere

relation of our mind, which, comparing the being, as really

existing, with its possibility, calls it _actual_; because

it is existence in act, in contradistinction to possibility,

which is power or potentiality.

Actuality, then, and being or reality are one and the same thing.

Second Principle. Actuality and duration are one and the same

thing.

An act or being which does not last, not even one instant, is

nothing; because our mind cannot conceive a being to exist, and

have no duration whatever. Therefore an act or being necessarily

implies duration, and they are therefore one and the same thing.

{362}

But it will be remarked: Are there no transitory acts? Do not all

philosophers admit the existence of acts which are continually

changing?

We answer, What is meant by a transitory act? Does it mean

something which is continually changing, so much so that none of

its elements has any duration whatever, not even for an instant;

or does it mean that the parts or moments, if we may call them

so, are in a state of continual transition? In both cases such

acts do not and cannot exist.

Before demonstrating this, we observe that it was the ancient

Italian school of Elea which, before every other school, raised

the problem of transient acts, pointed out the great difficulty

which existed in explaining their nature, and demonstrated the

impossibility of their existence. To render the demonstration

clear, we remark that a transient act may mean either one of two

things: an act which is composed of different parts, each in

continual transition; or an act which has a beginning, and, after

a certain duration, also an end. We admit the existence of such

acts in the second sense and not in the first. For if an act

continually changes, none of the states which it successively

assumes have any duration whatever. Otherwise it would no longer

be a transient act in the first sense. But that which has no

duration at all cannot be considered to exist. Therefore an act

really transient cannot exist. What then is a transient act? We

have seen that it supposes something standing or lasting. But

what lasts is immanent, that is, has duration. Therefore a

transient act can only be the beginning or end of an immanent

act, or, in other words, the beginning or end of duration. To

illustrate this doctrine by an example: suppose I wish to draw a

line on this paper. If all the points, of which the line is to be

composed, were to disappear the very instant I am drawing them,

it is evident I should never have a line. Likewise, if all the

states, which a transient act assumes, are supposed to have no

duration whatever, the act also can have no duration, and hence

no existence. A transient act, then, is the beginning or end of

an immanent act.

Having laid down the foregoing propositions, we come to the

discussion of the pantheistic idea of the infinite.

What, according to pantheism, is the idea of the infinite?

Something the essence of which consists in becoming, in being

made, in _fieri_. Now, we reason thus: a being the essence

of which lies in becoming means either an act permanent and

lasting, capable of changes, or it means something the essential

elements of which are continually changing, and have, therefore,

no duration whatever. If the last supposition be accepted as

describing the pantheistic idea of the infinite, then the

infinite is a sheer absurdity, an absolute nonentity. For, in

this case, the infinite would be a transient act, in the sense

that its essential elements are continually changing, and have no

duration whatever. Now such acts are absolutely inconceivable.

The mind may put forth its utmost efforts to form an idea of

them, yet it will ever be utterly at a loss to conceive anything

about them.

{363}

Pantheism, on this supposition, would start from absolute

nihilism, to build up the existence of everything. On the other

hand, if the second supposition be admitted, that the infinite is

a permanent being, capable of changes and developments, then it

is a transient act in the second sense, that is, the beginning or

end of an immanent act; in which case we object to its being

self-existing, and insist that it leads to the admission of the

idea of the infinite as given by the Catholic Church. We

demonstrate this from the ontological idea of immanent and

transient acts.

If there be transient acts, there must also be immanent acts,

because transient acts are the beginning or end of immanent acts.

But no immanent act can be the cause of its end, because no act

could be the cause of its cessation; nor can an immanent act be

the cause of its own beginning, since in that case it would act

before it existed.

It follows, then, that an immanent act cannot be the cause either

of its beginning or of its end. But a transient act, that is, the

beginning or end of an immanent act, must have a cause, by the

principle of causality. If, then, the transient act is not caused

by the immanent act, of which it is either the beginning or the

end, it must be caused by another immanent act.

Now this immanent act, which causes the transient act, has either

itself a beginning, in which case it would be preceded by a

transient act, or it has no beginning at all, and consequently

can have no end.

If it be caused by a transient act, we should be obliged to admit

another immanent act; and, if we do not wish to admit an infinite

series of causes, (which would by no means resolve the

difficulty, but only increase it,) we must finally stop at an

immanent act which has neither beginning nor end.

If it be not caused by a transient act, then we have already what

we seek for; an act without beginning or end.

But, the infinite of the pantheists, if it be not a mere

abstraction, an absolute nonentity, is a transient act.

Therefore, it leads to the admission of a purely immanent act. We

present the same demonstration in another form, to make it more

intelligible.

A transient act is the beginning or cessation of an immmanent

act.

Now, this beginning or cessation must have a cause, by the

principle of causality. What can the cause be? It cannot be the

same immanent act, of which the transient act is either the

beginning or the end. Because, if the immanent act were the cause

of its beginning, it would act before its existence; and if it

were the cause of its end, its action would be simultaneous with

its destruction or extinction, which is a contradiction in terms.

On the other hand, it cannot be a transient act, because this

_itself_ must have a cause. Nor can it be another immanent

act, which has a beginning or end; for in that case it would be a

transient act. Therefore, it must be a purely immanent act,

without beginning or end. In short, a self-existing transient

act, such as the infinite of the pantheists, is an absurdity,

because this denotes an act which gives itself a beginning, or

which gives itself an end. This beginning or end must be given it

by another. Now, this second is either a purely immanent act,

without beginning or end, or it has had a beginning, and may have

an end. In the first supposition we have the Catholic idea of

God. In the second we may multiply these causes _ad

infinitum_, and thus increase _ad infinitum_ the

necessity of the existence of God to explain those existences.

{364}

We pass to the examination of the second leading principle of

pantheism, which is thus expressed. The infinite, by a necessary

interior movement, becomes multiple.

How is this to be understood? If the infinite of the pantheists,

by a necessary interior movement, unfolds itself, and becomes

multiple, it follows that it is the cause of transient acts. Our

mind can attach no other signification to that principle, beyond

that of an immanent act, producing transient acts. Now the

question arises, Is this ontologically possible? We insist that

it is not, and lay down the following proposition: No being,

which moves or unfolds itself, that is, which performs transient

acts, can do so by its own unaided energy; but requires the aid

of another being, different from itself.

An immanent act which produces a transient one does so either by

an eternal act, also immanent, and in that case it cannot be the

subject of the transient act produced; or it produces a transient

act of which it is the subject--so much so that the transient act

is its own act, as, for instance, the act by which a sensitive

being feels a new sensation, or the act by which an intelligent

being begets a thought, are transient acts, the one of the

sensitive principle, the other of the rational being. These

transient acts modify the subject which produces them, and effect

a change in it.

Now, in the first case, if an immanent act which produces

transient acts is eternal in duration, these cannot terminate in

the subject, by the supposition. For, if the transient act were

laid inside the permanent act, it would be its cessation, and in

that case the act would no longer be eternal according to the

supposition.

In the second place, if an immanent act becomes the subject of

transient acts, or, in other words, modifies itself, a sufficient

reason must be given, a cause of such modification, by the

principle of causality. Why does it modify itself? What is the

cause of such a change? The being or subject, or immanent act,

does not contain the sufficient cause of the modification or

change; because if it contained it, the act produced would be

permanent, and not transient, that is, it would have always been

in the immanent act. For it is a principle of ontology of

immediate evidence that, given the _full_ cause, the effect

follows. Now the immanent act in question _was_ before the

transient act existed; therefore, the immanent act is not full

and sufficient cause of the transient act which modifies it. If

it is not the full and sufficient cause of its modification, it

cannot modify itself without the aid of exterior being. Now, this

exterior being cannot be supposed to be of the same nature with

the act in question, otherwise it would itself require aid.

Therefore, it must be a being which does it by an eternal

immanent act; and that Being is the _Infinite_ of Catholic

philosophy.

Apply this demonstration to the second principle of pantheism,

that the infinite, by a necessary interior movement, unfolds and

develops itself, or modifies itself, it is evident that this

second principle, like the first, is ontologically impossible;

that the infinite must either be purely, simply, and eternally

actual, or it cannot develop itself without the aid of another

being of a different nature; consequently that the second

pantheistic principle is nothing else but the idea of finite

being perfecting itself by the aid of the Infinite of Catholic

philosophy.

In order that this conclusion may appear more evident, we subjoin

another argument, more adapted to the comprehension of most

readers.

{365}

According to the pantheistic hypothesis, the infinite, by a

necessary interior action, is forced to expand, to develop

itself. Now, we want to show that this it cannot do by its

unaided energy. We prove it thus: This action of the infinite is

a movement; we make use of the word movement in its widest

signification, as meaning any action whatever. Now, this movement

either existed always in the infinite or it had a beginning. In

the system of the pantheists it has a beginning, because they

hold that the infinite successively assumes different forms.

There was then a time in which it did not move. Then the infinite

had only the power, and not the act of moving; and when it

_did_ move, it passed from the power to the act.

It will not do for the pantheist to endeavor to avoid this

conclusion by saying that the movement of the infinite is

eternal. Conceding that the movement is eternal, we ask, is the

action only one, or is it multiple? In other words, is the full

intensity of its energy concentrated in one movement, or is it

divided? The pantheist cannot, in force of his system, admit that

the whole intensity of its energy is concentrated in a single

movement; otherwise, the successive unfoldings were impossible;

the unfolding would be instantaneous, and not successive.

The infinite, then, in its successive unfoldings, passes from the

power to the act. Now, it is an ontological principle, as evident

as any axiom of Euclid, that no being can pass from the power to

the act, from quiet to movement, but by the aid of another being

already in act. For power is, in relation to action, as rest is

to movement. If the being is in rest, it cannot be in movement;

if, on the contrary, it is in movement, it cannot be in rest.

Likewise, if the being is supposed to act, it cannot, at the same

time, be supposed to be in potentiality. A being in power and

action, with regard to the same effects, is as much a

contradiction as a being in rest and motion at the same time. To

make this more intelligible, let us take an instance. Suppose the

seed of a tree, say of a lemon: this seed is in potentiality to

become a lemon. But it could never of itself become a lemon;

because, if it could, it were already a lemon; it were a lemon,

not in power only, but in act. To become a lemon it must be

buried in the earth, it must go through the whole process of

vegetation, and assimilate to itself whatever it needs from the

earth and the air and the sun; and not until then can it be the

fruit-tree we call lemon.

No being, then, can pass from the power to the act, except by the

aid of another being which is in act. Now, the infinite of the

pantheist is continually passing from the power to the act; from

being indefinite and indeterminate, it becomes limited and

determinate. Therefore it cannot do so but by the agency of

another being, which is all action and no potentiality.

This being is God.

We have examined the first principle of pantheism with regard to

the infinite, and we have seen that a being the essence of which

lies in being made, in becoming, either means something the

essential elements of which are continually changing, so much so

as to have no duration whatever, or it means a being which has a

beginning and may have an end. In the first case, the infinite of

the pantheist would be a mere absurdity, a pure abstraction. In

the second, it expresses nothing else but the idea of a finite

being, and leads to the existence of a purely immanent being or

act.

{366}

Proceeding to discuss the second principle of pantheism, that the

infinite, by a necessary, interior movement, unfolds itself, we

have demonstrated that this is impossible; that, granting the

possibility of the infinite unfolding itself successively, this

it could never do by its own unaided energy, but requires the

help of another being. That, consequently, the second principle

of the pantheists leads also to the idea of God as proposed by

the Catholic Church.

As a corollary following from the whole discussion, we draw the

conclusion that the infinite is utterly inconceivable, unless it

is supposed to be most perfect, most finished reality, if we may

speak thus; that it is altogether absurd, unless it is supposed

to be pure actuality, without the least mixture of potentiality;

in a word, pure, simple action itself; in the language of the

schoolmen, _actus purissimus_.

The discussion of the pantheistic idea of the infinite has led us

to the main idea of the infinite as it is given by Catholic

philosophy. We shall now proceed to fill up this idea and develop

it to its utmost conclusions, so as to give an exact and full

exposition of the doctrine of the infinite, as proposed by

Catholic philosophy. The result of our discussion has been that

the Infinite, or God, is action itself; or, in other words, pure

actuality, an immanent act without beginning or end. Upon this we

shall build the whole construction of the essential attributes

and perfections of God, and admire how consistent, how logical,

how sublime, is the Catholic idea of the Infinite.

I.

God Is Necessary Being.

Necessary being is that the essence of which is one and the same

thing with its existence; and, _vice versa_, the existence

of which is one and the same thing with the essence, so much so

that the idea of the one implies the idea of the other.

But God's essence is to be; for we have seen that he is actuality

or reality itself. Therefore, God is necessary or self-existing

being.

Hence the sublime definition he gave of himself to Moses: "_I

am WHO am_. _He who is_ sent me to you."

II.

God Is Eternal.

Eternity is duration without succession or change; _duratio

tota simul_, as the schoolmen would say. Hence it excludes the

idea either of beginning or end. But duration and actuality are

one and the same thing. Therefore actuality itself is duration

itself; that is to say, duration without succession or change.

Now, God is actuality itself. Therefore he is eternal.

III.

God Is Immutable.

Immutability is life without succession or change; or, in other

words, life without beginning or end, and without being subject

to modifications. Now life is action. Action then, without

succession or change, is immutability.

God is action itself. Therefore God is immutable.

{367}

IV.

God Is Infinite.

Infinity is being itself with the exclusion of limits, that is,

of not being; or, to express ourselves more intelligibly, it is

being or perfection in its utmost and supremest actuality,

excluding the possibility of any successive actualization, for

the reason of its being already all possible actualization. Human

language is so imperfect and so inadequate that, even in our

efforts to avoid in the definition of the infinite all idea of

succession or development, we are forced to make use of words

which seem to suppose it. Those who are trained to think

logically will grasp the idea without much effort; for the words

_being itself_, to the exclusion of not being or limitation,

sufficiently and adequately define the infinite. Now, God, as

action itself, is being itself. Therefore, God is infinite.

V.

Immensity Is The Presence Of The

Whole Being Of God In His Actions.

This definition of immensity, being somewhat different in words

from that commonly given by metaphysicians, requires explanation.

Let the reader, then, pay particular attention to the following

remarks.

Ubiquity implies residence of _being_ in space, both

spiritual and material. By spiritual space we mean the existence

of different created spirits and nothing more.

By material space we mean the extension of matter.

That God can act on or reside in spiritual beings does not

involve any difficulty.

But how can he reside in material space, space properly so

called?

It is evident that a spiritual being cannot dwell in space by a

contact of extension, since spiritual being is the very opposite

of extension.

Therefore, a spiritual being can only dwell in space by acting on

it.

The presence of the whole being of God in the action by which he

creates, sustains, and acts in spiritual and material space, is

ubiquity.

Immensity is the presence of the whole being of God in his

action. The difference between the two lies in this: that

ubiquity implies a relation to created objects, whereas immensity

implies no such relation. We say, then, the presence of the

_whole being_ of God in his action, because God is pure

actuality, action itself. If, therefore, in his action we did not

suppose the presence of his whole being, we should establish a

division in God; that is, we should suppose his being and his

action to be distinct, which they are not, and this distinction

would imply a development in God, which is contrary to his being

action or actuality itself.

It will easily be remarked that immensity is an attribute which

flows immediately from the idea of God being actuality itself. We

may therefore conclude that he is immense.

VI.

God Is Absolute Simplicity.

Absolute simplicity, in its negative aspect, implies the absence

of all possible composition or distinction in a being; the

distinction, for instance, of essence and existence, of faculties

and attributes.

Now, God is pure actuality, and this excludes all idea of such

distinctions. Therefore, God is simplicity itself.

VII.

God Is One.

God is a necessary being, eternal, immutable, infinite, immense,

all of which are sides of one idea--that of pure actuality.

{368}

Now, such a being can be but one, as is evident to every mind

which understands the terms. God is therefore one.

Before we leave this part of the subject, let us compare both the

pantheistic and the Catholic ideas of _God_, so that, when

brought together face to face, they may appear in a better and

more distinct light.

God, according to the pantheists, is an eternal, self-existing

_something_, devoid of all determination or limit, of all

individuality, of all consciousness, of all personality, of all

shape or form.

When well examined, the principle of the pantheists presents no

other idea to the mind than that of possibility, a kind of

self-existent possibility, if we may bring together two terms

which exclude each other.

Starting from this possibility, the pantheists make it acquire

determination, concreteness, consciousness, personality, by

supposing an interior necessary force of development.

The Catholic idea of God is the very opposite of the pantheistic.

For, whereas they make God a possibility, something that is

becoming, to be made; the Catholic Church exhibits him as

reality, actuality, being itself. It is careful to eliminate from

him the least idea of potentiality or possibility, of becoming

something, or of being subject to development or perfection;

because it insists that God is all reality, perfectly and

absolutely actual. Any idea of further perfection is not only to

be excluded from him, but cannot even be conceived; for the

simple reason that he is all perfection, absolute, eternal

perfection.

That this is the only reasonable idea of God is evident to every

mind which is capable of understanding the terms. For happily it

does not require a long and difficult demonstration to prove the

falsehood and absurdity of the pantheistic, and the truth of the

Catholic, idea of God. The understanding of the terms is quite

sufficient.

Whoever says possibility, excludes, by the very force of the

term, existence and reality. A self-existent possibility is a

contradiction in terms; for possibility excludes existence, and

self-existence implies it necessarily.

An eternal possibility is also a contradiction in terms; for

eternity excludes all succession or mutation, and possibility

implies it. An infinite possibility is yet more absurd; because

infinite means absolute reality and actuality; possibility, on

the contrary, implies only power of being.

But, on the contrary, how logical, how consistent, how grand, and

how conformable to all ontological principles is the idea of God

held by the Catholic Church! God is absolute, pure, unmixed

actuality and reality. Therefore he is self-existing being

itself; therefore he is eternal, because pure actuality is at the

same time pure duration; therefore he is immutable, since pure

actuality excludes all change and development; therefore he is

infinite, because he is being itself, the essential being,

_the_ being; therefore he is simplicity itself, because a

distinction would imply a composition, and all composition is

rejected by actuality most pure, so to speak, unalloyed, unmixed.

The God of the pantheist is a nullity, a negation; the God of the

Catholic Church is really the Infinite. He is in himself whatever

is real and actual in spirit, whatever is real and positive in

matter, whatever is real and positive in the essence of all

creatures. But he has all the reality of spirit without its

limitation; all the reality of matter without its limitation; all

the reality of all creatures without their limitation. All this

reality in him is not such and such reality; but he is all

reality, pure, unmixed reality, without limit and without

distinction.

{369}

What leads the pantheists into the admission of their principle

is a false, wrong idea of the infinite. They suppose, and suppose

rightly, that the infinite must contain all reality; and seeing

around them such a multitude of different beings or creatures,

each one with its particular difference and individualization,

they ask themselves the question, How can all these differences

be concentrated in one being?--the infinite--and in endeavoring

to resolve it they admit a first something undefined,

indeterminate, which assumes gradually all these different forms.

What is this but a very material and vulgar idea of the infinite?

That it was the idea of the first who began to philosophize is

intelligible. But that modern philosophers should have no higher

comprehension of the infinite, that they should not conceive how

the infinite can be all reality, in its being without

distinction, composition, change, or succession, is quite

inconceivable; and is much less than we should expect from men

boasting so loudly of their enlightenment.

Let them hear a Catholic philosopher of the middle ages upon the

subject. After having demonstrated that whatever is real in the

creature is to be found in God as the infinite and most perfect,

he proposes the other question, How can all these perfections be

found in God? and he answers, that they are necessarily to be

found in God, but in a most simple manner, as one and single

perfection. We subjoin his words:

"From what we have said, it evidently follows that the

perfections of creatures are essentially unified in God. For we

have shown that God is simple. Now, where there is simplicity

there cannot be found diversity in the interior of the being.

If, then, all the perfections of creatures are to be found in

the infinite, it is impossible that they could be there with

their differences. It follows, then, that they must be in him

as ONE.

"This becomes evident, if we reflect upon what takes place in

the faculties of comprehension. For a superior power grasps, by

one and the same act of comprehension, all those things known,

under different points of view, by inferior powers. In fact,

the intelligence judges, by a unique and simple act, all the

perceptions of sight, of hearing, and of the other senses. The

same occurs in sciences: although inferior sciences are various

in virtue of their different objects, there is, however, in

them all a superior science which embraces all, and which is

called transcendental philosophy. The same thing happens with

relation to authority. For in the royal authority, which is

one, are included all the other subordinate authorities, which

are divided for the government of the kingdom. It is thus

necessary that the perfections of inferior creatures, which are

multiplied according to the difference of beings, be found

together as one, in the principle of all things--God!"

[Footnote 132]

[Footnote 132: St Thomas's

_Compendium Theologiae_, cap. 22.]

----------

{370}

The Right Path found through the Great Snow.

The drifting, wide-spread snowstorm of January 17th, 1867, will

live in the memory of the "oldest inhabitant" among the strange

things of that eventful year. It confirmed in its depth and

fulness the weird stories of our grandsires, which our later

years had come to look upon as myths; of benighted travellers

buried in drifts that covered houses; of common roads only made

passable by archways cut through the white heaps; of houses where

the only egress was by the upper windows, or perhaps the

chimneys. Among the multitudes who found themselves snow-bound on

that memorable Thursday aforesaid, I was shut up to the cold

comfort of a country inn, in a bleak, mountainous district, where

I had arrived the previous evening with the intention of spending

only a night and day; less, if the business that brought me could

be transacted in a shorter time. I had engaged the parlor and

bed-room adjoining, that I might occupy myself with necessary

writing uninterrupted by any chance arrival. The dimensions of my

suite of apartments were small, and the furniture of the plainest

kind; a dingy carpet covered the floor, and green and yellow

paper adorned the walls. The brilliancy of the _tout

ensemble_ was heightened by a series of coarse, highly-colored

plates, representing the life of the prodigal son in all its

phases, and an equally radiant "family tree," laden with what was

intended to represent tropical fruits, in red and yellow, the

oranges bearing the names and dates of the female members of the

family, and the lemons those of the males; a very suggestive

picture certainly, and one that told some queer tales of my

landlord's family, _Fox's Book of Martyrs_ and an almanac

for '66 were the only books the room furnished. The chairs were

of the stiffest pattern, arranged in funereal order around the

sides of the apartment, with a notable exception in a large

stuffed arm-chair, of the olden times, which I drew before the

open grate piled with blazing peat.

That fire was a comfort indeed. A sight almost lost in these days

in New England; it helped me to forget, in its beautiful

variations, the dashing appearance of the youth pictured on the

walls, and the cruel plates and malicious lies of the "English

martyrologist."

Little did I dream, as I arranged my plans for the next day, of

the change that would come over the outer world while I slept,

although there were already signs of a coming storm. I looked

from my windows in the morning, through the large elms, heavy

with the accumulating weight, across the road and opposite fields

which the snow had swept into one broad expanse of whiteness,

obscuring landmarks and obliterating fences, and which the

furious wind was now lashing into billows, all dead white, save

where

"Some dark ravine

Took shadow, or the sombre green

Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black

Against the whiteness at their back."

{371}

To be "snow-bound" may be very nice in a large, well-ordered

household; but in solitude, with neither books nor companions,

and with the remembrance of a family far away, who perchance may

just then need your stout arm to release them from a like

imprisonment, it is not a cheerful position; and I could not

repress a sigh as I gazed over the trackless way, remembering

that I was five miles from a railroad station, in a small upland

village, not famous for the enterprise of the inhabitants. The

sigh was scarcely breathed when, on the confines of the opposite

meadow, I espied two figures struggling against the elements,

evidently intent on working their way to the inn through the

terrible drifts. It was weary work; for they fell and arose again

often, during the short time I watched them before hastening to

the old landlord, who was smoking his pipe where was once the

barroom, and dreaming over the visions of his long-gone youth. As

soon as the purpose of my call was known, he summoned three stout

laborers from the kitchen, where they were rejoicing with the

maids over the prospect of an idle day, and bade them go at once

to the relief of the travellers. I grew impatient with the long

delay of the servants, the more as but one of the two men was to

be seen breasting the storm; the other must have fallen.

Forgetting my delicate lungs and small physique, I donned my

overcoat and hat, and, fortified with a flask of brandy, hastened

to the rescue, reflecting that brains are often as useful as

muscle in an emergency. The more successful traveller, a stout

son of "green Erin," was quite exhausted when we reached him; but

he found breath to articulate, in answer to our inquiries for his

companion: "Indeed, he fell near the big tree. Oh! he be's a real

gintleman." The informer was conveyed to the house by two of the

men, while with what seemed to me supernatural strength, I made

my way with the third toward the aforesaid "big tree," walking on

the drifts where the stouter man went down, and though the

strong, keen northwest wind nearly took away my breath, and the

sleet almost blinded me, I was first on the spot. It seemed to me

two hours, though it was less than half that time, from the

moment when I lifted the head of the fallen man and succeeded in

pouring into his mouth a spoonful of brandy, till we landed with

our burden at the door of the inn.

There was something in my first glance upon that cold, handsome

face that came to me like a dream of early days--something that

claimed kindred with the associations of my youth. By the

motherly solicitude of the landlady I knew that he would be

speedily resuscitated, and, prostrated by my exertions, I was

leaving him in her care, when I stooped to reach the hat of the

gentleman from the floor where it had been thrown, when I saw the

name "Redwood R. Hood," written in the crown. Immediately I knew

why I had been impressed with his face, and turning to that form

over which strangers were bending with curious gaze I said

peremptorily, "Take the gentleman to my room; he is a friend of

mine; and, Mrs. S----," I added to the landlady, who looked

incredulous, "with your help we can very soon restore the

circulation, and he will have more quiet there than here." I will

not enter into the process of resuscitation; let it suffice that

by evening my friend was the occupant of the large arm-chair

before the piles of burning peat, and we had gone over the years

intervening between us, with the circumstances of our meeting

again in a summary manner, and we now sat in the early twilight

quietly looking at one another.

{372}

"The 'wolf' snow came near devouring little 'Red Riding Hood'

this time," I said, bursting into a laugh again at the joyous

memories that name recalled.

"Even so," replied the pale figure opposite, "and I owe my life

to you, William Dewey, the '_billet doux_' of early days.

Happy hours of our youth!" he added, almost regretfully. "Yes,

they were happy," I responded, "even with all their drawbacks;

yet what do you think now of the sermons of two hours in length

filled with the strong meat of total depravity, election,

inability, foreordination, and reprobation, to which we were

under bonds to listen and to give a rehash at home, and the

tedious prayers which we were obliged to take all standing; a

much more respectful attitude, however, than the lounging,

sitting posture of the present generation of the so-called

orthodox?"

"Do you remember," he said, a smile spreading all over his face,

"when we were at Parson Freewill's school in L----, in the old

meeting-house with the square pews, with seats that lifted when

the congregation arose for prayer, and the vigorous slam we gave

the covers when we reseated ourselves? I think that powerful

stroke rather compensated for the length of the prayer; it was

something to look forward to. But my most fearful remembrance is

the hour after supper devoted to the Assembly's Catechism. I can

see my poor aunt now, shaking her grey curls over the old family

Bible, from which she was endeavoring to prove to me the words of

the Catechism which said I had lost all communion with God, was

under his wrath and curse, and so made liable to all the miseries

of this life and the pains of hell for ever, and that through no

fault of mine; but that such was the corruption of my nature that

I was utterly indisposed and made opposite unto all that is

spiritually good, and wholly inclined to evil, and that

continually!" (_Vide_ Catechism of Westminster Assembly.)

"How is it possible you have your catechism at your tongue's end

even at this date?" I replied. "Really I doubt if I could repeat

an answer correctly; but I thank God who has brought me out of

such terrible darkness."

"Then you have escaped?" he inquired, putting out his hand to

grasp mine; "you, a deacon's son, brought up in the very midst of

'Brimstone Corner'! Well, well! I must believe the age of

miracles has not passed, for this cannot be anything less than a

miracle!"

"Yes, a miracle indeed," I replied gravely. "A double miracle,

that I escaped, and am at last anchored."

"Anchored!" he exclaimed incredulously, "do tell me where you can

find bottom after such uprooting."

"Where you will perhaps despise me more than if I had been

content to walk the Calvinistic rut through life," was my reply,

as I gave into his hand my prayer-book. He examined it with

curiosity and surprise. "A Catholic! a Roman Catholic!" he

exclaimed at length, with a shade of what I thought savored of

contempt in the tone of his voice; "you, William Dewey, son of

Deacon Norman Dewey, of the puritanical city of Boston, you a

Papist! Excuse me if I cannot help saying, it seems to me, 'out

of the frying-pan into the fire.'"

"And pray, may I ask where you find yourself religiously?" I

said; "men of our years, after the fifties, ought to be fixed

somewhere."

{373}

"On the other pole from yourself," he replied quickly; "I believe

in no creed, no church, no--"

"No God?" I questioned, a little satirically.

"A great first cause, certainly," he said slowly. "Yes, the God

in everything, 'Jehovah, Jove, or Lord,' the true Shekinah is

man. But let us not mar this pleasant reunion with discussions.

With your fixed faith, you can have no sympathy religiously with

one the pride of whose creed is, that it is changing daily,

wholly unfixed and afloat."

"There you mistake," I replied earnestly. "I can and do most

heartily sympathize with you; for I floated for years on that

same waste of waters--that shoreless sea of doubt."

"Is it possible! and came at last where you are? I know nothing

about the Catholic faith, I must own, from actual study, and from

what I have heard I did not think it would bear examination; but

there must be something in it if it has caught you, and, if you

like, it would give me pleasure to hear the process: but perhaps

you will object?"

"Not at all," I replied, "but it would take me all night to tell

you the course I run in this matter, and fatigue you after your

misadventure to listen."

"I think it would do me good," he said more earnestly than he had

yet spoken; "I am really impressed with a desire to know how such

a transformation could take place, and you come to embrace what

you were brought up to hate. As to my strength and ability to

listen, I am about as well as usual, but miss my tobacco sadly.

My meerschaum probably lies in the drift that had nearly been my

winding-sheet." I went to the hall and despatched a servant, who

soon returned with a box of clay pipes and tobacco in one hand,

and the missing meerschaum in the other.

"We must be in a remarkably primitive region to find this again,

and without reward," he cried, looking tenderly at the old

friend. "Now go on," he added, after the first puff; "begin at

the beginning, where you used to be flogged about every Sunday

for going reluctantly to catechism. Oh! if there is any one thing

more than another that upset that old cross-grained theology of

our childhood, it was those dreaded Sundays; when, after two

sessions of Sunday-school, two long sermons, and an hour's

sitting on the Westminster Divines, we were allowed some

spiritual sugar-plums in the shape of the _Memoir of Nathan

Dickerman, Life of Mrs. Harriet Newell_, or some other

questionable saint. Yours was a large family at home, and did not

feel what it was to be the sole recipient of the full vials of

reprobation. What saved us from being arrant hypocrites or open

infidels?"

Though I questioned in my own mind how far my friend's religion

was from infidelity, I replied, "The fact that we felt that our

teachers' hearts were better than their creed; for surely never

did there exist a man more free from every taint of hypocrisy

than my honored father, who held tenaciously to the five articles

agreed to by the Synod of Dort, which represented most of the

Calvinistic churches of Europe, looked upon Calvin's Institutes

as binding next to the Bible, and I believe worshipped this

terrible God in whom he believed with the most earnest faith."

{374}

"And you a Catholic!" he said, striking his hands together.

"Excuse me if I repeat what I said. I cannot see how you have

bettered the matter, since the Catholic Church holds to total

depravity and foreornination, and moreover excludes all from any

hope of salvation who do not bow their necks to her yoke."

"Excuse me for flatly contradicting you, but the Catholic Church

does not hold the doctrine of the total depravity of the human

race; on the contrary, she ever teaches that man did not lose by

the Fall the image of God, or his own free will, or the powers of

his reason. But you asked me how I became a Catholic. I am more

interested in telling you that than in refuting what her enemies

say of the church, because that you can find in books any day;

but you must allow me to echo your surprise when I see a large,

earnest soul like yours satisfied with a simple negation of

faith."

"Satisfied! if by satisfaction you mean certainty, I say no; for

I do not believe it is to be found. The best, I find, is to

follow the light that comes to me," he added, with, I thought, a

shade of sadness in his tone; "I broke the fetters of Calvinism

with a bound, and when I had started, there was nothing for me to

do but to cut loose from everything traditional, and rest solely

on reason. But tell me of yourself, for any man who is in

earnest, thinking for himself, I respect, be he Mormon or

Mohammedan."

"I thank you for my share of the respect," I replied, "though I

do not consider it very flattering. I never was a Calvinist; my

earliest reason rebelled against the teachings, and many a

snubbing did I get in my youth for daring to

question--'_cavil_,' it was called. I went through all the

phases of the system, trying to believe as I was taught; for I

had large human respect and strong desire to please, with a

devout turn of mind, making many a violent effort to be in a

condition to become, what my friends wished, 'a professor;' but

my conscience was too clamorous to allow me to pretend that I had

'obtained a hope,' or 'experienced religion.' Invariably, after a

few weeks of fervor, I settled back into a state of indifference

or doubt, although, to please my father, I was a constant

attendant on all 'inquiry-meetings' and 'anxious-seats.' When I

think of those meetings and the self-constituted teachers, who

came there to hear the confessions, and to guide anxious souls in

the road to heaven, a flash of indignation passes through my

frame. About five years after, we parted as school-mates; you for

the South and a stirring business life, I to New-England and the

meditative days of a student. I was attracted and fascinated by

the specious talk of transcendentalism; it was my first taste of

liberty. I read, thought, and dreamed; tried to feed my soul on

naturalism, and to renounce everything supernatural; talked very

flippantly about the God in everything as the object of my

worship; but my hungry soul was unsatisfied; there was a cold,

dreary chilliness, and undefined nothingness, a rejoicing in

uncertainty, which brought nothing like food to my spirit. This

_faith_ (if it deserves the name) flattered my proud heart,

giving me the 'genus homo' as an object of worship; but I saw

plainly that it could never reach the needs of humanity, and

though 'brotherhood' was its watchword and cry, it could never be

a religion for the masses. It was only for the refined, the

cultivated, the gentle, and the good. Where were the abandoned,

the dissolute, the coarse, vulgar herd to find a God in such a

snare? I often asked myself this question, and this specious

infidelity gave me no answer.

{375}

Of the Catholic Church, I am ashamed to say, I then knew nothing,

except that I had often heard her called 'the mother of harlots,'

'Babylon,' 'the scarlet woman,' and such like attractive names,

but it did not once occur to me that I ought to examine her

claims; floating as I was, seeking for foothold, she was not

presented to my mind as an object to be looked at or feared, only

to be despised. At that time I was associated with many of the

purest and noblest spirits, longing and feeling after God by the

dim light of nature; trying to think him out for themselves;

finite minds blinded by vain efforts to comprehend the infinite.

The first genuine wave of affliction brought me to a standstill

on the brink of the abyss that says there is no God. I lost my

mother; she was one of those timid, fearful souls, and had not

that 'assurance' of which Calvinists make their boast; the words

spoken of my precious mother after her burial nearly drove me

wild; they snapped the last cord that bound me to the iron system

of opinions which had thrown their shadow over my young life.

Three years of rushing into the world to drive away thought

followed this terrible blow, and then came a blessing--the best

blessing of my life."

"A wife?" questioned my friend, as I paused a moment in my

recital; "a wife, yes, I have it," as a smile twinkled in the

corners of his clear grey eyes and spread over his handsome face;

"I see it, she knocked the transcendentalism out of you with the

Catholic hammer."

"Hardly," I replied, joining in the hearty laugh that followed

his remark; "being a fearfully high-church woman, and looking

upon hers as the only pure branch--the _via media_--the only

barrier against Rome, 'Romanism,' as she sedulously named the

Catholic Church, was the only thing her loving soul was bitter

against."

"Then you came through the gate of ritualism?" he questioned

again; "a very natural sequence."

"You are excellent in jumping at conclusions," I answered; "I

could never embrace the Anglican myth, though I was bound by my

own creed not to trouble myself about that of other people. I was

brought behind the curtain of this household, however, and saw

the cruel intestine warfare between high and low church; the

vital difference in the teaching of the two classes of clergymen,

the 'sacramental' and the 'evangelical;' and I saw within her

fold young, earnest hearts becoming partisans in these divisions

and calling it zeal for God. I often heard more talk of an

evening over the particular shade of an altar-cloth, the size and

pattern of book-marks for the altar, the proper position of

faldstools, credences, sedilia; the way in which a clergyman read

or pronounced, the depth of the genuflection he made in the

creed, and so forth, than I have heard the whole ten years I have

been in the Catholic Church. I saw, too, that she was eminently

the church of the fashionable, 'the most genteel denomination,'

as I heard one of her members declare, with much

self-satisfaction, containing the 'cream of society;' the poor

shut out from her churches, and compensated by mission-chapels

for their exclusive use. Of course my wife was very earnest to

make me a convert to Episcopacy, and by her repeated

solicitations I examined the 'Book of Common Prayer,' as she so

often said (what is a truth everywhere) that one must not judge

of a religious body by individual members or teachers, but by her

standards.

{376}

I was strongly confirmed, by this examination, in my opinion of

the want of conformity to their own rules by many of the clergy,

and the helplessness to reach them by discipline, which is the

first requisite in a well-ordered household. That the body of the

book contradicted the thirty-nine articles was as plain as that

'Protestant' was on the title-page; for while one acknowledged

priest, altar, and sacrifice, the other stoutly denied all

three."

"And did you make known the result of your investigations to Mrs.

Dewey, or did you leave her in ignorance of what you had found?"

"I dreaded to shake her faith, knowing that I had nothing to give

her in its place, and I withheld my conclusions, till she

insisted so earnestly, assuring me that she could not be moved,

that I yielded. I could see that she was moved by what I said;

but she was only carried forward, grasping more firmly the

fragments of Catholic truth she already held, and growing, as I

afterward knew, into a more Catholic spirit. At length I said to

her, as she was mourning over the want of unity among her chosen

people, and the alarming progress of 'Romanism,' which had just

clasped in its embrace one of her dearest friends, 'Suppose, my

dear, you and I were to look into this matter; I have no doubt

you would be more of an Anglican than ever, and I less in favor

of creeds. It is but fair we should give Catholics a hearing; for

my part, I know nothing of them except from their enemies.' She

was inclined to listen to my proposition; but her spiritual

pastor, from whom she hid none of her religious difficulties, put

a veto on the examination, by forbidding her to read or to talk

with any one on the subject. Indignant at what I then thought his

narrow-mindedness, but which I now see was only proper

self-preservation, I determined to pursue my investigations

alone, though it was the first time in our married life that any

subject of interest had not been common with us. I procured such

books as were within my reach, and commenced my inquiries. It was

a most interesting study, and opened a new world of thought to

me; every moment of leisure for six months was given to the

search, into which I entered as I would into a question of law,

consulting and comparing authorities, examining both sides,

questioning and cross-questioning witnesses. But we are touching

on the time of sleep," I said, as the hall-clock struck the hour

of midnight.

"Oh! no, go on," he replied eagerly, "you don't know how

interested I am."

"No," I said firmly, "your experience of to-day requires that you

should rest; and as there is no prospect of getting away from

here, I shall have ample time to finish my tale to-morrow." I

insisted upon his occupying my quarters, being the most

comfortable in the house, and as I went to my rest in another

apartment, and thought of the eagerness with which he had

listened to my recital, I breathed a prayer that God would give

him light.

The sun arose clear and bright the following morning, and the

wind, that had made such havoc with the snowdrifts the previous

day, had died away into a cold calm. I watched from the window

the long line of men and boys, with patient oxen, tugging and

toiling at the great white heaps. I had _Snow Bound_ in my

coat-pocket, and took this opportunity of assuring myself of the

truth of the beautiful word-pictures therein painted.

{377}

It was quite late when my friend appeared from the inner room,

and in answer to my inquiry if he had rested well replied, "I

have not once wakened since I succeeded in driving our

conversation from my mind, which I did after a long process, by

repeating the multiplication table over and over till I fell

asleep. We cannot get away to-day," he added, going to the

window. "I am glad of that, for I am impatient to hear you out."

He was uneasy till breakfast was dispatched, our grate and pipes

replenished, and we seated again for a talk.

"Now tell me the result of your lawyer-like examination of

authorities," he said by way of commencement.

"Yes, it was indeed lawyer-like," I replied; "for prejudice,

feeling, early impressions, all went against the decision. But

the logical conclusion, from what I read, was this: _if_

(mind I got no further than the _if_) the Bible is the word

of God, it certainly teaches that our Lord established a church,

and gave to that one body apostles and teachers, conferring on

them wonderful powers, to be continued for all time in some way;

for he says, 'I am with you all days, even to the consummation of

the world;' with the same breath with which he tells them to

preach the Gospel, he bids them to bind and loose, to work

miracles and to feed his flock. These are the facts on the face

of the Gospel narrative. I tried to explain these things in some

other way; I even went to commentators; but the candid

examination I had promised forbade my trusting any man's opinion.

I went to the early Fathers, (whom, by the way, I had always

ignored, as is the fashion;) I found that they reasoned very much

like other men; they asked questions, and answered them. I saw

that if these powers were given, as the Scripture asserts, to the

chosen twelve, these were the men to whom they were transmitted.

Without exception they confirmed the teaching of the Bible with

regard to the church, and opened still more fully the dogmas of

Scripture. I compared them one with another, and found that,

without any denial or variation, they declared the authority of

the church and the necessity of the sacraments. It was also plain

that this church being one and universal, having the same faith

and discipline wherever established, until some body of men

_protested_ against some received doctrine, no dogma assumed

prominence, the faith was one perfect whole. But while, as I told

you, I had gone no further than 'if,' my wife, by an entirely

different road, was coming to the same gate. Her pastor had given

her two very beautiful devotional works, that charmed her beyond

anything she had ever seen; but during one of the rare calls of

her Catholic friend, (for her guide had advised her to renounce

this friendship, but I, with a higher claim on her obedience, had

forbidden this sacrifice,) during this call, these books were the

subject of discourse, and Miss M---- told her she wished her

nothing better to read, as they were both translations of

Catholic authors, which she proved by bringing the originals in

French at her next visit. My wife saw at once the absurdity of

denying her Catholic books, and giving them to her in disguise.

This honest guide of souls had also told her that 'Romanists'

altered the commandments, leaving out the second entirely, lest

it should condemn their idolatry; while her friend gave her the

Catechism which is taught to all Catholic children, where the

commandments are written as they were spoken on Mount Sinai. I

think these two mistakes (I will call them by a mild name) of her

pastor shook her faith in him very essentially.

{378}

From that day we talked freely; I gave her my conclusions, with

the '_if_,' and she took the Fathers for daily reading. I

had gone no further than the _if_--my pride prevented--when

it pleased Almighty God to take from us our eldest son, and to

bring my wife to the borders of the grave. What could comfort me,

as I looked at my beautiful boy cold and lifeless, and my wife at

that point where earthly help is unavailing? The cheerless creed

that I had held with so much pride gave me not a glimmer of

light. I called reason to my aid, but I called in vain; it was no

pleasure to me to think of those I had loved and lost reabsorbed

into Deity, never more to be anything to me. How could it satisfy

me, yearning for the treasures I was losing, to feel that 'there

is no time, no space; we are we know not what, light sparkles in

the ether of Deity.' The words which I had used in answer to my

wife's questioning, 'if this be true,' followed me continually;

now, I needed to know if it were true; I needed something firm to

rest me in that weary hour. It was many years since I had knelt

in prayer; now I was bowed to the earth, and my whole cry was,

'Lord, give me light.' I am ashamed to tell you of the fearful

struggle with my pride, when at last the light of faith came into

my bewildered and darkened soul, the many worldly ties that held

me back, the loss of position and favor which I feared; I blush

for my cowardice, it was unworthy of the name of man made in the

image of God. My beloved wife knew not of this strife in my soul;

in her extremity she had sent for her pastor, and received all he

could give her of the rites of his church; but she was not

satisfied. What was my surprise to hear her say, as if the sight

of death had given her boldness, 'There is the command of St.

James for the comfort and help of the sick and dying; why may I

not have it? 'Ah! my child,' he replied, 'that was given for the

early ages of the church, and passed away with them.' 'But why do

we not need it as well as they?' she questioned, 'It is too much

for you to argue in your present state,' was his cold reply, 'but

it is sufficient for me, as an obedient son of the church, to

submit to the deprivation, since our holy mother has not seen fit

to retain it.' I saw the speciousness of the reasoning wherewith

he silenced her, and I sat by the patient sufferer after the

departure of the divine so faithful to his church, hesitating as

to my duty in the matter, when she cried out as if in anguish,

'Oh! if I only knew it was right, only knew--'

"'What was right?' I questioned, holding her trembling hand. 'I

want confession, I want absolution, I want the anointing of the

sick,' she said eagerly, her dark eyes bent on me imploringly.

'You shall not be denied,' I replied, and, leaving her with the

nurse, I went for the nearest Catholic priest. I will not enter

into details; let it suffice that, before two hours had passed,

my wife was a member of the Catholic Church, improved in physical

condition and mental quietness, and I was preparing for baptism."

I paused in my recital; I saw that my friend was much moved, even

as I had been, by the memories of the past. After a moment, he

gave me his hand cordially, saying, "Thank you heartily, it has

done me good;" then, after another pause. "But tell me one thing

candidly, have neither of you regretted the step; never wished

yourselves back again?"

{379}

"Regretted!" I cried indignantly, "wished ourselves back to a

region of doubt and uncertainty! Why, I say a _Gloria_ every

morning that I am a Catholic; and my wife sings _Te Deum_

all the time."

"And did you suffer all you expected," he asked, "in the way of

loss of friends?"

I had nothing in my experience worthy of the name of suffering;

but my wife endured much in the way of reproach, withdrawal of

friendship, and the cold shoulder socially."

"But let me ask one thing, and don't feel hurt; how do you, with

your fastidious tastes, worship in churches crammed to the full

with the laboring Irish, before those tawdry altars which I have

sometimes seen?" I felt the color rising to my cheek at this

question, but I replied calmly, crushing the temptation to be

severe, and remembering what this thought was to me before the

light of faith illumined my soul, "You can never know what it is

to forget distinctions till you believe in that Presence which

dwells on Catholic altars. It would ill become sinful man to

object to other company he finds in church when Jesus our God

condescends to be present for our sake. My wife seeks out the

churches frequented by the very poorest; she says she feels

nearer God when she has his poor by her side. As to the tawdry

altars, you must remember that the love and devotion of an

uneducated and unrefined taste is as truly expressed by something

common and showy, as your refined delicacy would be by more

exquisite adornment. God looketh at the heart; and the poor

servant-girl who presents to her favorite altar bouquets of gaudy

artificial flowers, for the sake of her dear Lord whom she really

believes to be present there, is as acceptable as the lady who

sends her lovely blossoms from the hot-house. In the Catholic

Church in this country--and may I not say in every country?--the

poor are in the majority among her members."

As I spoke, the steam-whistle, the first since the storm, sounded

through the air. With a regretful look, Mr. Hood went to the

window. "That reminds us," he said, "that the world is moving

again."

"You will go to my home with me," I replied; "you must."

"Not now," he answered; "but when the business that brought me to

this part of the country is accomplished, I will come and talk

with your wife about this matter before I leave for California."

According to promise, he came; and when he left us for his

Southern home, we were not without hope that our long talks had

had an effect; my wife would not leave him till she had his

promise that he would examine for himself, prayerfully,

earnestly, and thoroughly, and would write me the result, which I

have in a letter by to-day's mail.

San Francisco, Cal., Oct. 24, 1867.

S. _Raphael the Archangel_.

My Dear Dewey: I was received into the Catholic Church to-day.

_Laus Deo!_ I wonder how any one can remain out of it; it

is such a joy to have a foothold, to know that one stands on

something, and that something firmer than the "everlasting

hills." I must give up my business in this publishing house;

for I cannot have my name any longer linked with the falsehoods

that teem from the press, against Christ's Church. It is a

disgrace that American school-books should contain such lies as

you find on the pages of the Readers, Geographies, and

especially the Histories, which are the text-books of our

institutions of learning. May the good God help me to repair

the injustice I have done in this matter as a publisher.

{380}

I am the wonder and pity of the old transcendental clique here,

who, as one of them said to me yesterday, "can't understand how

a man can go back to the dark ages for his religion." I told

him my faith illumined what he called the "dark ages" till they

transcended the nineteenth century in brilliancy. My younger

children were baptized with me; I hope in time to see all my

dear ones safely housed. Tell Mrs. Dewey, with my kindest

remembrance, to sing _Te Deum_ for me, and don't forget me

and mine in your prayers, Very sincerely yours in the blessed

faith,

Redwood Raphael Hood.

----------

Translated From The Revue Generale, Of Brussels.

The Good Old Time And Our Own.

In the daily struggle for truth and right, in our hours of

lassitude and discouragement, how willingly we believe that

formerly the battle of life was less severe than nowadays. We

love to compare ourselves with our predecessors, pigmies to us

giants of the nineteenth century, and sincerely believe them so,

either because of our short-sightedness or because of the great

distance from which we regard them. But when, by the study of

history, we have drawn nearer the distances which separate these

epochs of the different evolutions of humanity, we become at the

same time more modest and more courageous; more modest, because

we know our fathers have had to struggle as much if not more than

ourselves; more courageous, because by their example we learn how

we should battle for triumph in moral struggles; and of these

alone we would here speak.

Many of our contemporaries think they have done their duty if

they have abused their own time, praised the past, and predicted

a sombre future unable to confer upon us any blessings. It is so

sweet to live in abstract contemplation of heroes or epochs of

which inexorable time has deprived us; it is so easy to make an

apology for them without combating the living men and the

concrete ideas which in real history form the shadows to these

brilliant pictures; it is so easy to choose from former ages

models of virtue, of civil courage and faith, without

preoccupying ourselves with obstacles that these just people,

these citizens, these saints have conquered, and that our

indifference, our idleness, our weakness, or our cowardice

hinders us from looking fairly in the face, through the medium in

which we live. We do not perceive often enough that the vulgar

expression of the "good old time," which has been forbidden in

every age, is in the moral history of a people a truly vicious

circle. Indeed, we cannot pretend that every age is worth only so

much, and, interpreting badly the proverb, "Man proposes, but God

disposes," go to sleep in the false historical security called

fatalism. It is legitimate to have our preferences for such and

such an epoch, and it is not always difficult to give good

reasons for them; but between these rational preferences and an

unjustifiable disdain for our own time, there is an abyss.

{381}

To act with our own epoch we must love it; then we work with

ardor and confidence for its reform. Who loves well, chastises

well. I wish to show that our age merits to be loved as well as

any other that has preceded it; and I will demonstrate this

clearly by a moral, religious, and political sketch of the

Christian age the most justly praised--the thirteenth. To

circumscribe this vast subject as much as possible, I will speak

of Italy alone; of that Italy which then, as now, was the object

of the most audacious attacks and the theatre of the most

instructive resistance. I will first tell what was the condition

of the "Christian republic" at the end of the twelfth century.

Then I will show the radiant transformation of society in the

thirteenth century while determining its general causes, and

finish by comparing this heroic age with our own.

I.

For most of Belgium, the history of civilization commences only

with the day when General Dumouriez "brought them liberty at the

point of the bayonet." Before the French revolution, it was the

common error that the era of political and religious revolution

only opened with the sixteenth century, and such error is common

to-day. Yet Gnosticism, Manicheism, Arianism, and Greek schism

have produced in Christian Europe commotions much greater and

more fatal than those of which the predictions of Martin Luther

have been the occasion, and of which the Protestant princes have

so abundantly reaped the fruits. From the tenth to the thirteenth

century, the Catholic Church suffered on the part of the

state--of the empire, as they then termed it--assaults in

comparison to which the thirty years' war and the revolutions

fomented by the _statolatres_ of the thirteenth century were

only children's play.