THE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XX., NO. 116.—NOVEMBER, 1874.

Church Chant _Versus_ Church Music.

An interesting colloquy took place in our mind as we finished the perusal

of the paper entitled “Church Music” which appeared in the August and

September numbers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD. We transcribe it as faithfully as

our memory serves us.

SCENE—_The cloister of a Benedictine monastery. Time, Anno Domini 1000. A

number of monks rehearsing for a festival._

GREGORIUS, _the choir‐master dictating from an open Gradual_. “Listen, my

brothers all. To‐morrow is the festival of S. Polycarp the martyr and the

name‐day of our good father, the abbot. On such a joyous festival we must

not fail to make his heart right glad with our chanting. Let us begin the

Introit. (_Sings._) ‘Gaudeamus omnes in Domino, diem festum

celebrantes.’ ”

(_All the monks repeating in chorus_) “Gaudeamus omnes in Domino, diem—”

(_They are interrupted by a loud knocking at the floor leading from the

cloister. Brother Gregorius, on opening it, is confronted by an aged

stranger with a long, white, flowing beard, bearing in his hand a roll of

printed music, on which the words __“__Boston,__”__ __“__Ditson__”__ and

the date __“__1874__”__ can be discerned._)

GREGORIUS. “Salve, frater.”

AGED STRANGER. “Prof. Hubanus, at your service; and having come from a

great distance, and happily being born at a much later date, I guess you

will find my services on this eve of your joyous festival of some value,

for I am well acquainted with all the best Masses published. By the way,

is one of the brethren lately departed this life?”

GREGORIUS (_with astonishment_). “No, God be praised! Brother Augustine

yonder did leave the infirmary vacant this morning, thanks to Our Blessed

Lady, that no voice might be wanting in the choir on the morrow; but

wherefore the question, good domne Hubanus?”

HUBANUS. “Because I heard you but just now rehearsing such a sorrowful, in

fact, so lugubrious, a _morceau_—an Offertory piece, I presume, for a

Requiem Mass—that I supposed you were getting up the music for some such

occasion.”

(_The monks regard the aged stranger with no little surprise, mingled with

curiosity._)

GREGORIUS. “We must have made indeed sad work of it in our rehearsing.

Worthy Hubanus, it was the _Gaudeamus_ you heard.”

HUBANUS. “The _Gaudeamus_, eh? (_Aside._ I don’t remember seeing that in

Ditson’s catalogue. I wonder what it is. _To Gregorius._) Would you mind

repeating it once more?”

GREGORIUS. “With pleasure. Sing, my brothers.” (_They sing the whole

Introit._)

HUBANUS. “Ah! fine; quite solemn! A Gregorian chant, I perceive. A very

plaintive movement. The _finale_ has an exceedingly mournful effect. In D

minor, is it not? Still, for a Requiem Offertory I think Rossini’s _Pro

Peccatis_, or Gounod’s _Ave Maria_, or ‘Angels ever Bright and Fair,’ for

a change, would please the congregation better.”

ALL THE MONKS. “Plaintive! Our _Gaudeamus_ mournful! Calls an Introit an

Offertory _piece_! Like a Requiem Offertory indeed! An _Ave Maria_ for

that too! What does he mean by D minor? (_Blessing themselves._) Ab omni

malo, libera nos, Domine!”

HUBANUS. “Oh! beg pardon. That is an Introit, is it? Indeed! But, as I

said, I have the honor to be born at a much later date than yourselves,

and we don’t bother ourselves with singing those things in my day and

country. We bring out the finest music, however, in our choir of the

Church of S. Botolph, in the United States, that you can hear. I’m the

organist and director.”

GREGORIUS. “Not sing the Introit! Why, good domne Hubanus, our grand and

joyous festival on the morrow would be robbed of one of its chief features

if we failed to sing the _Gaudeamus_—I mean _the Gaudeamus_ that you have

just heard.”

HUBANUS. “ ‘De gustibus non est disputandum.’ Hem! excuse my indulging in

the classics; those old Latin fellows say a good deal in a few words, you

know. But you don’t seriously mean to say that such monotonous

stuff—excuse my plain speaking on your plain singing—is fit for a joyous

festival? As my friend, Dr. ——, says in his late paper on ‘Church Music,’

‘to hear Gregorian chant for a long time, and nothing else, becomes

extremely monotonous, and burdens the ear with a dull weight of sound not

always tolerable.’ He says, moreover, that ‘this is admitted by all who in

seminaries and monasteries have been most accustomed to hear it.’ ”

GREGORIUS. “Your learned friend did not seek _our_ judgment, I assure you,

and I am at a loss to know who could have made so silly an admission to

him.”

HUBANUS. “But do you not ‘resort to every device,’ as he says again, ‘to

escape its monotony on festival days, by harmonies on the chant which are

out of all keeping with it,’ and so forth?”

GREGORIUS. “_We_ do not, I trust. What little harmony we sing is in strict

keeping with the mode of the chant; and as to escaping anything, we know

the rubrics, domne Hubanus, and respect them, and, what is more, we

observe them.”

HUBANUS. “On that score I have the advantage of you; for it doesn’t

require much knowledge of what you call rubrics to bring out a Mass and

grand Vespers with us. However, this question of plain chant is settled

long ago. It ought to have been settled long before you were born. For, as

Dr. —— continues in his paper, ‘No one will deny the appropriateness and

impressiveness of plain chant on certain solemn occasions, especially

those of sorrow; but it is confessedly unequal to the task of evoking and

expressing the feelings of Christian joy and triumph.’ Ah! Brother

Gregorius, you should have been born later.”

GREGORIUS. “Then we monks, and the generations of the faithful throughout

the world, have for the past thousand years been shut out from the

feelings of Christian joy and triumph, have we? Verily, either we or you

can have known very little of one or of the other, as the observation of

your learned doctor may happen to be true or not. Did the church put a lie

into the mouths of her cantors when she bade them sing, ‘Repleatur os meum

laude tua, alleluia; ut possim cantare, alleluia; gaudebunt labia mea, dum

cantavero tibi, alleluia, alleluia’?”(45)

HUBANUS. “You are a trifle sarcastic, Brother Gregorius; but I willingly

pardon it, for I’m a plain‐spoken man myself, and call a spade a spade.

Besides, you know, you can always fall back on the ‘De gustibus’—a

quotation I often find very convenient; but I warrant me your _prima

donna_ doesn’t find much satisfaction in exhibiting her fine soprano on

your dull chant, which you must confess, with Dr. ——, ‘is of limited, very

limited, range,’ and in my opinion as poor in expression as a kettle‐

drum.”

GREGORIUS. “I crave your pardon, worthy sir. You are a stranger and quite

aged—”

HUBANUS (_interrupting_). “Eighteen hundred and seventy‐four.”

GREGORIUS (_continuing_)—“as the length and whiteness of your beard

proclaim, while we have only the experience of one thousand years, the

lessons of the church, and the _taste_ as well as the examples of the

saints to profit by; but we must confess that of a _prima donna_ we have

never yet heard.”

ALL THE MONKS (_very decidedly_). “Never!”

HUBANUS. “Never heard of a _prima donna_! Why, when _were_ you born? I

mean, of course, the chief lady soprano who sings in the choir.”

(_Here all the monks burst out laughing._)

GREGORIUS (_having got his breath_). “Come, come, my ancient stranger,

that explains all. We knew you must be ‘chaffing’ us, from the very first,

with your ‘mournful _Gaudeamus_’ and your never singing Introits or

obeying the rubrics and the rest. Ha! ha! Truly, a ‘chief lady in the

choir’—_prima donna_, I think you named such a mythical personage—was only

needed to cap the climax of your excellent joke.”

HUBANUS. “Joke! I’m not joking at all. _We_ have ladies in our

choir—(_aside_) and it’s no joke to manage them either—(_to Gregorius_)

and pay them good salaries, as you must; for without that, you know, you

never _can_ have good music.”

(_Here the laughing of the monks suddenly subsided, followed by loud and

angry whispers, of which the __ word __“__heretic__”__ was unmistakably

heard. Brother Gregorius interposed._) “Judge not too hastily, good

brothers. True, no church which oweth obedience to our Holy Father; the

Pope, and which hath a right therefore to call itself Catholic, did ever

yet permit women to sing in church choirs; but what she might have done in

this matter in the country from which this aged stranger comes—be it ever

so contrary to all the rubrics and traditions known unto us—we will the

better learn from his own lips. Women, then, good domne Hubanus, do sing

in the choir in the Catholic churches of your strange land, standing,

perchance, beside the men‐singers?”

HUBANUS. “Where else would they stand? You see we put the sopranos and

tenors on one side, and the altos and basses on the other.”

GREGORIUS (_scratching his shaven crown in great perplexity_). “We have

yet to learn many wonderful things! Canst tell me, worthy Hubanus, how

comes it? Does your learned friend, Dr. ——, speak of this matter in his

celebrated ‘paper’? Doubtless he mentions some decree of the Sacred

Congregation of Rites which hath allowed this—this (_another scratch_)

unheard‐of novelty?”

HUBANUS. “I cannot remember that he made any allusion to it. In fact, I

fancy that he would rather _not_, and I am glad he didn’t. But where’s the

use of making a fuss over it? Haven’t women got voices as well as men, and

what did the Lord give them voices for, if he did not intend them for

use?”

GREGORIUS. “In the choir?”

HUBANUS. “In the choir, or out of the choir, what’s the difference?”

GREGORIUS. “Do the rubrics allow it?”

HUBANUS. “_Ma foi!_ I do not know. (_Aside._) I hope they do, if old

fogies like you are going to stir up _that_ question. (_To Gregorius._) No

lady‐singers! If that were to happen, my occupation, as well as theirs,

would be like Othello’s—gone. For hark you, Brother Gregorius, although I

know but little of your old‐fashioned, barbarous chant—can’t read a note

of it, to tell the truth—if women‐singers are banished from the choir,

music goes with them. The music I like requires the female voice. I

wouldn’t waste my time with a parcel of boys and on such music as they can

sing.”

GREGORIUS. “What music is this of which you speak so often? Hath the

church adopted a new style of melody which is not chant?”

HUBANUS. “No, not adopted precisely, but there is a new music—everybody

knows it—written by Mozart, Haydn, Mercadante, Peters, and several others,

which organists and choirs make use of in our day. Some prefer one, some

another, according to taste. ‘De gustibus,’ you know.”

GREGORIUS. “Yet tell me—for here the strangeness of your news almost

surpasses belief—how _dare_ the organists and choirs make use of _any_

melody in accompanying the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass and absolving the

Divine Office which has not been adopted, or at least distinctly

sanctioned, by holy church, to whom it appertains to dispose the ordering

even of the most minute rubric in these important matters concerning the

due praise of God and the sure edification of the people?”

HUBANUS. “All I can say is, we do it. It is tolerated in some places, and

my friend in his paper quotes some ‘Instructions’ which the cardinal vicar

in Rome issued to his own clergy to prove the toleration; but, to my

thinking, they sound very much like the careful mother’s permission to her

boy who asked leave to learn to swim—‘Certainly, my child, but don’t you

never go near the water, leastways any water that is over your ankles.’ ”

GREGORIUS. “I think I understand, for I have heard our good father, the

abbot, say that ‘he who would be well carried must not drive with too

stiff a rein’; and my holy novice‐master, Father Ambrose—to whose soul may

God grant rest!—did oft chide my hasty judgment upon my fellow‐novices,

saying in his sweet way, and after the manner of his wise speech, ‘Thou

wouldst _re_form monks, good Brother Gregorius, before they are formed.

All they need is a little _instruction_.’ At present every one is well

pleased with your music?”

HUBANUS. “Oh! that is quite another question. Dr. —— himself does not seem

to think so, for he says in his paper: ‘In consequence of the failure of

modern composers to meet the requirements of Catholic devotion, though

their music has been introduced into our churches and given every chance

of trial, complaints against it are heard on every side. We grumble about

it in our conversations; we write against its excesses in the public

journals; bishops complain of it in pastoral letters; provincial councils

are forced to issue decrees about it; the Sovereign Pontiffs themselves

not unfrequently raise their voices, sometimes in warning, sometimes in

threats—in a word, the _evil_ seems to have attracted a good deal of

attention.’ ”

ALL THE MONKS. “Ab omni malo, libera nos, Domine!”

GREGORIUS. “His account of your _music_—which you seem, nevertheless, to

prize so much more highly than our dear holy _chant_, which hath the

undoubted sanction of the church—gives pretty plain evidence that the

church hath not adopted it in any wise. It rather suggests the thought

that she would gladly be rid of it altogether, abstaining, however, like

Father Ambrose, from reforming musicians before they are formed, and

resolving, as he did often pleasantly say, to my comfort, ‘Thou shalt see,

Brother Gregorius, that I shall _make no change in our holy Rule_.’ ”

HUBANUS. “One would think you were born later, after all; for it would

appear that our Holy Father, Pius the Ninth—pity you haven’t lived to know

him, Brother Gregorius, for he is the dearest pope that has ruled the

church since the days of S. Peter—is in the van among the leaders of the

‘Gregorian movement,’ since a little while ago he made a decree that the

Gregorian chant should be taught in all the ecclesiastical schools of the

states of the church, _to the exclusion of every other kind of

music_—‘Cantus Gregorianus, omni alio rejecto, tradetur.’ You see he

wishes to get the Roman priests educated up to it—Rome rules the world—and

the thing is done. ‘Othello’s occupation is gone!’ But how in the world we

shall ever get up a Christmas or an Easter Mass that is fit to listen to

when that day comes is more than I can tell.”

GREGORIUS. “Despair not, good Hubanus. Remain with us past the morrow, and

thou shalt hear a holy Mass and solemn Vespers which will warm the cockles

of thy heart, chanted in strains of melody that belie neither the

sentences of joyful praise which are uttered nor the exultation which doth

lift the hearts of the brethren to heaven, and fill the festival hours

with a divine gladness. (_To the monks._) Brothers, let us rehearse the

_Gloria in Excelsis_.”

‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐

As the curtains of our memory dropped upon the scene we have just been

present at, our eyes caught sight again of the sentence quoted by Prof.

Hubanus: “In consequence of the failure of modern composers to meet the

requirements of Catholic devotion”—which _failure_ is so utter that, in

the judgment of the same writer, he “thinks it no exaggeration to say

that, if all their compositions, except a very few, were burned, or should

otherwise perish, the church would suffer no loss.”

But what of the figured musical compositions of those musicians who may in

our time be honored with the title of “ancient,” such as Palestrina and

his imitators? The music of this style forms, we are told, the staple of

what is commonly heard in S. Peter’s. The writer of the article we allude

to evidently believes any attempt to make such music popular would be no

less a failure. The intricacy of the style, the exceeding difficulties

attendant upon its artistic execution, and its restricted vocal character,

are “fatal” objections.

We fully agree with him. In our former articles on this subject (THE

CATHOLIC WORLD, December, 1869, and February and March, 1870) we not only

pronounced modern figured music to be in practice a failure as _church_

music, but intended also to be understood as asserting that the cause of

this failure lay chiefly in the melodious form of such music—the necessary

result of a tonality essentially sensuous, which renders it, despite every

effort of the artist, intrinsically unsuitable for the expression of the

“prayer of the church.” That there is _prayerful_ music we do not deny,

but it will never obtain any more positive sanction from the church than

she gives to the hundred and one sentimental “prayers” and turgid

“litanies” which fill the pages of our “largest books of devotion” _ad

nauseam_, and are equally supposed by the uneducated Catholic and the

ignorant Protestant to be the masterpieces of Catholic musical and

liturgical art.

We did not think it necessary, writing as we did for a special class of

readers, to explain the distinguishing characteristics of the church’s

“prayer,” being, as our learned friend says, fourfold—latreutic,

impetratory, propitiatory, and eucharistic. To us the church was not

wanting in wisdom in the adoption alone of plain chant to express her

divine prayer, whether it happen to be latreutic, impetratory,

propitiatory, or eucharistic. She never made any distinction that we know

of. But our learned friend, while he cannot help but admit that for the

purposes of adoration, propitiation, and supplication it is not only all

that could be desired, but is also better than any other melody, denies,

with an _ipse dixit_, its capability of expressing praise and

thanksgiving. Argument does not seem to be worth seeking. “Plain chant,”

he says, “is confessedly unequal to the task of evoking and expressing the

feelings of Christian joy and triumph.” And again: “It certainly must

borrow from figured music the triumphant strains of praise and

thanksgiving.”

Neither one nor the other. We confess to nothing of the kind. And

although, by the rule of argumentation, we are not called upon to prove a

negative, we refer to the response good Brother Gregorius has already

made, and would furthermore ask if the _Te Deum_, the _Exultet_, the

_Preface_ for Easter Sunday, the _Alleluia_ of Holy Saturday, or the

_Lauda Sion_, are confessedly unequal to the task assigned them?

As far as the question has any practical importance, we feel that not

another word need be said. Plain chant is in lawful possession, and cannot

be ousted by personal caprice or taste, nor by gratuitous assumptions of

its inability to answer the end proposed by the wise authority of the

church; still less by a proposed substitution of a system which, after

three centuries of vain efforts to supplant the rightful possessor, is

declared, even by its own friends, to be “a failure,” and the majority of

its painfully‐produced works fit only to be consigned to the flames.

We have, however, a question of more merit to discuss. If modern music has

failed to meet the requirements of Catholic devotion, it will be not a

little interesting to examine into the true cause of this failure. It will

be found to lie in its melodic form (not in the use of harmony), which

came into being with the introduction of the chord of the diminished

seventh and the substitution of the instrumental, factitious scales called

major and minor for the four natural vocal, authentic scales and their

four correlative plagal scales. Like seeks like, and as this chord of the

seventh was an inspiration of sentimental, languishing, passional feeling,

the new music sought its language in poetry, and chiefly in lyric poetry,

in which every sort of human passion finds smooth expression; and as this

latter is divided into regular feet, with recurring emphasis and cadence,

music soon found itself set to time. Its melody became measured. Pegasus

found himself in harness. To express the sublime, the heroic, was only

possible now by knocking down the bars, putting it all _ad libitum_, and

calling the phrase _recitative_; and as the passage from the sublime to

the ridiculous is proverbially short, the composition of many of these

recitatives, in their leaping intervals and startling contrasts, vividly

remind one of Pegasus let loose to scamper and roll unbridled in the open

fields.

The invention and perfection of musical instruments are coincident with

the rise and progress of the system of melody known as “modern music,” the

organ and piano holding the mastery. To these are due, in great measure,

the universal cultivation of the modern tonality, and the consequent loss

of appreciation of the tonality of the ecclesiastical modes. It is heard

in the lullaby at the cradle’s side, whistled by boys in the streets, sung

by children in popular melodies and hymns at school, confirmed by all the

concerts given by orchestras in halls, theatres, and public meetings;

every young lady strums it forth from her piano, every organist modulates

it in church, while all bells, from thousands upon thousands of churches,

jangle it forth from one end of Christendom to the other. That the church

has been able to withstand the pressure of all this, and still dares to

command her priests to chant “per omnia sæcula sæculorum” to her own

ancient mode, is, even in that simple and significant sentence, a proof of

her divine strength to resist the most alluring seductions and powerful

onslaughts of the world, and a note of calm defiance to its “fashion which

passeth away.”

We are now prepared to enter into a critical examination of the essential

character of music as distinguished from plain chant. In the first place,

we find, as we have already noted, that it is measured in its melody—that

is, it is written, as it is said, in _time_; and, as a consequence of its

lyrical movement, it became equally subjected to certain laws of

versification and of phraseology corresponding to the stanza. When

musicians began to write for the language of the church, and to set the

sublime prose of her _Gloria in Excelsis_, _Credo_, etc., to its form of

melody, this supposed necessity of making musical stanzas compelled the

application of what is known in music as the theme, on which certain

fanciful variations were built, shorter or longer, as the musician deemed

necessary to complete his “work,” altogether forming a sort of Procrustean

bed, on which the sacred words of the Liturgy were either dismembered or

stretched by repetition in order to make them fit the melody. To make the

“work” fit the words was not to be thought of; whence we judge it well for

the peace of Mr. Richardson that Mozart and Haydn have departed this life.

We remember, when a boy, long before we had made more than a child’s

acquaintance with the modern “Masses,” squeezing the _Kyrie Eleison_ after

this fashion on the framework of one of De Beriot’s celebrated airs for

violin and piano, and gave ourselves as much credit for the originality of

the “adaptation” as we are willing to give to the man who first of all (to

the misfortune of true church chant) tried to compose a musical theme for

the same words of prayer. We refer our readers to the late paper on

“Church Music” in the August and September numbers of this magazine, and

to the translation of the _Gloria in Excelsis_ of Mozart’s Twelfth Mass,

as given in one of our former articles, as proofs of the perfectly

outrageous extent to which this “adaptation” has already been carried.

Now, we affirm, as a principle, that the expression of the “Prayer of

sacrifice and of praise,” as we may term the Holy Mass and the recitation

of the Divine Office, should be consonant with, and conformed to, the

manner in which the church directs the celebration of the acts of the

same. The celebrant and his ministers, the acolytes and the chorus, do not

march, halt, turn about, or otherwise conduct themselves like soldiers or

like puppets on wires, neither do they hop and glide and go through set

figures like dancers. Melody in measure is therefore wholly unsuited to

the character and spirit of the acts of the performers.

In connection with the acts of Catholic worship, melody in measure is

therefore incongruous, unmeaning, and absurd. For, to put the question

plainly, if neither celebrant, ministers, chorus, nor people are to

march—to do which, even in her sacred processions, would be shocking and

profane—why sing a march? If they are not to waltz, why sing one? If the

church does not want to

“Make the soul dance a jig to heaven,”

then, in the name of common sense, why shall Master Haydn be permitted to

offer the church singers a musical jig? The truth of the matter is that

such measured movements, added to the gymnastic feats of melody which

characterize the phrasing of the greater number of modern “Masses,” are

ignorantly supposed to faithfully express that Christian joy and triumph

which plain chant is quite as ignorantly supposed to be unable to inspire.

Let any one examine the church’s chant, and especially its movement, and

he will not fail to be struck with its remarkable consonance with, and the

sense of exact propriety of, its accompaniment to the movements and

demeanor of the sacred ministers and of all who are appointed to assist

them in carrying out the sacred functions of divine worship. How majestic

and dignified, how modest and devout, are its measures! A sort of

continuous procession of sound, resembling now the deep murmurings of the

waves of the ocean, now the gentle breathings of the wind, now the

prolonged echoes of distant thunder, now the soft whispering of the woods

in summer! Always grave and decorous in its phrasing. Never indulging in

trivial antics or in meretricious languishing and voluptuous undulations.

Time and arithmetical measures do not straiten and confine its heavenly

inspirations, for the thoughts of the soul, and chiefly the thoughts of

prayer, do not move like clockwork. One does not adore five minutes,

propitiate two minutes, supplicate half a minute, and give thanks ten

seconds; and to do either in 2/4 3/4 or 6/8 time would be the height of

the ridiculous. A friend tells us that the only time he ever had to do

either at High Mass was during the performance of that part of the score

called “_point d’orgue_.” Is it any wonder that music for the church is a

failure, and that plain chant still holds its own?

_Secondly._ The melody of modern music is essentially mechanical. Formed

as it has been upon improved instrumentation, it is neither more nor less

than a musical performance. The melody is therefore the chief thing; the

words and their expression are only secondary. From which, as a necessary

result—if the music be worth listening to—the most accomplished vocalists

that the pecuniary resources of the church can procure are called in to

render the selections. Hence, also, the introduction of women into the

choir, contrary to the laws and traditions of the church, the banishment

of the chorus from the sanctuary, and the erection of the detestable

Protestant singing‐gallery over the doorway of the church. This latter

flagrant innovation on the proper rubrical disposition of the choir has

been lately specially condemned in the “Instructions” of the cardinal

vicar at Rome. No one surely will have the hardihood to call modern music

an “ecclesiastical song,” as it should be called or it has no place in the

church. It is the song of professional singers, distinctly a mechanical

performance, and open, without the possibility of reform, to the most

shocking abuses. What organist cannot recall instances in which the male

and female singers carried on and perfected their courtship in the choir,

and where in the same holy (?) place eating and drinking were indulged in

during the sermon, and the daily newspapers read? The drinking of water or

the chewing of tobacco—well, we would like to see the priest who has been

able to banish either from his singing‐gallery. These and other numerous

irregularities we think ourselves fully justified in adducing as argument

in this connection, simply _because they exist_, are _common_,

_notorious_, and are a tolerated incumbrance with the mechanism; and, if

effectually banished, would leave the said mechanism subject to no little

friction and the production of tones of complaint which, whether they

proceed from unoiled hinges or choirs, are not agreeable, considered as

music.

Compare, again, the character and movement of those upon whom the

ceremonies devolve. They are not at all mechanical, but strictly personal.

In the first place, the actors are of a restricted class. They must be

either men or boys. Women and girls are not permitted to celebrate or

serve in any capacity at the sacred functions. The services of a graceful

and intelligent acolyte are exceedingly pleasant and edifying to behold,

but the stupidest and most awkward, blundering and unkempt boy would be

preferable, and must be preferred, before any number of the brightest,

most beautiful and quick‐witted girls, because he alone possesses the one

personal qualification requisite for that office—he is of the male sex.

Intelligence, beauty, and graceful manners are not employed by the church

for their own sake.

Again, the celebrant must be a priest, the deacon must have received

deacon’s orders, and all others who, although laymen, may, as acolytes and

choristers, aid the consecrated personages in their duties, are invested

with a quasi‐ecclesiastical character while in office. No one should ever

dream of engaging the services of Jews, Protestants, or infidels, or even

of Catholics whose lives were notoriously bad, or who scandalously

neglected receiving the sacraments, as our “gallery‐choirs” are

constituted in many a church in this country.

In the event of the priest not been able to sing, through any infirmity,

no layman of the congregation could take his place, although he were the

finest singer in the world, the very prince of _cæremoniarii_, and a

greater saint than S. Peter himself.

From which considerations it will readily be seen how unsuited music is

for the use of such persons acting in such a capacity.

Practically, music is the song of women. We shall show further on that it

is essentially effeminate. There is music which men and boys can perform,

it is true, but it is not the genuine article. The want of the female

voice for the soprano is always felt; and in some countries where women

are not yet admitted as church singers, and “church music” is highly

prized, this want is supplied by _castrati_. It is not the song of

ecclesiastics. That the use of it is _tolerated_, we know; that the

singing of women and _castrati_ in church is also tolerated, we know; but

the “Instructions” (we guarantee that nineteen out of twenty would agree

with us in saying that “Restrictions” would be their better title) of the

cardinal vicar on “church music,” referred to by the writer of the late

articles on that subject in THE CATHOLIC WORLD, remind us of the probable

“instructions” that would be given if the abuse of female acolytes were to

creep in to any great extent. We would find, without doubt, prohibitions

against the wearing of the hair in curls, or _frisée_, or _à la_

Pompadour, short sleeves, low necks, and crinoline. They would be

instructed also, without doubt, to wear a plain black cassock and linen

surplice, be shod like men, and let not their courtesies savor of the

_débût_ of actresses upon the stage of a theatre. If these instructions

would be faithfully observed _ex animo_, and boys were not extinct as a

sex in the congregation, we do not think they would very long have any

practical application.

Contrast now the character of plain chant with music as a suitable song

for the duly‐qualified church singers, from the priest down to the

humblest cantor. That it is the only song fit for the consecrated priest

needs no argument. Thank God, there is no “toleration” of “priests’

music,” “sacerdotal solos,” “Prefaces,” and “Pater Nosters,” _à la_

Mozart, Haydn, Cherubini, or Peters! It is distinguished especially by

that gravity of movement, that _modestie ecclesiastique_, in its

intonation, which becomes the sacerdotal character. Any other melody from

the mouth of a priest at the altar would scandalize not only the least

ones of the brethren of Christ, but the greatest also; and however

terrible the “woe” our Lord would pronounce upon those who might

scandalize the latter, we are not left in ignorance of what is reserved

for those who fall under his judgment for scandalizing the former. Any one

who has had the good fortune of assisting at a Mass chanted by a properly

vested chorus, in strict Gregorian melody, with organ accompaniment, if

you will—that is, nothing more than an accompaniment, as the cardinal

vicar desires—will assuredly bear testimony that it was not a musical

performance—that is, a melodious concert performed for its own sake in any

degree—but a religious performance, a chant of priests and the “likes of

them,” suggesting nothing of this world’s vanities or luxury, and as

unlike modern music and its mechanism as the melodious whisperings of an

æolian harp are unlike a hand‐organ with monkey _obbligato_.

What is, to say the least, astonishing, if not lamentable, is to see so

many priests devoted with ardor to the study of music, and so many more

sanctioning and furthering its inroads upon the domain which it behooves

them to cultivate, whilst remaining wholly ignorant of the chant, and

unable to intone the _Gloria in Excelsis_ or to sing a Collect or Gospel

without blundering at every inflection. We see no impropriety in pressing

these facts home upon those who are bound by the laws of their profession

to interest themselves in the claims which Gregorian chant makes upon

them, in order that they may decently perform the sacred functions

committed to their care—how sacred one single reflection will show. For

what is the song of the priest? It is not a private performance of his

own, but rather an inspired expression of the mind of the church, herself

the divine voice of God. When she prays and sings, she prays a divine

prayer, and sings a divine song. God prays and sings within the walls of

the church, the New Jerusalem, which has come down like a bride out of

heaven upon the earth. True, it is the priest who prays and sings; but let

him not forget that there is a Voice of supplication which ascends to the

throne of the Almighty and Eternal Majesty that is not his, and a song

which sounds sweetly in the ears of the Divine Mercy, and celebrates the

praises of the Most High, whose melody is not the inspiration of his soul.

The Divine, Incarnate Victim of Calvary is the Suppliant, and the Son of

David and of Mary is the Singer. And we are told—do our senses not deceive

us?—that his song is become extremely monotonous, and burdens the ear with

a weight of sound not always tolerable! No, we will not allow in excuse

that this sneer of disdain and expression of contempt is only for the

chorus, and is not meant for the consecrated priest. There is a divine

unity and faultless harmony in the “prayer” of Jesus Christ as the church

utters it. It is the seamless garment which clothes his mystic body; who

shall dare to rend it?

What master‐mind conceived and executed the magnificent and inimitable

spectacle which that prayer presents in a solemn Mass and Vespers to the

minds and hearts of devout worshippers? What cunning artificer devised the

harmony of a composition so complete? Who breathed into all those prayers

and anthems, hymns and psalms, Epistles and Gospels from Holy Writ, that

spirit of devotion and piety, and informed them with those lessons of the

purest morality and professions of the universal faith of Christendom?

What more than angelic Artist knew how to dye the martyr’s chasuble in

blood, and transfer the spotless purity of the lily to the stole of the

confessor and the virgin; to weave the robes of penance with the violet’s

mournful hue, and paint the verdure of the grass upon the ferial vesture?

Who is that heavenly Musician whose soul gave birth to that sweet,

intellectual, majestic melody espoused so happily to those chosen words of

devout contemplation, of lofty praise, of innocent joy, of dolorous

compassion, and of sanctified sorrow? We must look to other sources than

mere human science or artistic skill for a solution of these questions.

The mind and hand of a _divine_ Artist must be in that work whose unity

and harmony the hand of man will not sooner or later disfigure, mutilate,

reject, or destroy. That artist is the Holy Ghost, who is the Lord and

Life‐giver of the church, in whom the mystic life of Jesus Christ is

perpetuated by the like ineffable overshadowing which wrought his

conception in the womb of the Immaculate Virgin—that Spirit of wisdom,

from whom come all those inspirations of genius whose matchless

productions and marvellous power are the wonder of the world, the envy of

the flesh, and the hate of the devil.

But, no; we must believe that the divine Artist has failed, “confessedly”

failed, in this one of his masterpieces. Its noblest, highest purpose

found no adequate expression. Jesus Christ has been unable to manifest the

joy and triumph of his Sacred Heart, the sublimest purpose of his

eucharistic life, and his song is fit only to be chanted as a wail over

the dead or as groans of penance in sackcloth and ashes!

Do you believe it? We don’t.

To Be Concluded Next Month.

A Vision.

A vision of our Mary, heavenly Queen,

Appeared to me in silence of the night.

Around her flowed a stream of golden light

In which she stood with sweet, celestial mien

And beauty but before by angels seen.

With rapture I beheld the blessèd sight,

That beamed upon me ravishingly bright;

And while entranced, methought her eyes serene

Did rest upon me, and a holy spell

My being thrilled with ecstasy unknown;

But darkness soon upon my senses fell,

Though not before the bliss and joy were shown

That those enjoy who with her ever dwell

In life eternal round the holy throne.

On The Wing. A Southern Flight. VII. Concluded.

“I wish you and Mary would go down to the Vernons, Jane,” said Frank,

coming into our room one morning about three weeks after my engagement

with Don Emidio. “I did not see Ida; but Elizabeth tells me she is not

well, and I believe it all arises from the annoyances to which they have

been exposed through the conduct of the Casinelli. It has grown into a

complete persecution, for people never forgive those they have injured.”

“What are they doing now to vex Ida?” asked Mary.

“I do not understand all the _pros_ and _cons_ of the matter; but I found

Elizabeth rather anxious about Ida, and she could not leave her to walk

with me, as she had promised last night.”

That, of course, was a very serious affair, and one which demanded

immediate rectification, at least in Frank’s opinion—as any similar event

would have done in the estimation of the other gentleman who so often

formed one of our small circle; for I had long since found out that I was

not to be allowed the privilege of a headache, or any other excuse for

solitude, without a rigorous investigation of the merits of the case being

set on foot by Don Emidio.

Of course Mary and I lost no time in going to Villa Casinelli. We took the

path that had been cleared through the vineyard, on purpose to save Mary

the fatigue of the longer way by the road. The _vigneroli_ had taken great

pains to make this little approach for the “padre’s friends,” as we were

always called; and they had thrown a plank with a fragile hand‐rail across

the little, rocky stream where they washed the clothes, and which stream

formed the boundary between the property of the Casinelli and that of

their neighbors. For a short walk it was nevertheless rather a fatiguing

one; for it was up and down all the way, and included one or two short

flights of stone steps.

In the early spring the yellow oxalis had covered the ground like a carpet

embroidered in gold and green. Now the beans had taken the place of the

gayer blossoms, and filled the air with their sweet perfume.

The donkey that took the cart full of clean linen twice a week to Naples

had his _al fresco_ stable beneath the shade of a venerable fig‐tree close

by—a blessing promised to his betters in Biblical times, and one which I

am sure he too merited in his degree, and I have no doubt considered the

fig‐tree as his own. Being noisy and loquacious, like all other two or

four legged creatures in Naples, he always greeted us with a loud bray

when we passed by.

I do not believe any donkey was ever so fond of expressing his opinions as

that particular animal. I had for some time tried to discover whether his

utterances predicted rain, according to the general belief that asses bray

when it is going to be wet. But not a cloud could be seen, and no rain

fell for weeks; and certainly this particular ass was by no means

barometrical in his utterances.

I sometimes had my fears that, as formerly it had been Paolino’s duty to

feed the poor beast, and that now the lad was in our service, perhaps the

fodder was sometimes forgotten by his young master’s younger sisters, and

that the loud, inharmonious greeting he gave us was meant as a perpetual

protest against the injustice of which we were indirectly the cause.

We found Ida suffering from nervous reaction occasioned by the effort to

appear cheerful and composed under the various annoyances, and by the

feeling that a good work had been put an end to by the malice of designing

people. In addition to which, her mother was exposed to a variety of

irritating insults which it was hard for her daughters to bear in

patience. Mrs. Vernon was exceedingly fond of flowers, and thoroughly

understood the cultivation of a garden. She had taken great pains with the

very small enclosure which was allotted to their apartment, and from it

the altar and their own rooms had been supplied in abundance. But now, no

matter how early in the morning she visited her garden, the Casinelli’s

gardener had always the advantage of her, and had picked not only the best

flowers, but even the strawberries, which she had been watching with the

kind intention of giving them to us. He plainly told her one day, when he

met her as he came out of her garden with a basketful of her flowers on

his arm, that he had gathered them by his mistress’ special desire. These

things were trifles in themselves; but they were a severe trial when they

came to be repeated day by day, in one form or another of petty insult and

daring impertinence, and generally directed either against Padre Cataldo,

who could not revenge his own cause, or against an aged lady in the

enjoyment of her few pleasures, or, lastly, in attacking the moral

character of the servants, and trying to spread about unfounded

accusations. Ida’s strong sense of justice, which amounted to a passion,

and which made it intolerable to her to see the weak “put upon,” had

worked her up into a state of nerves injurious to her health. Mary and I

spent the day with the Vernons, trying to divert their thoughts, and

preaching that patience which we were far from feeling ourselves.

About the time that these troublesome events were occurring we made an

excursion to the Carthusian church and monastery of San Martino, which

stands on the same summit as the Castle of St. Elmo, a little in front of

it, and facing the bay. It commands a glorious view of the city and all

the surrounding country; and the delight of visiting so beautiful a place

tempered my indignation at the robbery of the government in depriving the

monks of their home. Few things of the kind can be more beautiful than the

church, where formerly no woman entered. The walls, floor, and roof are

entirely composed of marbles of many colors. The altar‐rails, or rather

the low screen which cuts off the sanctuary—for rails there are none—is

sculptured _à jour_ in white marble, and looks like some exquisite lace‐

work. The choir behind the altar has also a marble screen of the same

wonderful open work. There are pictures by Spagnoletto of Moses and Elias

and the prophets. Nothing could be more appropriate to the austere life of

a Carthusian monk than that the chapel of his monastery should be

decorated by such an artist as Spagnoletto. Nor is the choice of subjects

less appropriate. Strength and depth of coloring; the expression of

masculine force in all the forms; bold outlines, deep shadows, and strong

lights, seem all in harmony with the condition of mind likely to be

eliminated by a life of silence and real, though not apparent, solitude;

for the monks, though many, dwelt alone in separate cells. It was a life

which called to mind the stern grandeur of Old Testament prophecies and

the ascetic life of the Old Testament prophets; while the richness of the

decoration; the elaborate carving—not in a friable material, such as wood,

but in enduring marble; the extraordinarily lavish use of precious stones;

the minuteness of detail, combined with the unity of plan, are just the

characteristics that we should expect to grow out of the leisure of

perpetual silence, and the digging deep down into the mines of thought

consequent on all but unbroken solitude. It was impossible not to be

struck with the whole as the outward growth of the peculiar inner life of

the remarkable order to which it had once belonged; and one marvels to

find that the extraordinary degree and nature of the beauty it possesses

had not addressed itself to the common sense of even a godless government

as a plea for its continued existence in the hands of those for whom it

had been reared. It should also be remembered that connected with this

life of leisurely meditation there were great opportunities for deep and

continued study; for the Carthusians are a learned order.

I may perhaps be fanciful in thus tracing the character of the edifice to

the tendencies of the order, for it must be owned that the present

building dates no further back than the middle of the XVIIth century, and

that S. Bruno, the founder of the order, probably never foresaw so

magnificent an abode for his silent disciples. But those who have observed

how, unless thwarted by unfavorable circumstances, every religious order

in the church stamps its character upon all that pertains to it, will feel

that there must have existed a synthesis between the inhabitants of San

Martino and the place itself, and that the white‐robed Carthusians were in

the very home which was specially appropriate to them, and in all ways

suited their devotional and intellectual tendencies. And in proof of the

above reflections it is well to remark that the beautiful pavement of the

church was designed by a Carthusian. We had of course been acquainted with

many of the valuable paintings in the monastery, so far as engravings

could make us so, and thus we hailed the Deposition from the Cross, by

Spagnoletto, which is in the sacristy, as an old friend, also the Baptism

of our Lord, by Carlo Maratta, and many of Vaccaro’s and Cesari’s

paintings. The sacristy and the chapter‐house are equally full of valuable

pictures. It is impossible to exaggerate what must ever be the refining

and elevating influence of such treasures of art, and such harmony and

beauty, combined with a religious vocation of the highest order,

heightened by the practice of silence and fostered by solitude.

The cloister breathes the very spirit of peace. The white‐marble Doric

columns gleam in the sunshine, and cut the tessellated pavement with the

black shadows of their shafts, carrying them up the white wall with the

arches of intense light between. I can imagine the monks learning to know

the exact hour of the day by the fall of those shadows without needing to

consult the old clock, also with a glaring white face, which is just below

the little belfry with its two bells, one large, one small, that the deep‐

toned toll of one or the sharp, quick tinkle of the other might denote the

various offices and duties to which they summoned the inmates. The

cloister court is laid out with formal box‐hedges enclosing little plots

of garden ground, and one garden more precious than the others,

_Gottesacker_,(46) where are sown the mortal remains of the departed

brethren, awaiting in the midst of their survivors and successors the day‐

dawn of immortality. There is an iron cross in the centre on a twisted

white‐marble pilaster. And the oblong square of this interesting cemetery

is surrounded by a white‐marble balustrade, with skulls carved at

intervals. In the centre of the court is a marble well of singularly

graceful proportions. Around it is a pavement of bricks symmetrically

arranged, but now with the blades of grass and tiny weeds intruding their

innocent familiarity where they have no right. Statues of saints, vases

and balls alternating, run along the entablature of the cloister. We

longed for a vision of the old, white‐robed inhabitants of this white

marble dwelling; and for once I felt not the lack of color, but, on the

contrary, perceived a harmony in the white and subdued gray tints,

relieved only by the blue sky and green grass. But when we looked out from

the _loggia_ on the wide view beneath us, it was not color that was

wanting. There lay Naples, with its motley buildings, backed by purple

Vesuvius, and the rose‐colored cliffs of Sorrento beyond. Nature had used

all the pigments of her pallet when she painted that lovely scene.

We paid another visit to a suppressed monastery—that of the

Camaldoli—before leaving Naples. There is nothing very remarkable in the

building itself or in the chapel. But the view is at once one of the most

beautiful and the most singular I have ever beheld. We had above an hour’s

ride on donkey‐back to get there; the carriage taking us no further than

the picturesque village of Antignano. The lane up which we wound amid

young chestnut‐trees, the remains of what was once a magnificent forest,

was at that time in all the verdant beauty of early spring. It was a

glorious day, and I ought to have enjoyed the ride. But, in the first

place, I have a feeling amounting to animosity against a donkey the moment

I have the misfortune to find myself on his back. I rather like him than

otherwise when cropping thistles by the roadside or in a huckster’s cart.

I appreciate his patient nature and long‐enduring powers when they are

unconnected with myself. But from the moment I find myself condemned to be

carried by him—that I feel his horrid little jogging pace under me, and

his utterly insensible mouth within the influence, or I should rather say

_not_ within the influence, of my reins—a feeling of antipathy to the

beast seizes me, and is rendered all the more painful to me that his

resignation and the long history of his habitual ill‐usage fill me with an

emotion of compassion painfully at variance with my intense dislike of him

in the character of a steed.

I do not think I ever suffered more in this way than during our ride to

the Camaldoli. I was escorted by a half‐drunken donkey‐boy, of the most

brutal disposition towards the unfortunate animal, whom I at once hated

and pitied. I was furious at the way he behaved to my donkey; while he,

not supposing I knew enough Italian to understand his abominable _patois_,

kept turning all my complaints and reproaches into ridicule to the other

donkey men or boys accompanying him. I would gladly have taken the stick

out of his hands with which he belabored my poor donkey. Indeed, at last I

succeeded in doing so; but nothing short of having Emidio with me to apply

the stick to the boy instead of the other animal would have sufficed to

soothe my irritation. Unfortunately, my future protector, who I felt

certain would punch any head I might wish submitted to that process, had

been called away to Rome on business.

The lane was very narrow, and, even had it been as wide as Piccadilly or

Broad Street, no doubt our donkeys would equally have considered

themselves bound to go in single file. Consequently we were not always

within reach of each other for any mutual assistance; and Frank, whom I

longed to call to my aid, was altogether absorbed in taking care of Mrs.

Vernon, to whom this donkey‐climbing of a steep mountain‐path amounted to

a perilous adventure.

Not many days after, we heard that two or three foreign gentlemen, making

the same ascent as ourselves, had been attacked and robbed by these most

obnoxious donkey‐men. I am afraid the observance of law and the moral

condition generally of little, out‐of‐the‐way villages like Antignano, in

the vicinity of Naples, is as bad as it well can be at the present time.

When we reached the summit, on which stands the monastery, we went at once

to the ridge of the hill to see the view; and I have seldom been more

struck by anything of the kind. Naples lay before us, about fifteen

hundred feet below; but what was so unexpected was the aspect of Mount

Vesuvius, right in front of us, and that of the Monte Somma and a series

of other mountainous heights of volcanic origin; and far away to the

Apennines, with the wide plains and cities lying in the bright sunshine,

Caserta, Capua, and all the Campania Felix. On the spot where we stood a

line straight from the eye would have hit about one‐third of the height of

Mount Vesuvius. To the right we could see all the range of mountains to

Salerno and Amalfi. On the other side were Pozzuoli, Nisita, Ischia, and

Baiæ. I will not multiply names, nor will I heap up epithets in the

attempt to describe what words cannot tell. In short, I forgot all I had

said in favor of the position formerly occupied by the Carthusians at San

Martino in my enthusiasm for the superior view once enjoyed by the

Camaldoli; and had the question been open to me, I believe my vocation to

the latter order would have been decided on the spot.

My donkey‐boy had sobered down by the time I had again to trust myself and

my steed to his tender mercies, and nothing occurred to mar the enjoyment

of our long but interesting excursion. It must, however, have been a far

more beautiful place before the present government of Italy, by permitting

the wholesale destruction of the magnificent trees which formerly clothed

the mountain’s sides, had done so much to impair the climate as well as to

destroy the beauty of the country. It is a fact in natural history that

trees emit warmth in winter as they produce coolness in summer; and

consequently that in a latitude like that of Italy they are specially

beneficial, as tending to equalize the temperature. It is notorious that

the climate of Italy has become hotter in the summer, while it is colder

in the winter than was the case formerly. The country has also been

subject to terrible ravages from mountain torrents, the downward course of

which was formerly intercepted by the grand old trees of immense forests.

Their impetuosity was broken and their waters partially absorbed. Now they

tear down the barren sides of the mountains unchecked, and devastate the

plains below, to the ruin of the crops and consequent impoverishment of

the country. It is the short‐sighted custom of the government to let whole

tracts of mountainous forest‐lands, leaving the lessee the liberty of

cutting down as it may seem good to him; and generally he is a greedy man,

in a hurry to make a fortune before the present _régime_ shall have come

to an end, as it must do some day.

I must not leave my readers to suppose that all our excursions and daily

drives were on the grandly æsthetic plan of those I have described. We

were not always mythological, classical, or even early‐Christian in our

researches, our walks or drives. We went shopping about the streets of

Naples in a thoroughly womanly fashion, and condescended to red and pink

coral, amber and tortoise‐shell ornaments, with a full appreciation of

their prettiness. The bracelets, earrings, and brooches made out of lava

never appeared to me otherwise than as remains of barbarism. Much of the

coral‐work, though very ingenious, is also in bad taste. But a string of

pink coral beads is always a beautiful ornament, and also always an

expensive one. Amber abounds, not of course as a native product, but

imported from the East. The tortoise‐shell is very delicately carved, and

inlaid with gold, and some of it is extremely pretty. There is also a

great deal of alabaster‐work in figures and vases, white and colored.

Neither Mary nor I could bear it, though we did our best to try and be

tempted by a shop in the Toledo(47) which was filled with it. It is always

connected in my mind with shell ornaments and wool mats. They are things

that generally seem to go together, and equally impress me with their

uselessness and ugliness. I must include in my list of horrors the lava

and even the terracotta figures of _lazzaroni_ and Neapolitan peasants.

Mary was rather disappointed at not finding shops of old furniture and

_rococo_. She had collected a variety of pretty and even valuable objects

when she was here many years ago; but now she was told by the Neapolitans

that the English and Americans had bought up all there was to be had of

that nature. No doubt, however, we might still have found treasures had we

known where to look for them. But the days are over when bargains could be

picked up in Continental towns. All those things have now a real

marketable value, and no vendors are ignorant of what that value is. Of

course there are occasional exceptions.

We went once to a flower‐show held in the Villa Reale, the beautiful

public promenade which runs by the sea‐shore and the Chiaia. I believe it

was the first of the kind which had been attempted, and as such was worthy

of all praise. But, apart from that consideration, it was inferior to most

of the numerous flower‐shows held in the rural districts of England. We

often drove up and down the Chiaia, which is the name of the fashionable

street of Naples, and along which there is a tan road for the sake of

horsemen, who ride backwards and forwards at a furious rate. It is neither

very long nor very broad; but the gentlemen who frequent it are evidently

greatly impressed with their manly bearing and distinguished horsemanship.

For my own part, I prefer a Neapolitan on the driving‐box to one in the

saddle. They are excellent coachmen and but indifferent horsemen, as all

men must be who are deficient in phlegm and in external calm. The horse is

a dignified animal, and demands corresponding dignity in his rider. We

used often to stop at the _caffe_ in the Via Reale, and refresh ourselves

with “granite”—that is, a glass of snow sweetened, and with the juice of

fresh lemons squeezed into it.

As a rule, I cannot say that the shops in Naples are particularly good,

and certainly they are very dear. The same may be said of provisions. And

as the taxes are every year on the increase, this misfortune is not likely

to be remedied. I frequently used to walk through the generally narrow and

always crowded streets of Naples accompanied by Frank, and as often

Emidio, who had arranged some point of meeting with my brother, would come

down from the heights of Capo di Monte, where his lovely villa stood, and

join us in our saunter through the busy city. I have seen him stop where a

piece of rope was hung near a tobacconist’s shop‐door, or at the corner of

the street, and light his cigar from the smouldering end which had been

set fire to for that purpose. I have never seen a burning rope in the

streets in England or in France for the accommodation of smokers.

We visited most of the churches, but they were as nothing to me after the

churches in Rome. The flower‐boys soon got to know us as we walked and

drove about, and the most lovely roses and bunches of orange‐blossoms

would be pressed upon us for a few pence. The boys would sometimes cling

to the carriage‐door with one hand, while the horses were going fast,

imploring us to buy the bouquets they held in the other, till I used to

think they must fall and be run over. But they are so lithe and supple,

and they seemed to bound about so much as if they were made of india‐

rubber, that at last I got hardened, and would stand to my bargain half‐

way down a street without any apprehension for the safety of my dark‐eyed,

jabbering flower‐boys. They generally addressed us in a jargon of Italian,

French, and English, and as generally sold their flowers for half the

price first named.

I greatly enjoyed the freedom and absence of restraint in these our

rambles; for, having my brother with me, I was not afraid of gratifying my

curiosity about the manners and customs of the humbler classes. I

frequently stood by the fountains in the streets, where the women washed

the linen, and entered into conversation with them; or I would buy

_fritture_ of various kinds (which is, in fact, fried batter, sometimes

sweet, sometimes savory). I did not find it always to my taste, because it

was made with rancid olive‐oil quite as often as with fat. But the piles

of light‐brown fritters lying on the little tables in the open streets, or

being tossed about, smoking hot, in iron pans, had a very inviting

appearance. Then I would get Frank to let me have a glass of lemonade from

the pretty little booths that are so numerous for the sale of that

delightful beverage, with festoons of fresh lemons hanging from the gayly‐

painted poles. I delighted all the more in my freedom that I knew, when I

should be Emidio’s wife, and drive about Naples as the Contessa Gandolfi,

I could no longer expect to enjoy these privileges. I said so one day to

Emidio, when I was taking my second glass of lemonade in a peculiarly

dingy and out‐of‐the‐way street in Naples. He laughed at the assertion,

though he did not for a moment attempt to deny it; and meanwhile he

enjoyed as much as I did the absence of all form and ceremony, which as

foreigners we could allow ourselves. It was then that jestingly he asked

me whether it should be put in my marriage‐settlements that he was to take

me, at least once, to the Festa di Monte Vergine. I could not understand

what he could possibly mean, until he explained that so much is thought of

this feast by the Neapolitan peasantry that if a girl has a good _dot_, it

is generally inserted in the marriage‐deeds that her husband is bound to

give her this gratification. The feast takes place on Whit‐Monday, and

Emidio assured me that my marriage‐portion was enough to entitle me to

more than one excursion to the sanctuary of the Madonna, if such was my

desire. It is held at Monte Vergine, near Avellino; and as we had not been

able to attend it during our stay at Posilippo, I declared that I should

expect to be taken some day, though I declined to puzzle our family lawyer

by the introduction of so strange an article in my marriage‐settlements.

We had reserved Pompeii for the close of our stay at Naples, because from

thence we meant to go on to Sorrento. We entered Pompeii by the “Sea

Gate,” having left our travelling‐bags and shawls at the little hotel

Diomède—such a grand name for such a mean, vulgar little place! How full

of flies it was! How bad was the food! How miserable the accommodations,

with advertisements of Bass’ pale ale adorning the walls! Nothing,

however, of the kind could diminish the interest with which we were about

to enter the dead city of the dead. Mary remembered having come to this

same little public‐house five‐and‐twenty years before. It has been added

to since then. At that time it afforded very little refreshment for either

man or beast. She had taken some tea with her, and they accommodated her

with hot water. Milk was not to be had, so she floated a slice of lemon in

the tea‐cup, after the Russian fashion. And all the time a handsome youth,

indifferently clad, and with the red Phrygian cap covering his crisp black

curls, sang a native song to the accompaniment of a small guitar, and

danced the while. The cotton‐plants were ready to give up their bursting

pods of snow‐white fluff in the fields around, and the heat was extreme.

The scene had been much less invaded in those days by ordinary sight‐

seers; but also, it must be owned, there was less to see, as many of the

most important excavations have been made since that date. As the heat was

very great, and as, even without seeing anything like all that is worth

seeing, we could not possibly devote less than two or three hours to

walking in those shadeless streets, it was decided Mary and I should be

carried by the guides in open sedan‐chairs. The guides are appointed by

government, and are thoroughly well informed on the subject, and are able

to answer most questions.

We first visited the Forum. It is, even in its utter ruin, very imposing,

for it stands on rising ground, and all the principal streets lead to it.

Several Doric columns, arches or gateways, and the pedestals which

formerly supported statues, remain. The Temple of Venus is close to the

Forum; the entrance steps are intact, and the altar stands in front of

them. Words fail me to express the intense melancholy of the scene, as we

wandered from Temple to Baths, and from house to house, down the narrow

streets—for all the streets are narrow—whose flag‐stones are dented by the

wheels of the chariots, and have a raised path for foot‐passengers, so

high that there are stones placed at intervals to enable one to step

across the road, with a space left for the wheels of the chariot to pass

between. This was to keep the passengers from having to step into the

water which in rainy weather must have poured down these gutterless

streets. From the houses being now all reduced to the ground floor, with

the exception of a few in which the stairs leading to the first story and

some portions of the wall remain, it cannot be said that any of the

streets produce at all an imposing effect. Perhaps the absence of this,

except in the ruins of the temples and public buildings, rather adds to

the pathetic sadness of the scene, by bringing all the more vividly before

us the fact of the utter and sudden destruction which swept away a vast

city of crowded human beings, leading the daily life of all of us, in a

few short hours! We saw the casts of several dead bodies that had been

found—one, of a man making his escape with a sack of money; another, of a

matron with her young daughter. What masses of hair, what round and

slender limbs, what beautiful teeth! It is ghastly, and yet fascinating;

for it seems to bridge over so wide a gulf of time, and by one touch of

nature makes us akin to the ancient dead. I felt this specially as we went

down the “Street of Abundance,” as it was named—mere dwelling‐houses and

shops on either side; a long, ordinary street, where men came and went in

their round of every‐day life, buying and selling and paying visits. The

green lizards ran over the whitened walls and the small, brown‐red bricks.

The sun poured down his relentless rays from a perfectly cloudless sky.

Except ourselves and the guides, no footsteps were heard, no sound broke

the death‐like silence. And at the far end of the “Street of Abundance,”

just beyond the limits of the doomed city, a solitary pine‐tree, looking

like a black spot in the white shimmer of the mid‐day heat, alone

indicated a world of nature and of life and growth beyond. Here is an oil‐

shop, full of the beautifully‐shaped, huge jars in which the oil was kept.

There, on that slab of marble, are the stains of wine. You see the oven,

with what once was soft white bread—the real bread; and you feel that it

might have happened a few years ago, and that somewhere or other, perhaps

even at Naples, it might happen again to‐morrow. And two thoughts rush in

upon us, one full of yearning pity, and one of awful inquiry—they were our

brethren, and where are they now?

The first eruption of Mount Vesuvius occurred in the reign of the Emperor

Titus, A.D. 79. Pompeii, Herculaneum, and even Naples itself, had suffered

before them from earthquakes, and a portion of the two first‐named towns

had been laid low. But nothing had ever happened to prepare the

inhabitants for the terrible calamity which was about to befall them,

when, in their villa at Misenum, the younger Pliny’s mother called the

attention of Pliny the elder to the cloud, in the form of a pine‐tree,

which she saw rising up into the heavens. When she did so, she did not

even know that it was from Vesuvius that the cloud ascended. Pliny the

elder invited his nephew, then only eighteen, to accompany him in his

galley to Retinæ, a town on the coast, whither he intended to go, with the

idea that the people might be in distress. But so little was any one

prepared for what was really about to occur that young Pliny did not even

lay aside his volume of _Livy_ which he was reading; while his uncle took

his tablets in his hand, that he might note down the curious phenomena he

was about to investigate, and left the house to go on board. It was with

great difficulty and at immense risk that he effected a landing and made

his way to Stabiæ, near Pompeii, where dwelt his friend Pomponianus. In

attempting to escape from thence in the night, he was suffocated by the

noxious vapors that accompanied the eruption. It would seem that young

Pliny continued his study for some hours, never realizing what an awful

tragedy was going on beyond the Bay of Naples. There had been shocks of

earthquake for some days previous, but these were not unusual occurrences,

and therefore excited but little alarm, until they became so violent as to

threaten utter destruction through the night. He seems to have been

seriously frightened about the same time as his mother; for each had risen

with the intention of calling the other. By this time the air was black

with falling ashes, and the morning light could scarcely penetrate the

gloom. Pliny would not leave his mother, while she, being aged and very

heavy, feared she should not be able to follow him, and implored him to go

away without her, which he would not do. They escaped together into the

country, in danger of being trodden down by the crowds of flying people,

and of being smothered by the falling ashes. The day was spent in agony

and terror, and all but total darkness. But that night they were able to

return to Misenum, though not to enjoy much repose, as the shocks of

earthquake still continued. Then the young Pliny learnt that his uncle,

whom he had, happily for himself, declined to accompany, had perished.

This eruption did not resemble the more recent ones, inasmuch as no lava

poured from the mountain, but burning stones of enormous size, and ashes,

together with volumes of steam, which poured down in torrents of water,

filled with ashes, upon the earth beneath. The shape of the mountain was

altered entirely by this eruption, as it has been in a much less degree by

that which occurred in April, 1872, and which our friends, the Vernons,

had witnessed. The Neapolitans firmly believe that their city will

ultimately perish as Pompeii has perished; and probably science is still

unable to prognosticate whether the awful mountain has or has not too far

exhausted its volcanic powers to produce a second destruction as terrible

as that which Pliny has described with such accurate detail, and yet in so

calm and unimpassioned a style.

Sensational writing is a discovery of modern times. We exhaust our subject

in describing it diffusely and minutely. But nevertheless the scene

Pliny’s letters call up before our imagination—the young lad poring over

his book in company with his devoted mother, and the brave and learned

elder Pliny calmly setting sail, tablets in hand, to study the scene, and

to assist those in danger, and then perishing in the attempt—is as replete

with pathos and human feeling as language can make it. It is full of a

language not put into words.

On the afternoon of the day we visited Pompeii we drove to Sorrento, and

took up our abode at a quiet little _pension_ recently established, and

literally hidden amongst orange‐groves. There was a small chapel close by.

Our rooms were bright and clean, and the greater part of the time we had

the house entirely to ourselves.

Let no one presume he knows the beauty of Italy who has not visited

Sorrento. Can anything be more lovely than the approach to Vico, Meta, and

Sant’ Angelo, and the aspect of these little towns nestling amid gardens,

with their feet in the blue ripples of that tideless sea?

The Sorrentines are a different race from the Neapolitans, and no love is

lost between them. They are a more reserved and more dignified people.

They make less noise, and are not so excitable. The land they live on is

not volcanic, the vegetation is more luxuriant, and the people are more

pastoral in their habits. The air is softer and less exciting than at

Naples. Mary and I felt as if we had drifted into the land “where it is

always afternoon,” and a lotos‐eating calm and serenity seemed to come

over us—a pleasant change after the nervous tension which Naples produces,

and which is singularly inimical to sleep.

Every description of food is better at Sorrento than it is at Naples.

Sorrento beef is excellent, and Sorrento pigs have a world‐wide reputation

for making good pork, though they are ugly animals to look at, having

large, flabby, white bodies on tall, thin, greyhound legs, and very large,

pink ears. Naples seems never at any time to have been well famed for

producing good food.

Nearly all Cicero’s letters to Papirius Pætus contain allusions to eating

and drinking, and in one he says: “It is a better thing, let me tell you,

to be sick with good eating at Rome, than for want of victuals at Naples.”

When he was thinking of buying Sylla’s house at Naples, he asks Pætus to

take some workmen to survey it for him, saying: “If the walls and roof are

in good repair, I shall perfectly well approve of the rest.” “If I can

procure a house at Naples, it is my purpose to live so abstemiously that

what our late sumptuary law allows for one day’s expense shall suffice me

ten.” This last sentence, when coupled with that quoted from the other

letter, looks rather like making a virtue of necessity. The marvel is that

the Naples market is not more abundantly provided with Sorrento produce.

The fruit is very good; and we all agreed we had never known the real

merit of cherries until we had eaten them at Sorrento, and even better

still at Capri. In our own land, in France, and even in cherry‐loving

Germany, I had always considered them as a very poor fruit, unless cooked

or preserved. But I entertained a very different opinion of them when I

had feasted on them in the South of Italy. They are as different as the

fresh oranges, picked from the tree, are from those that have been plucked

while green, and have ripened in a box during a long voyage.

I never cared for cherries in England. I used to believe in oranges as I

found them in the fruiterers’ shops. But now they appear to me a snare and

a delusion when eaten in the north.

When we arrived at Sorrento, the Empress of Russia and her daughter, the

grand duchess, were still there. We met them driving just as we entered

the town, and of course looked eagerly at her who was so soon to become

our own Duchess of Edinburgh, and were charmed with her amiable and

youthful expression, and with the pretty smile with which she returned our

bow. They were to leave Sorrento in a very few days. The yacht was already

moored close to the cliffs, awaiting them. The empress shed tears, as the

people crowded round to see her embark and wished her farewell in their

own graceful way and soft language. She said she had grown to love

Sorrento and its inhabitants more than she could express, and that she

should always hope some day to return amongst them.

The house in which Tasso was born is now converted into a hotel, much to

the detriment of all poetic sentiment.

Nothing can be more lovely than the neighborhood of Sorrento, though a

great deal is unapproachable, except on horseback, donkeys, or mules; and

much more is equally so for all but very vigorous pedestrians. We went

more than once to the small, picturesque town of Massa, at the extreme

point of the Peninsula. We visited Il Deserto, the name given to a

Franciscan monastery situated on the top of a somewhat barren hill, and

which commands a magnificent view. We found only a few lay brothers at

home, and about half a dozen orphan boys, who were there by way of

learning the art of agriculture. The land around the monastery was mostly

barren, and to the left was covered with brushwood. No agriculture was

there, at any rate. There was a large garden enclosed within walls; and as

the small agricultural were in it, I hoped to see some evidence of their

labors. I am bound, however, to speak the truth, much as it tells against

the expectations of Sorrento with regard to the future tillers of the

soil, as also, which is worse, against the efficiency of the Franciscan

instructors in this particular case. The garden was quite full of weeds. I

scarcely saw a vegetable or plant of any kind likely to prove edible to

anybody except our donkeys; but for them there was hope, as thistles

abounded. The juvenile agriculturists were by no means usefully engaged,

but were listlessly roving about, doing nothing in particular. They looked

bored; and I could not wonder at it. Certainly, the orphans learned no

agriculture, and I doubt if either the fathers or lay brothers can teach

it. It is to be hoped that at least they learn something else.

One bright morning we resolved on a trip to Capri. We chartered a boat, a

man, and two boys, the party consisting of Ida and Elizabeth Vernon, Mary,

and me. The wind was not altogether in our favor, and our three sailors

had hard work to row us. Nothing can well be more beautiful than the line

of coast, with picturesque ruins, deep sea‐caves, varied rocks, and green

slopes down to the water’s edge. We had resolved to spend one night at

Capri, and intended visiting the Blue Grotto the next day. But the wind

was blowing fresh, and it seemed but too probable that, if we did not

accomplish our visit at once, we might miss it altogether. Our boatmen

made no objection to this addition to our original bargain, and we soon

found ourselves rowing up to an entrance into the rock that did not

present a different appearance to many other such small, slit‐like

fissures and holes, some of which had been pointed out to us as the

sirens’ caves. We found two boats moored to the rock; one was empty, and

in the other was a lad.

We were given to understand that only two of us at a time could enter the

mysterious cave, and that our boat was a great deal too large to pass

through that low, dark hole in the rock which the restless blue sea was

lapping incessantly with a rapidity of motion that seemed to be

momentarily on the increase. We were moreover told that _il vecchio_(48)

was inside—a piece of information which, conveying no express ideas to my

mind, awoke a vague apprehension that perhaps I might have touched on the

abode of the Old Man of the Sea—a prospect not altogether desirable. There

was a great question who was to enter the little boat and first encounter

the passage and the old man. Ida and Elizabeth refused to be separated,

and Mary, with an exclamation—something about being responsible to their

mother for their safety—saw them embark with a pang. In an instant,

obedient to the sailor lad’s injunctions, they both disappeared, lying

flat down at the bottom of the boat. The sailor gave one vigorous stroke

of his oar, ducked down himself, and the boat was sucked into the awful

cavern between the heaving sea and the low arch. Mary and I sat silent. Of

course we knew there was no danger. It was what everybody did, and there

could be nothing to apprehend; nevertheless, I am free to acknowledge that

those twenty minutes, during which we were as much shut out from all sight

and sound of them as if they were gone to the bottom, while the

treacherous waves slapped and lapped the rock like some hungry live thing,

and in so doing almost closed the orifice through which the boat had

disappeared, were not by any means minutes of absolute serenity to our

nerves. Presently, however, the prow of the little boat reappeared, and in

a second up jumped Ida and Elizabeth like Jack in the box.

“Well!” we both exclaimed.

“Oh! it is beautiful. Make haste!”

“And the old man?” said I dubiously.

“Oh! yes, he is there,” was the only reply, and no more satisfactory than

my previous information.

Of course Mary and I, on getting into the boat, made ourselves as flat as

we could at the bottom of it; and suddenly a heaving of the sea shot us

into the grotto. Instantly I forgot the old man and everything else in the

marvellous beauty of the scene around me. The sides of the cave, one or

two large shelving rocks, and the roof were perfectly blue. The very air

seemed blue. The water itself was ultramarine. I dipped in my hand, and

instantly it shone and flashed like brilliant silver. We approached one of

the large rocks where there is a landing‐place. On it I beheld some

strange, dark object. Suddenly the object leaped into the blue water, and

was transfigured before my eyes into a huge silver frog, swimming about in

all directions with a white head above the water. It was my much‐dreaded

old man; and certainly the result, in point of color and brilliancy, of

the disporting of this venerable individual in the blue water, which

converted him into sparkling silver, was very remarkable. But it is not

often given, to female eyes at least, to behold a mortal swimming close to

her, and to notice the peculiarly frog‐like and ungraceful action which

swimming necessitates, and which is heightened by the apparent

foreshortening of the limbs from the refraction of the light in the water.

It suddenly flashed upon me: was it thus that Hero saw Leander?—minus the

silver of course. Poor Hero! The silver frog croaked an indescribable

_patois_, calling our attention vociferously to his own extraordinary

brilliancy. At length we entreated him to spare his aged limbs any more

aquatic gymnastics, and to return to his rock; which he did, resuming his

garments in some niche of a darker blue than the rest.

Meanwhile, our lad had rowed the boat close up to the other large rock on

the opposite side of the grotto, telling us that he would gather some

coral for us. It was getting dark, and, as we sat alone in the boat, we

could neither see nor hear him. A deep‐violet hue began to spread over the

grotto and the water. Evening was drawing near, and I began to conjure our

sole protector to leave his coral reefs and return to the boat. Then we

ducked down once more, and, with the edge of the boat absolutely grating

against the mouth of the cave, we emerged into the open sea and the fair

white light of heaven.

It happened once upon a time that some one, perhaps an ordinary traveller,

perhaps another professional and belated old man, went into the blue

grotto alone, and stayed too long. The wind blew hard, and the sea rose.

For three days no boat could pass through the closed mouth of the cave.

Happily, his friends succeeded in floating in a loaf of bread, which he

devoured on his solitary blue rock. I have often wished to know the

history of those three days. Did the sirens come and sing to him? Did no

mermaid bear him company, or was he left a prey to “the blue devils”?

We had a stiff breeze as we steered our course to the Marina Piccola, one

of the only two landing‐places of the Island of Capri. We determined, as

we were to be there for so short a time, to sleep at the small inn close

by, called the “Little Tiberius,” and which we found comfortable, though

very unassuming and not quite finished. We dined in the _loggia_, shaded

by a vine, and they brought us cherries the size of plums that melted like

a ripe peach, and beautiful oranges, gathered with the green leaves around

them.

The only way to get about on the little Island of Capri is on donkeys or

on foot. We chose the former, and directed our course to where stood the

Palace of Tiberius. The village of Anacapri is very picturesque, with its

narrow streets, sometimes raised a step or two, dark, wide doorways, and

domed roofs. We went to the top of the precipitous rock called “Il salto

di Tiberio,”(49) which falls sheer and smooth down to the sea, without a

break save a few tufts of wild flowers, and over which Tiberius is said to

have flung his victims, whose bodies then floated away to the coast of

Baiæ. When Augustus was dying, he said of his successor, “I pity the

Romans. They are about to be ground between slow jaws.” Never was the

cruelty of a coward better expressed than by these words.

I suppose the only history that will ever be correctly written will be

that which will date from the day of judgment—that day which alone will

clear up the falsehoods, misapprehensions, and delusions with which all

history abounds, and will leave probably only the devil as black as he is

painted, while it will also prove that many of our angels are fallen ones.

It is always difficult, perhaps impossible, to arrive at the secret

motives of a man who is a coward, is reserved, has a certain superficial

refinement of taste and intellect, and is cursed with absolute power.

Tiberius appreciated the extraordinary beauty of his favorite Capri; and

yet he dwelt there only to commit the most hideous crimes in secret, while

discoursing on the subtleties of grammar and the beauty of art, and

writing elegies and love songs. He seemed to have no human affection save

for the low‐born Sejanus, whom nevertheless years afterwards he accused to

the Roman Senate in a pitiful, whining letter, and who was torn to pieces

in consequence. He always hated those who in any way belonged to him,

whether by a natural tie or by that of a supposed intimacy. He hated Rome;

but even the terror and dread he had of it, giving way to the longing to

know how far his bloody orders were being carried out, he approached the

gates. That day his pet serpent, the friend of his bosom, was killed and

eaten by a million of midges.

“Multitudes are dangerous,” remarked the sententious emperor, and back he

went to the top of his solitary rock at Capri.

The same type of man returns from time to time upon the face of the earth

to show us the deep hell within itself of which, alas! the human heart is

capable. Robespierre was a man of affable manners, who loved flowers and

kept canaries. He had delicate white hands and a simper for ever on his

thin lips. In early life he wrote a pamphlet against capital punishment.

When his turn came to die on the guillotine, he showed no fraction of the

courage of the youngest and weakest of his many victims. He too was soft

and cruel. There are many such, but happily the outward circumstances are

wanting which would develop them into the monsters to which, as a race,

they belong.

We spent only a few hours at Salerno, just time enough to visit the tomb

of the great Hildebrand, S. Gregory VII., the little man with a great

soul, the spiritual Alexander of the church, who, as he said himself,

“without being allowed the liberty of speech or deliberation, had been

violently carried away and placed on the pontifical throne”; and through

volumes of intimate and interesting letters relates his sorrows, his

anxieties, and his efforts to the friend of his soul, Cardinal Didier, the

Abbot of Monte‐Casino. In the crypt we visited the altar and relics of S.

Matthew. The same evening we drove along the coast to Amalfi. It was

growing dark before we got there, and I think, though no one said a word

about it till we were safe in the Hotel of the Capuchins, we were not

altogether without some apprehension that the towering rocks, the dark

caves, the mountain heights, and the thick woodlands which filled us with

admiration, did not also suggest an unpleasant suspicion of possible

banditti. But here I stop. If Amalfi is not seen, it may be painted; but

it cannot be described in any words I know of which will tell its beauty.

The world has many jewels from nature’s casket, but few more lovely and in

more gorgeous setting than the little mediæval town of Amalfi.

I am writing these pages in an English village. I see a low line of pale,

misty hills to my left. A venerable church tower peeps from amid large

elms and red brick cottage chimneys. In front of my trim garden is a green

meadow. The white butterflies are coursing each other in the noontide

warmth, and the village children have crowned themselves with tall paper

caps, and are holding some jubilee of their own, the mysteries of which

are undiscernable to older minds. The clematis which climbs my porch

breathes soft, perfumed sighs at my open window. It is pretty, simple,

homely. But between this and the dreamlike beauty of Amalfi there lies far

more than the distance of many hundreds of miles. There lie the yearning

of the soul for the best of God’s beautiful creation—for the warmth of the

sun, that natural god of life and gladness—the thirst of the artist’s eye

for color, and the poet’s love of the language of song; there lie the

Catholic’s hunger for the land of faith and the longing for the regions of

old memories and heroic sanctities.

Yes, I love my own pale land, with her brief, scarce summer smiles, her

windy autumns, and her long, fireside, wintry evenings. But while I write

it and feel it, there comes up before my mind the rose‐tints and blue and

silver sparkle, the golden rocks and emerald verdure, of the land with the

“fatal gift of beauty,” and I feel my heart sink as I recall Amalfi.

A few more days, and we had looked our last on Southern Italy. There were

other reasons besides the thirst for sunshine and beauty why our leaving

Naples should prove so sad. There was the close friendship with the

Vernons and Padre Cataldo; and as regarded four hearts, there was

something more, I suppose, than friendship.

On leaving Amalfi we only slept one night at Naples (for Posilippo we saw

no more), and that was a dream‐tost, tearful night. We would not suffer

any of our friends to accompany us to the station. Public farewells would

be unbearable.

The last thing I remember, as I drove through the hot, bright streets

teeming with life, was two young girls with naked feet gayly dancing the

tarantella on the burning pavement. Lightly, trippingly, daintily they

danced—these two supple‐limbed daughters of the sunny south. How joyous,

how free from care, from afterthought or forethought, did they seem! A few

figs (they were just ripe) in summer, a few chestnuts and some yellow

bread of Indian corn, are all they need for food; and one scant frock,

that hides neither arms nor ankles, is all that decency demands. The sun

does the rest, pouring rich color into their veins, bright sparkles into

their eyes. And so at mid‐day shall they dance, on flags which would

scorch my northern skin, singing the while to their own steps,

unchallenged by police, unreproached by man, and know no harm, while we go

back to our mists and showers amidst our “advanced civilization.”

While writing this my eyes rest upon these lines: “Many take root in this

soil, and find themselves unable to leave it again. A species of

contemplative epicurism takes possession of them—a life freed from all

vain desires and sterile agitation; an ideal existence which is shocked by

no inconvenient reality. Others return to their hyperborean country,

bringing with them a luminous remembrance to light up the gray twilight of

their frozen sky for evermore; others still have quaffed the enchantress’

charmed potion, and can no longer resist the gentle desires which draw

them periodically back to her.”

May I also be numbered with those who return to the southern shores of

beautiful Italy!

The Three Edens.

Bloom’d the first Eden not with man alone,

But woman, equal woman, at his side.

And seemly was it when, together tried,

They fell together—for the two were one.

On Calvary stood the Mother by the Son:

New Eve with Second Adam crucified;

And as through Eve in Adam we had died,

Through Mary was our loss in Christ undone.

Then how should not the Paradise regained

Behold its Eve beside her Adam throned;

Both risen, both ascended—unprofaned

Each virginal body, by the grave disowned?

Else had our foe his conquest half maintained,

The primal ruin been but half atoned.