PART I.

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

A

MONTHLY MAGAZINE

OF

GENERAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.

VOL. XXII.

OCTOBER, 1875, TO MARCH, 1876.

NEW YORK:

THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE,

9 Warren Street.

1876.

CONTENTS.

Allegri’s Miserere, 562.

Anglicans, Old Catholics, and the Conference at Bonn, 502.

Anti-Catholic Movements in the United States, 810.

Apostolic Mission to Chili, The, 548.

Are You My Wife? 13, 194, 309, 590, 735.

Basques, The, 646.

Birth-Place of S. Vincent de Paul, 64.

Castlehaven’s Memoirs, 78.

Chapter, A, in the Life of Pius IX., 548.

Charities of Rome, The, 266.

Christmas Vigil, A, 541.

Colporteurs of Bonn, The, 90.

Doctrinal Authority of the Syllabus, 31.

Duration, 111, 244.

Early Persecutions of the Christians, 104.

Eternal Years, The, 656, 841.

Finding a Lost Church, 282.

Freemasonry, 145.

Friends of Education, The, 758.

From Cairo to Jerusalem, 529.

Garcia Moreno, 691.

Gladstone Controversy, Sequel of the, 577, 721.

Grande Chartreuse, A Night at the, 712.

Historical Romance, A, 43, 162, 339, 614, 772.

Incident of the Reign of Terror, An, 260.

Indian Legend, 277.

Is She Catholic? 188.

King of Metals, The, 417.

Law of God, The, and the Regulations of Society, 223.

Lord Castlehaven’s Memoirs, 78.

Lost Church, Finding a, 282.

Louise Lateau before the Belgian Royal Academy of Medicine, 823.

Madame’s Experiment, 637.

Message, A, 445.

Midnight Mass in a Convent, 523.

Missions in Maine from 1613 to 1854, 666.

Mr. Gladstone and Maryland Toleration, 289.

Nellie’s Dream on Christmas Eve, 560.

New Hampshire, Village Life in, 358.

Night at the Grande Chartreuse, A, 712.

Palatine Prelates of Rome, 373.

Pious Pictures, 409.

Power, Action, and Movement, 379.

Precursor of Marco Polo, A. 210.

President’s Speech at Des Moines, The, 433.

President’s Message, The, 707.

Primitive Civilization, 626.

Progress _versus_ Grooves, 276.

Protestant Episcopal Church Congress, The, 473.

Prussia and the Church, 678, 787.

Queen Mary, 1.

Questions Concerning the Syllabus, 31.

Recollections of Wordsworth, 329.

Reign of Terror, An Incident of the, 260.

Revival in Frogtown, A, 699.

Rome, The Charities of, 266.

Rome, The Palatine Prelates of, 373.

S. Agnes’ Eve Story, A, 637.

St. Jean de Luz, 833.

Search for Old Lace in Venice, A, 852.

Sequel of the Gladstone Controversy, 577, 721.

Sir Thomas More, 43, 162, 339, 614, 772.

Songs of the People, 395.

Story of Evangeline in Prose, The, 604.

Story with Two Versions, A, 800.

Summary Considerations on Law, 223.

Traces of an Indian Legend, 277.

Tennyson’s Queen Mary, 1.

Village Life in New Hampshire, 358.

Vincent de Paul, S., Birth-Place of, 64.

William Tell and Altorf, 127.

Wordsworth, Recollections of, 329.

Year, The, of Our Lord 1875, 565.

Yule Raps, 484.

POETRY.

Adelaide Anne Procter, 89.

Æschylus, 209.

Christmas Chimes, 501.

Free Will, 559.

Not Yet, 394.

“O Valde Decora!” 12.

Paraphrase from the Greek, A, 222.

Patient Church, The, 613.

S. Philip’s Home, 139.

S. Louis’ Bell, 527.

Seven Fridays in Lent, The, 734.

Sine Labe Concepta, 357.

Song, 275.

Sonnets in Memory of the late Sir Aubrey de Vere, 444.

Stars, The, 126.

Suggested by a Cascade at Lake George, 771.

Summer Storms, 416.

Sweet Singer, A, 89.

To-day and Yesterday, 564.

Unremembered Mother, The, 110.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Acta et Decreta Concilii Vaticani, 718.

Alcott’s Eight Cousins, 431.

Allibert’s Life of S. Benedict, 575.

American State and American Statesmen, 719.

Allies’ Formation of Christendom, 858.

American Catholic Quarterly Review, The, 859.

Baunard’s Life of the Apostle S. John, 573.

Bégin’s Le Culte Catholique, 286.

Bégin’s The Bible and the Rule of Faith, 288.

Birlinger’s Volksthümliches aus Schwaben, 718.

Boudon’s Holy Ways of the Cross, 717.

Buckley’s Supposed Miracles, 856.

Calderon’s Groesste Dramen religiösen Inhalts, 718.

Clarke’s Mr. Gladstone and Maryland Toleration, 575.

Coleridge’s Public Life of Our Lord, 717.

Constable and Gillies, Personal Reminiscences of, 720.

Cudmore’s Civil Government of the States, etc., 429.

Correction, A, 860.

Dix’s The American State and American Statesmen, 719.

Earle’s Light leading unto Light, 143.

Eight Cousins, 431.

Evidences of Catholicity, 574.

Exposition of the Church, An, etc., 419.

Exposition of the Epistles of S. Paul, etc., 144.

First Annual Report of the Chaplain of the Albany Penitentiary, 144.

Flowers from the Garden of the Visitation, 287.

Formation of Christendom, The, 858.

Full Course of Instruction in Explanation of the Catechism, 432.

Garside’s The Sacrifice of the Eucharist, 718.

Historical Scenes from the Old Jesuit Missions, 575.

History of the Protestant Reformation, 574.

Holland’s Sevenoaks, 430.

Holy Ways of the Cross, etc., 717.

Illustrated Catholic Family Almanac, 430.

Indoors and Out; or, Views from the Chimney Corner, 720.

Jannet’s Les Etats-Unis Contemporains, etc., 716.

Kavanagh’s John Dorrien, 287.

Kip’s Historical Scenes, 575.

Knight and Raikes’ Personal Reminiscences, 288.

Lamb, Hazlitt, and Others, Personal Recollection of, 428.

Lehrbuch des Katholischen und Protestantischen Kirchenrechts, 718.

Lonormant’s Madame Récamier and her Friends, 431.

Life and Letters of Paul Seigneret, 576.

Life of S. Benedict, 575.

Life of the Apostle S. John, 573.

Light leading unto Light, 143.

Lynch’s (Bishop) Pastoral Letter, 576.

MacEvilly’s Exposition of S. Paul’s Epistles, etc., 144.

Manual of the Sisters of Charity, 432.

Manual of Catholic Indian Missionary Associations, 859.

Medulla Theologiæ Moralis, 574.

Miller’s Ship in the Desert, 573.

Miscellanea, 432.

Mr. Gladstone and Maryland Toleration, 575.

Moriarty’s Wayside Pencillings, 431.

Morris’ The Troubles of our Catholic Forefathers, 141.

Noethen’s Report of the Albany Penitentiary, 144.

Noethen’s Thirteen Sermons, etc., 144.

Pastoral Letter of Bishop Lynch, 576.

Perry’s Full Course of Instruction, etc., 432.

Persecutions of Annam, The, 719.

Personal Reminiscences by Knight and Raikes, 288.

Personal Recollections of Lamb, Hazlitt, and Others, 428.

Personal Reminiscences by Constable and Gillies, 720.

Public Life of Our Lord, 717.

Rohling’s Medulla Theologiæ Moralis, 574.

Sacrifice of the Eucharist, etc., 718.

Sadlier’s Excelsior Geography, 430.

Sevenoaks, 430.

Ship in the Desert, The, 573.

Shortland’s The Persecutions of Annam, 719.

Spalding’s Miscellanea, 432.

Spalding’s Evidences of Catholicity, 574.

Spalding’s History of the Reformation, 574.

Story of S. Peter, 718.

Supposed Miracles, 856.

Thirteen Sermons preached in the Albany Penitentiary, 144.

Three Pearls, The, 573.

Troubles of our Catholic Forefathers, The, 141.

Vering’s Lehrbuch des Katholischen und Protestantischen

Kirchenrechts, 718.

Volksthümliches aus Schwaben, 718.

Wayside Pencillings, etc., 431.

Young Catholic’s Illustrated Table Book, etc., 430.

THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XXII., No. 127.--OCTOBER, 1875.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by Rev. I. T.

HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.

MR. TENNYSON’S QUEEN MARY.[1]

Mr. Tennyson has achieved a great reputation as a lyric poet. He urges

now a higher claim. In the sunset of a not inglorious life, when we

should have expected his lute to warble with waning melodies and less

impassioned strains, he lays it aside as too feeble for his maturer

inspirations, and, as though renewed with the fire of a second youth, he

draws to his bosom a nobler instrument, and awakes the echoes of sublimer

chords. He has grown weary of the lyric

“hœrentem multa cum laude coronam,”

and with some confidence claims the dramatic bays. Nay, he even invites a

comparison with Shakspere. True to the temper of the times, his prestige

follows him in so hazardous a competition, the accustomed wreaths are

showered upon him with unreflecting haste, and the facile representatives

of the most incapable of critics--public opinion--have already offered

him that homage as a dramatist which had already been too lavishly

offered to his idyllic muse.

It is an ungrateful task to go against the popular current, and it is

an ungracious one to object to crowns which the multitude have decreed.

But there is no help for it, unless we would stoop to that criticism of

prestige which is so characteristic of the age, and would follow in the

wake of the literary rabble, criticising the works by the author, instead

of the author by his works.

We may as well say, at once, that we have never felt it in our power

to acknowledge the poetical supremacy of the English poet-laureate.[2]

It has always appeared to us that there is, in his poetry, a lack of

inspiration. To borrow a too familiar but expressive metaphor, the coin

is highly burnished, glitters brightly, and has the current stamp, but

one misses the ring of the genuine metal. He sits patiently on the

tripod, dealing forth phrases as musical as Anacreon’s numbers, and

as polished as those of a Greek sophist, spiced with a refined humor,

which has a special charm of its own. But his soul does not kindle at

the sacred fire. We miss the divine frenzy. A passionateness of love

of the beautiful does not appear to be the quickening inspiration of

his creations. All alike show signs of extreme care and preparation. We

do not forget the counsel of Horace. But that only refers to a distant

revision of creations which an unchecked genius may have produced under

the divine influence. Whereas, Mr. Tennyson’s poetry bears evidence of

infinite toil in production. All his thoughts, ideas, and images, down to

words and phrases, are too evidently, instead of the happy inspirations

of genius, the labored workmanship of a polished, refined, and fastidious

mind. They something resemble the _tout ensemble_ of a _petit maître_

who has succeeded in conveying to his dress an appearance of such

consummate simplicity and unexceptionable taste that every one notices

the result of hours before the mirror. His diction is pure and polished,

his phrases simple and nervous, and the English language owes him much

for what he has done towards neutralizing the injury inflicted on it

by the gaudy phraseology of the “correct” poets, and the antithetical

sesquipedalianism of such prose writers as Johnson and Gibbon, and

for preserving it in its pure and nervous simplicity. But his soul is

dull to the poetic meanings of nature. His natural scenery is rather

descriptive than a creation, much as artists, of whom there are not a

few, who reproduce with consummate skill of imitation objects in detail,

and bestow infinite care upon color, shade, perspective, grouping, and

all the other technical details of a picture, whilst comparatively

indifferent to the subject, which ought to be the poetic meaning of

creations of genius. And what are they but only fruitful manifestations

of the love of the beautiful, and echoes of its creative word, not the

mere manipulations of an artificer? Mr. Tennyson’s descriptions of nature

owe their vividness to the brilliance of word-painting and a certain

refined delicacy of touch; sometimes, even, and indeed very often, to a

certain quaint humor which is inconsistent with the highest art--it is

not a passionate love which regards the object beloved from a ridiculous

point of view--as when he describes the willows living adown the banks of

a streamlet as “shock-headed pollards _poussetting_ down the stream.”

The sensations provoked by his poetry resemble those of one who has

sauntered through a museum of precious stones of rare workmanship and

purest water. Our æsthetic taste has been pleased by the glitter and the

color and the brilliance, but our mind and heart have not been deeply

moved. His poems are ablaze with detached thoughts of lofty meaning,

and of a multitude of others whose meaning is not obvious, all alike

expressed in vivid imagery, in the purest phraseology, and in rare melody

of rhythm. But they are confused and cabalistic. He seems to be always

laboring to be incomprehensible. He calls it “the riddling of the bards.”

And he succeeds. The problem of the Sphinx, the emblematic warning sent

by the Scythians to their Persian invader, the mute counsel sent by the

Samian to the Corinthian tyrant, a Delphic oracle, all were clear and

easy by comparison with Mr. Tennyson’s lyrics, alike in detached passages

and in entire poems. None of woman born can fathom the meaning of the

_Idylls of the King_.

This defect alone is fatal to poetry. So keenly did Spenser feel it that

although the meaning of his allegory, _The Faerie Queene_, is obvious

enough to any ordinary intelligence, he is careful to explain it in full

in a letter dedicated to Sir Walter Raleigh.

Mr. Tennyson, on the contrary, involves himself in the thickest mystery

he can contrive, and expects his worshippers to take it for inspiration.

Take the following, for example, from “The Coming of Arthur”:

“Rain, rain, and sun, a rainbow in the sky!

A young man will be wiser by-and-by,

An old man’s wit may wander e’er he die.

“Rain, rain, and sun, a rainbow on the lea!

And truth is this to me, and that to thee

And truth, or clothed or naked, let it be.

“Rain, sun, and rain! and the free blossom blows,

Sun, rain, and sun! and where is he who knows?

From the great deep to the great deep he goes.”

These are, no doubt, “riddling triplets,” as he himself calls them. The

riddling of Shakspere’s fools, even the wanderings from the night of

distraught Ophelia’s brain, are light itself by the side of them. We may

well echo his invocation of “Sun, rain, and sun! and where is he who

knows?” Whatever inspiration may be evident here, it is not that of the

beautiful. And yet even this has snatches of meaning which many passages

we might adduce have not; as the following, from “Gareth and Lynette”:

“Know ye not, then, the riddling of the bards?

Confusion, and illusion, and relation.

Elusion, and occasion, and evasion?”

It is almost a pity that the bard did not complete his “riddling” while

he was about it. Another couplet:

Diffusion, and ablution, and abrasion.

Ablution, expectation, botheration,

would have rendered still more impenetrable the bardic mystery.

There is no resemblance in this studied concealment of meaning, if

meaning there be, to that

“Sacred madness of the bards

When God makes music through them,”

of which he sings. It is more like the melodious confusion of the Æolian

harp. Even if the poet have a definite meaning in his own mind, if he

so express it that I cannot even guess it, to me it is nonsense; and

nonsense, however melodious, although it may enchant my sense, cannot

move my heart. Here and there, however, our poet sings snatches of real

poetry, as Sir Bedivere’s answer to his king in “The Coming of Arthur”:

“I heard the water lapping on the craig

And the long ripple washing in the reeds.”

Upon the whole, Mr. Tennyson excels in a certain underlying vein of

exquisitely refined humor. And when his subject admits of it, he is

unrivalled. His is the poetry of humor. We would name as examples “The

Northern Farmer” and the satirical poem, “Locksley Hall,” perhaps the

most vigorous of all his productions; and, of his longer poems, _The

Princess_. It is for this reason we think he is more likely to excel, as

a dramatist, in comedy than in tragedy.

If our readers would estimate the full force of our remarks, we would

invite them to read the works of any of the principal of our earlier

lyrical poets, as, for example, Collins. We name him because he too

excels in that melody of versification for which Mr. Tennyson is so

distinguished. At times, as in his “Sonnet on Evening,” he surpasses the

Laureate in that respect, although for sustained and unfailing rhythmical

melody the latter bears away the palm from him, and perhaps from every

other rival. But in profound sympathy with nature, in the fidelity of his

creations, in the echoes of the beautiful which he provokes within the

soul of the reader, the Poet-Laureate must yield to the Demy of Magdalen.

Like Shakspere, he peopled inanimate nature with a fairy world, and

amongst elves and genii and other dainty spirits he abandoned himself to

that power of impersonation which is almost an attribute of a true poet.

Our space does not admit of illustrative quotations, but we would refer

the reader inclined to institute the comparison suggested to the elegy

over Fidele, in the play of _Cymbeline_, and to his _Eclogues_.

Mr. Tennyson’s poetry has beauties of its own peculiar kind of so

remarkable and striking a description that we might have hesitated to

take any exceptions whatsoever to his poetical genius. But his new poem,

his first effort in dramatic poetry, seems to us to set all doubt at

rest. It convinces us that, for whatever reasons, of the highest flights

of poetic inspiration Mr. Tennyson is incapable. We are convinced that he

lacks that which constitutes a great poet. However beautiful his poetry,

we feel that it wants something which, however keenly we may be sensible

of it, it is not easy either to analyze or explain.

For what is the inspiration of poetry but the echoes of the beautiful

within the soul of man? The universe of things is the visible word

of God. It is his essential beauty projected by an energy of creative

love--the quickening spirit opening his wings over chaos--into an

objective existence, on which its generator looked with complacency

as “very good,” and which he generated in order that his creature,

whom he had made in his own image, might, with himself, rejoice in

its contemplation. He did not, at first, endow him with the power of

beholding himself “face to face,” but only his reflex. We have the right

to believe that, whilst in union with his Maker, he read at a glance the

meaning of the word, he felt instantaneously the beauty of the image. His

nature, into which no discord had as yet been introduced, uncondemned

to the judgment of painful toil, did not acquire charity and knowledge

by long and laborious processes, disciplinary and ratiocinative, but by

intuition. Incapable as yet of the Beatific Vision, he comprehended the

whole of the divine beauty as revealed in creation, and the comprehension

itself was a transport of love. He saw, and knew, and loved, and the

three were one simultaneous energy of the sonship of his nature. But, as

now, “the greatest of these was charity.” It was the result and sum and

end of the sight and knowledge. It was the feeling they inevitably and

unremittingly occasioned. To speak as we can only speak in our actual

condition, it was as those thuds of loving admiration with which our

hearts throb when we look upon some surpassing embodiment of innocent

and modest female loveliness. When the mind, jealous of pre-eminence,

led captive, so to speak, the heart in revolt against the revealed law,

the human being was no longer in union with himself, a war of impulses

and of energies was set up within him, the image of God was defaced, his

perception of created beauty became more and more obscure as he went

further away from his original abode of innocence, until, finally, it was

all but lost. The emotion, if we may describe it as such, which it was of

its nature to suggest, could not perish, for it is imperishable. But it

had lost its true object, and surveyed knowledge in a form more or less

degraded.

Now out of this very faint and rapid sketch of a psychological theory

which would require a volume for its development, we hope to be able to

convey some idea, however vague, of the nature of the poetic spirit.

It is certain that the remains of the divine image have not since been

alike and equal in all the individuals of the race. It may be asserted,

on the contrary, that there are no two human microcosms in which the

elements of the confusion introduced into them by the original infidelity

exist in the same proportion. Those in whom the intelligence is the

quickest to see, and the mind, heart, and soul to love in unison, the

image of divine beauty revealed in creation--those, that is, in whom the

divine image remains the most pronouncedly--are the truest poets.

When this echo of the soul to the beautiful does not go beyond the

physical creation, the inspirations of love express themselves in lyric

or idyllic poetry. The poet imitates the divine Creator in reproducing,

even creating, images of his lower creation so faithful and suggestive

that they who look upon them experience similar sensations and emotions

to those provoked within them by the divine creation itself, nay, not

unseldom, even profounder ones. He reveals the beautiful in similar

images to those in which The Beautiful revealed himself to his creature;

he is thus himself a ποιητὴς, or creator, and his work is a ποίησις, or

creation. When his forms derive their inspiration only from the inferior

creation, they are exclusively some form of idyls or lyrics. But when,

soaring above the grosser medium of the merely material universe, and

poising himself on wings tremulous with reverent joy at the confines

of the invisible, his soul echoes the music of the beautiful issuing

from that invisible creation; and that imitative energy which is of its

essence, inspired by these reawakening inspirations, calls into being

psychical individualities with their precise bodily expression and

proper destinies--that is to say, with all the causes and results, ebb

and flow, action and reaction, in human affairs, of every volition and

energy, he reproduces the highest energy of the divine creative power, he

evokes into sensible existence whole multitudes of fresh creatures made

in the image of God, and, what is even yet more sublime, he evokes into

equally sensible being the particular providence which overrules each

and all--the one difference between the two creations being that one is

original, the other imitative; one imaginary--that is, _merely_ sensible;

the other, not only sensible, but _real_ also, and _essential_. Yet are

the accidents of the former produced occasionally with such extraordinary

fidelity that they have sometimes, as in the creations of Shakspere, for

example, the same effect upon those who become acquainted with them as if

they were in truth the latter.

Who that has ever studied the creations of that immortal dramatist has

not them all, from high to low, treasured within his inner being as

vividly as any other of his absent acquaintances, whom he has met in

society, to whom he has been formally introduced, with whom he has eaten,

drank, laughed, wept, walked, and conversed? Has not that remarkable

genius transgressed even the imitative faculty--imitative, that is,

of all the original creative energy that is known--produced original

creations, and peopled the preter- rather than supernatural with beings

which have no known existence, but whom nevertheless he surrounds with a

distinct verisimilitude which ensures them easy admission into our minds

and hearts, which presents them to our senses as concrete beings with as

much positiveness, and even as clearly defined individuality, as if they

were solid creatures of flesh and bone, and which makes us feel that if

such beings did really exist, they would be none other than precisely

those he has represented?

Of such sort, we take it, is the highest, or dramatic, poetry. And of

it there is a manifest deficiency in this work, which its author terms,

indeed, a drama, but which is in fact a tragedy.

Mr. Tennyson has not enough of the divine afflatus to write tragedy. If

he has not sufficient love of the beautiful in inanimate nature for his

soul to echo to it, and his heart to throb with the sense of it, with

the rapidity of an intuition, so as to make unattainable to him the

highest excellence in lyric poetry, how much more out of his reach must

be a first rank in the tragic drama; where, if anywhere, an intuition of

the beautiful amounting to an inspiration is demanded in that supreme

creation of God which, as the consummation of his “work” and word, he has

embodied in his own substance! In that profound and intuitive perception

of the workings of man’s inner being, of the passions, emotions,

feelings, appetites, their action and reaction, ebb and flow; of the

struggle of the two natures, its infinite variety and play of life, under

all conceivable conditions and vicissitudes, with much more than can be

detailed here included in these, Mr. Tennyson is strikingly deficient.

In the tragedies of Shakspere, as in all his dramas, the distinct

personality of every one of the characters, high and low, is impressed

upon us with vivid distinctness. But the principal personages in the

tragedies dilate before us in heroic proportions as the portentous

struggle progresses. Whether it be King Lear, or King John, or King

Richard, or Othello, or Lady Macbeth, or Lady Constance, or the widowed

Princess of Wales, or Ophelia, or whoever else, we look on with bated

breath, as did the spectators of the boat-race with which Æneas

celebrated the suicide of his regal paramour, and we come away at its

close a prey to the storm of emotions which the magic art of the island

sorcerer has conjured up within us.

But the drama, or tragedy, as we prefer to call it, we read with but

languid interest. The psychical struggle is neither very obvious nor very

critical, there is no very striking revelation of the sublime beauty or

tragic overthrow of human nature, and although the canvas is crowded

with figures, not one of them impresses any very distinct image of his

or her individuality on our mind and heart. Instead of, as Shakspere’s

creations, retaining every one of them as a distinct and intimate

acquaintance, whom we may summon into our company at will, we rise from

the perusal of _Queen Mary_ without having received any very definite

impression of any, even the principal, personages, and we forget all

about them almost as soon as we have read the play.

This vital defect in a drama the author has rendered doubly fatal through

his having carried his imitation of Shakspere to the extent of adopting

his simplicity of plot. Shakspere could afford to do this. The inspired

verisimilitude of the struggle of the two natures in every one of his

human creations, the profoundness of his development of the innermost

working of the human microcosm, often by a few master-touches, surround

every one of his _dramatis personæ_ with all the rapt suspense and

sustained interest of a plot. Every one of his characters is, as it were,

a plot in itself. But it is quite certain that Mr. Tennyson--and it is no

depreciation of him--has not this power. He has, therefore, every right

to call to his aid the interest of an elaborate plot, which itself would

also, we think, cause him to develop more vividly his characters. It is

in this the late Lord Lytton, whose poetical pretensions are very much

below Mr. Tennyson’s, achieved whatever success he had as a dramatist.

Mr. Tennyson has not to depend on this solely, as was very nearly the

case with Lord Lytton, but it would contribute very much to a higher

success. The great dramatist he is unwise enough so avowedly to imitate

peoples the simplest plot with a whole world of stirring destinies. He

moves his quickening wand, and lo! as by the master-will of a creator,

appear a Hamlet or a Malvolio, a Lady Macbeth or a Goneril or Miranda,

an Ariel or a Caliban, contribute their precise share to the history,

which would not have been complete without them, and then disappear from

the scene, but never from our memory. A magic word or two has smitten

them into _it_, and they live for aye in our mind and heart. His heroes

and his heroines he clothes with such a majesty of poetry that we watch

anxiously with bated breath their every gesture, word, or look; we

cannot bear their absence, until, entranced into their destiny, and half

unconscious, we watch them disappear in the catastrophe, our ears are

blank, all voices mute, the brilliant theatre is the chamber of death,

and they who, to us, were but now living flesh and blood, in whose

destinies our innermost soul was rapt, have passed away, amidst a tempest

of emotions, and are no more.

But Thucydides’ _History of the Peloponnesian War_, either of the

two great classic epics, or any striking historic passage in even so

ungraphic a writer as Lingard, is more dramatic than this drama. The

feeble plot gives birth to feebler impersonations. They come and go

without making any deep impression upon us, or seizing our attention by

any striking originality. Their features are indistinct, their actions

insignificant. They are bloodless and colorless. They are ghosts, things

of air, whom a feeble incantation has summoned from their slumber, who

mutter a few laborious Spartanisms in a renewed life in which they

seem to have no concern, and vanish without provoking a regret, nor

even an emotion. We observe in them such an absence of verisimilitude,

so marked a want of truth to nature, as very much to weaken, when it

does not entirely destroy, the dramatic illusion. Nowhere is this more

observable than where he intends most manifestly a rivalry of Shakspere.

Shakspere not unseldom introduces the multitude into his poetic history.

But when he does so, it seizes our interest as forcibly as his more

important personages. With a few rapid touches he dashes in a few typical

individuals, who reveal to us vividly what the whole kind of thing is

of which they are prominent units. They are the mob of the very time

and place to which they belong. Whether at Rome in the time of Julius

Cæsar, or at Mantua or Verona in the Middle Ages, or in England during

the time of the Tudors, we feel that they act and speak just as then

and there they might have said and done. Every one, too, has his or

her distinct individuality. And such a verisimilitude have they that

even an occasional anachronism, such as, in _Troilus and Cressida_,

making a Trojan servant talk of _being in the state of grace_, does not

dispel the charm. But Mr. Tennyson’s mob-types have no more striking

features to seize our interest than his more exalted creations, whilst

his anachronisms are of a kind which send all verisimilitude to the

winds. Joan and Tib, and the four or five citizens, have nothing in them

for which they should be singled out of the very ordinary condition of

life to which they belong. And we are tempted to sneer when we hear an

Elizabethan mob talking like Hampshire or Yorkshire peasants of the

present day.

For all that, Mr. Tennyson’s cockneys and rustics are not his most

ineffective portraiture. We experience a slight sensation of their

having been lugged in, perhaps because of the inevitable comparison with

Shakspere they provoke, and we feel them to be too modern; but the poet’s

sense of humor here serves him in good stead, and although, in this

respect, immeasurably below Shakspere, he gives a kind of raciness to his

plebeians which saves them from being an absolute failure.

It is, however, in the principal personages of the drama that we most

miss the Promethean fire, and pre-eminently in the hero, if Cranmer is

intended for such a dignity, and the heroine. Amongst these, the most

lifelike are Courtenay and Sir Thomas Wyatt; because, in their creation,

the peculiar vein of quaint irony and exceedingly refined humor, which is

Mr. Tennyson’s most eminent distinction, comes to his aid. For the rest,

up to the heroine herself and the canting and recanting Cranmer, they are

colorless and bloodless. We scarcely know one from the other. And we do

not care to. Noailles and Renard are but poor specimens of diplomatists.

Their sovereigns, were the time the present, might pick up a dozen such

any day in Wall Street. If the poet could embody no greater conception

of two such men as Bonner and Gardiner than a couple of vulgar,

self-seeking, blood-thirsty knaves, he should have dispensed altogether

with their presence. He should have given to them some elevation,

whatever history may say about it. A drama is a poem, not a history; and

the poet may take the names of historic personages and, within certain

limits, fit to them creations of his own. In Cardinal Pole he had an

opportunity for a noble ideal. But all we have is an amiable dummy, an

old gentleman, as ordinary and ineffective as the rest.

Facts have been so distorted by the influence which for so long had sole

possession of literature, that there is plenty of room for taking great

liberties with history. Mr. Tennyson has slightly availed himself of

this, but in the wrong direction. Shakspere himself could not have made

a saint of Cranmer. For poetry, there was nothing for it but to make him

a more splendid sinner. To retain all his littlenesses and to array them

in seductive virtues, is to present us with some such figure as the dusky

chieftains decked in gaudy tinsel that solicit our admiration in front of

the tobacconists’ shops. To attempt to give heroic proportions to a man

whose profession of faith followed subserviently his self-interest until

no hope remained, and then place in the hands of the burning criminal

the palm of martyrdom, is to invite the love within us of the beautiful

and the true to echo to a psychical impossibility, and that without an

element of greatness.

Yet had the front figure of the history been a noble conception grandly

executed all this might have been condoned. One might well have looked

at them as a few rough accessories to heighten by their contrast the

beauty of the central form. There was place for a splendid creation. No

more favorable material for a tragic heroine exists than Mary Tudor--with

the single exception of that other Mary who fell beneath the Puritans

like a lily before the scythe of the destroyer. Around her history and

person circle all the elements of the tenderest pathos, which is of the

very essence of tragedy. That Shakspere did not use them is a proof

he thought so. For “the fair vestal throned in the west” would have

resented such a creation as his quickening genius would have called

to life. A queen of noble nature gradually swept away by a resistless

current of untoward circumstances, is a history capable of the sublimity

of a Greek catastrophe, with the added pathos of Christian suffering.

But who have we here? A silly woman, devoutly pious, and endowed with

a conspicuous share of the family courage. But she is so weak that

her piety has the appearance of superstition, and her fits of courage

lose their royalty and fail to rescue her from contempt. Unattractive

in person, she falls desperately in love with a man much younger than

herself, and her woman’s love, ordinarily so quick to detect coldness in

a lover, is blind to the grossest neglect; and yet not so blind but that

a few words scrawled on a rag of paper, dropped in her way, could open

her eyes on the spot. The tenderness of her love and the importunity of

cruel-minded men, transform her almost suddenly from a gentle-natured

woman to an unrelenting human tigress. And she, who would not allow the

law to take its course on her most dangerous enemies, can exclaim of her

sister Elizabeth,

“To the Tower with _her_!

My foes are at my feet, and I am queen.”

Afterwards of Guilford Dudley, the Duke of Suffolk, and Lady Jane Grey--

“They shall die.”

And again of her sister--

“She shall die.

My foes are at my feet, and Philip king.”

This is not the grandness of crime, as in Richard III., or even in Lady

Macbeth. It is the petty despotism of a weak and silly woman. There is

no greatness of any kind about it. It is the mere triumphant chuckle

of an amorous queen, wooing a more than indifferent husband. It is

little--little enough for a comedy. There is something approaching the

tragic in the desolation of her last moments. Calais is lost, her husband

hates her, her people hate her. But the poet has already robbed her of

the dignity of her position. She has forfeited our esteem. We experience

an ordinary sympathy with her. But her fate is only what was to be

expected. And the highest pathos is out of the question. When, following

the example of her injured mother in the play of _Henry VIII._, she

betakes herself to lute and song, the author insists on a comparison with

Shakspere, and beside the full notes of the Bard of Avon the petty treble

of the Laureate pipe shrinks to mediocrity.

But the most unpardonable of Mr. Tennyson’s imitations of Shakspere are

those in which he rings the changes on the celebrated passage about “no

Italian priest shall tithe nor toll in our dominions,” which inevitably

provokes the applause of those amongst a theatrical audience who do not

know what it means--unpardonable, because it makes even Shakspere himself

as ridiculous as a poor travesty cannot fail to do. He was content with

one such passage throughout his many plays. If Terence had filtered

the noble sentiment of his celebrated passage, “Ego homo sum, et nihil

humanum a me alienum,” through a variety of forms, it would have excited

the laughter instead of the plaudits of the Roman “gods.” But the author

of _Queen Mary_ is not afraid to pose _his_ sentiment, itself borrowed

in no less than three different attitudes in one play; committing the

additional absurdity of thrusting it, like a quid of tobacco, into the

cheek of two different personages. Gardiner uses it twice, Elizabeth once:

“Yet I know well [says the former]

Your people …

Will brook nor Pope nor Spaniard here to play

The tyrant, or in commonwealth or church”;

and again, with questionable taste:

“And see you, we shall have to _dodge_ again,

And let the Pope trample our rights, and plunge

His _foreign fist_ into our island church,

To plump the leaner pouch of Italy”;

whilst Elizabeth is made to vulgarize it beyond hope of redemption into a

mere petty ebullition of splenetic womanly vanity:

“Then, Queen indeed! No foreign prince or priest

Should fill my throne, myself upon the steps.”

It must be owned, indeed, that this play lacks the highest poetry in

its expression as much as in its conception. We occasionally come

across passages of vivid and vigorous limning, as Count Feria’s reply

to Elizabeth towards the end of the play, and Howard’s description to

the Lord Mayor of the state of mind of the citizens. But even the force

of this latter passage is not dramatic. There is none of the rush and

movement of an excited populace. There are a few striking groups. But

they are inactive. Theirs is a kind of dead life, if we may be pardoned

such an expression. Rather, they are mere _tableaux vivants_. They

inspire us with no fear for Mary’s throne. More near to dramatic power

and beauty is Elizabeth’s soliloquy at Woodstock, suddenly lowered in the

midst of its poetry, even to nursery familiarity, by the introduction of

such a phrase as “catch me who can.”

But for one single effort of the highest poetic flight we look in vain.

Even the few snatches of his lyre which he introduces fail to woo us.

They are not natural. If they are poetry, it is poetry in a court-dress.

It is rich with brocade, and the jewels glitter bravely; it treads

delicately, but its movements are artificial and constrained. Compare,

for example, the song of the Woodstock milkmaid, wherein labor is visible

in every line, with those gushes of nature with which the poet’s soul

would seem to be bubbling over the brim of the visible in the various

lyrical snatches of Ariel or with the song of Spring at the end of

_Love’s Labor Lost_.

But what has more surprised us than the lack of the poetic inspiration in

this drama is the occasional want of correct taste in a writer of such

exceeding polish as Mr. Tennyson. Such a speech as

“And God hath blest or cursed me with a nose--

Your boots are from the horses,”

should not have been put in the mouth of a lady, still less a lady of the

rank of Elizabeth, and that the less when she appeals to our sympathies

from a kind of honorable imprisonment.

Lady Magdalen Dacres may have beat King Philip with a staff for insulting

her, and have remained a lady, but we do not want to be told, in the

midst of dramatic pathos,

“But by God’s providence a good stout staff

Lay near me; and you know me strong of arm;

I do believe I lamed his Majesty’s.”

Is our poet, again, so barren of invention that he could find no other

way of portraying Philip’s indifference to his Queen than the following:

“By S. James, I do protest,

Upon the faith and honor of a Spaniard,

I am vastly grieved to leave your Majesty.

Simon, is supper ready?”

“RENARD--Ay, my liege,

I saw the covers laying.”

“PHILIP--Let’s have it.”

Whatever may be the character he may have wished to depict in Philip, we

expect a Spanish king to be a gentleman. And such an ending of a scene

susceptible of the tenderest pathos, where the heroine and another of the

principal personages of the drama are in presence, argues a wonderful

dulness of perception of the beautiful.

Worse than all, however, is his treatment of Cardinal Pole.

Shakspere puts a few words of Latin into the mouth of Cardinal Wolsey

in a scene in _Henry VIII._, in which he and Cardinal Campeggio are

endeavoring to bend the queen to the king’s will. But it is a wonderful

touch of nature. It is one of those profound intuitions for which the

great dramatist is so distinguished. So seemingly simple an incident

reveals, at a touch, as it were, the preoccupation of Wolsey’s mind, and

the hollowness at once and difficulty of the duty he had suffered to

be imposed upon him. They had paid her ostensibly a private visit, as

friends. But Wolsey, oppressed with the difficulty of his undertaking,

and meditating how he should set about it, forgets himself, the old habit

crops up, and he begins as if he were beginning a formal ecclesiastical

document:

“Tanta est erga te mentis integritas, regina serenissima.”

It is a slip. The queen stops him. He recollects himself, and we hear no

more Latin.

But in this drama the poet literally makes a cardinal, and such a

cardinal as Pole, address Queen Mary with the angelic salutation to the

Blessed Virgin, and in Latin:

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, benedicta tu in mulieribus!”

Upon the whole, the defects of this drama are so many and so serious, so

radical and fundamental, that no competent criticism can pronounce it

other than a failure; and a failure more complete than would have been

thought possible to a poet of so great a reputation as Mr. Tennyson.[3]

“O VALDE DECORA!”

Could I but see thee, dear my love!

That face--but once! Not dazzling bright--

Not as the blest above

Behold it in God’s light--

But as it look’d at La Salette;

Or when, in Pyrenean wild,

It beam’d on Bernadette,

The favor’d peasant child.

Once seen--a moment--it would blind

These eyes to beauty less than thine:

And where could poet find

Such theme for song as mine?

But if I ask what may not be,

So spell me with thy pictur’d face

That haunting looks from thee

May hold me like a grace.

ARE YOU MY WIFE?

BY THE AUTHOR OF “PARIS BEFORE THE WAR,” “NUMBER THIRTEEN,” “PIUS VI.,”

ETC.

CHAPTER IX.

And now a new life began for Franceline.

“You must fly from idleness as from sin,” Father Henwick said; “you must

never let a regret settle on your mind for an instant. It will often be

hard work to resist them; but we are here to fight. You must shut the

door in the face of idle thoughts by activity and usefulness. I will

help you in this. You must set to work amongst the poor; not so as to

fatigue yourself, or interfere with your duties and occupations at home,

but enough to keep you busy and interested. At first it will be irksome

enough, I dare say; but never mind that. By and by the effort will bring

its own reward, and be a pleasure as well as a duty.”

He sat down and wrote out a time-table for her which filled up every hour

of the day, and left not one moment for brooding. There were visits to

the cottages and a class for children in the morning; the afternoon hours

were to be devoted to helping her father, writing and copying for him,

sometimes copying MSS. for Father Henwick, with no other purpose than to

keep her mind and her fingers occupied.

But when the excitement caused by this change in her daily routine

subsided, something of the first heart-sinking returned. Do what she

would, thought would not be dumb. The external activity could not

silence the busy tongues of her brain or deafen her to their ceaseless

whisperings. It was weary work staggering on under her load, while memory

tugged at her heart-strings and dragged its longings the other way. It

was hard not to yield to the temptation now and then of sitting down by

the wayside to rest and look back towards the Egypt that was for ever

out of sight. But Franceline very seldom yielded to the treacherous

allurement. When she caught herself lapsing into dreams, she would rise

up with a resolute effort, and shake off the torpor, and set to work at

something. When the torpor changed to a sting of anguish, she would steep

her soul in prayer--that unfailing opiate of the suffering spirit, its

chloroform in pain.

One day, about three weeks after Father Henwick’s return, she was coming

home through the wood after her morning’s round amongst the cottages.

She was very tired in mind and body. It was dull work dinning the

multiplication-table into Bessy Bing’s thick skull, and teaching her

unnimble fingers to turn the heel of a stocking; to listen to the widow’s

endless lamentations over “the dear departed” and the good old times when

they killed a pig every year, and always had a bit of bacon on the rack.

Franceline came to the old spot where she used to sit and listen to the

concert of the grove. The songsters were nearly all silent now, for the

green was turning gold; but the felled tree was lying in the same place,

and tempted her to rest a moment and watch the sun shooting his golden

shafts through the wilderness of stems all round. Another moment, and she

was in dreamland; but the spell had scarcely fallen on her when it was

broken by the sound of footfalls crushing the yellow leaves that made

a carpet on every path. She started to her feet, and walked on. A few

steps brought her face to face with Father Henwick. He greeted her with a

joyous exclamation.

“Here comes my little missionary! What has she been doing to-day?”

“She has achieved a great conquest; she has arrived at making Bessy Bing

apprehend the problem that seven times nine and nine times seven produce

one and the same total,” replied Franceline with mock gravity.

Father Henwick laughed; but the tired expression of her face did not

escape him.

“I am afraid you will be growing too conceited if this sort of thing goes

on,” he said. “But you must not overdo it, my dear child; it won’t do to

wear yourself out in gaining arithmetical triumphs.”

“Better wear out than rust out.” And Franceline shrugged her shoulders;

she had learned the expressive French trick from her father.

The priest bent his clear eyes on her for a second without speaking. She

read, disappointment, and perhaps mild reproach, in them.

“I am sorry I said that, father; I did not mean to complain.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Because it was cowardly and ungrateful.”

“To whom?”

“To you, who are so kind and so patient with me!”

“And who bids me be kind? Who teaches me to be patient with you?--poor

little bruised lamb!”

“I know it, father; I feel it in the bottom of my heart; but one can’t

always be remembering.” There was the slightest touch of impatience in

her tone.

“How if God were some day to grow tired of remembering us, and bearing

with us, and forgiving us?”

“I know. But I am not rebelling; only sickening and suffering. You

have told me there was no sin in that?” The words came tremulous, as

if through rising tears; but Franceline raised her head with a defiant

movement, and forced the briny drops down. “I cannot help it!” she

continued impetuously; “I have tried my best, and I cannot help it!”

Father Henwick heaved an almost inaudible sigh before he said: “What

cannot you help, Franceline? Suffering?”

“No! I don’t care about that! Remembering I cannot forget.”

“My poor child! would to God I could help you! I would suffer willingly

in your place!” The words came like a gush from his inmost heart. They

broke down the sufferer’s proud resistance and let the tears have vent.

He turned to walk back with her. For some time neither spoke; only the

soft sobs that came unchecked from Franceline broke the temple-like

stillness of the wood. Suddenly she cried out in a tone of passionate

desperation: “O father! it is dreadful. It will kill me if it lasts

much longer! The humiliation is more than I can bear! To feel that I am

harboring a feeling that my whole soul rebels against, that is revolting

in the eyes of God and of my conscience! And I cannot master it!”

“You will never master it by pride, Franceline; that very pride is your

greatest hindrance in setting your heart free. Try and think more of God

and less of yourself. There is no sin, as you say, in the suffering, any

more than, if you strayed to the edge of a precipice in the dark, and

fell over and were killed, you would be guilty of suicide. The sinfulness

now is in your rebellion against the suffering simply because it wounds

your pride.”

“It is not all pride, father,” she said meekly. Presently she turned and

looked up at him through wet lashes. “Father, I must tell you something,”

she said, speaking with a sort of timidity that was unusual with her

towards him--“a thought that came to me this morning that never came to

me before.…”

“What was it?”

“If his wife should die … he would be free?”

A dark shadow fell now on Father Henwick’s large, smooth brow. Franceline

read his answer in the frown and the averted gaze; but he spoke soon,

though he did not look at her.

“That was a sinful thought! You should have cast it behind you with

contempt. Has it come to that with you, that you could look forward to

the death of any one as a thing to be longed for?”

“I did not long for it. The thought came to me.”

“You should have hunted it out of your mind like an evil spirit, as it

was. You must never let it near you again. _He_ should be to you as if

he were already dead. Whether his wife dies or not should not, and does

not, concern you. Besides, how do you know whether she is not as young as

yourself, and stronger? My child, such a thought as that would lead you

to the brink of an abyss, if you listened to it.”

“I never will again, father,” she answered promptly. “I hardly know now

whether I listened to it or not; only I could not help telling you.”

“You were right to tell me; and now banish it, and never let it approach

you again.”

After a pause he resumed:

“You are sure that silence is best with M. de la Bourbonais?”

“Oh! yes. How can you ask me, father?” And Franceline looked up in

surprise.

“Yet it cannot remain a secret from him for ever; he is almost certain to

hear of it sooner or later, and it might save him a severe shock if he

heard it from you. It would set his mind at rest about you?”

“It is quite at rest at present on that score. He has no idea that the

discovery would be likely to affect me.”

“You are better able to judge of that, of course, than I am. But it

grieves me to see you have a secret from your father; I wish it could be

avoided.”

“But it cannot; indeed it cannot!” she repeated emphatically. “You may

trust me to speak, if I thought it could be done without injury to both

of us. It is much better to wait; perhaps by the time it comes to his

ears I may be able to hear him speak of it without betraying myself and

paining him.”

Father Henwick acquiesced, but reluctantly. He hoped she was right in

supposing M. de la Bourbonais quite blind to what had been so palpable

to a casual observer. But, making even the fullest allowance for the

absent-minded habits of the studious man, this seemed scarcely probable.

Franceline had affirmed it herself more confidently, perhaps, than

was warranted. She had, however, succeeded in lulling her father into

forgetfulness of his former conjectures and impressions; she was

certain of this. It had been done at a terrible price of endurance and

self-control; but she had succeeded, and it would be doubly cruel now to

revive his suspicions and let him know the truth.

“I will trust you,” said Father Henwick; “it is indeed a mercy that he is

not called upon to bear such a trial while he is yet so unprepared.”

There was an earnestness about him as he said this that would have caused

Franceline a deeper emotion than curiosity if her mind were not fixed

wide of the mark. She replied after a moment’s reflection: “If anything

should occur to make it necessary to tell him, will you break it to him,

father?”

“I will,” said the priest simply.

Franceline had not the least fear of Father Henwick. The severity of his

passionless brow did not frighten her; it never checked the outflow of

the thoughts and emotions that came surging up from her own perturbed

heart. He seemed too far removed from strife himself to be affected by

it, except as a pitying angel might, looking down from his calm heaven

on poor mortals struggling and striving in the smoke and din of their

earthly battle-field.

“Father,” said Franceline suddenly, “I wish I cared more for the poor!

I wish I could love them and pity them as you do; but I don’t. I’m so

shy of going amongst them. I’m sure I don’t do them any good, and they

don’t do me any good, they’re so prosy and egotistical--most of them, at

least.”

He turned an amused, indulgent smile on her.

“There was a time when I thought so too; but persevere, and the love

will come after a little while. All that is worth having is bought with

sacrifice. Oh! if we could only understand the blessedness of sacrifice!

Then we should find the peace passing all understanding that comes of

passion overcome, of sorrow generously accepted!”

He held out his hand to say good-by. Franceline laid hers in it; but

did not remove it at once. “Father,” she said, with her eyes lifted in

childlike fearlessness to his, “one would think, to hear you speak of

passion overcome and sorrow accepted, that you knew something about them!

I sometimes wish you did. It would make it easier to me to believe in the

possibility of overcoming and accepting.”

A change came over Father Henwick’s face for one moment; it was not a

cloud nor a tremor, but the shadow of some deep emotion that must pass

away before he could answer. Then the words came with grave simplicity,

and low, as if they were a prayer:

“Believe, then, my child, and take courage; I have gone through it all!”

He turned and walked back into the wood. Franceline stood looking after

him through gathering tear-drops. Never had he seemed so far above her,

so removed from human weakness, as at this moment, when he so humbly

acknowledged kindred with it.

* * * * *

A pleasant surprise met Franceline on her return home. Sir Simon was at

The Lilies, and loudly expressing his indignation at not finding her

there to greet him. She arrived, however, before he had quite divested

himself of a cargo of small boxes which he had carried down himself in

order to have the delight of witnessing her curiosity and pleasure in

their contents. There was hardly any event which could have given her so

much pleasure in her present frame of mind as the sight of her kind old

friend; and she satisfied him to the full by her affectionate welcome

and her delight in all his presents. He had not forgotten her favorite

_friandise_--chocolate bonbons--and she set to nibbling them at once,

in spite of Angélique’s protest against such a proceeding close on

dinner-time.

“Va, petite gourmande!” exclaimed the _bonne_, tramping off to her

kitchen, in high glee to see Franceline’s gayety and innocent greediness

over the dainty.

Sir Simon was, if possible, in brighter spirits than ever; like Job’s

friends, he was “full of discourse,” so that there was nothing to do

but listen and laugh as the current rippled on. He had a deal to tell

about his rambles in the Pyrenees, and a whole budget of adventures to

retail, and anecdotes about odd people he had come across in all sorts

of out-of-the-way places. Nothing checked the pleasant flow until M. de

la Bourbonais had the unlucky inspiration to inquire for Lady Rebecca’s

health; whereupon the baronet raised his right hand and let it fall

again with an emphatic gesture, shook his head, and compressed his

lips in ominous silence. Raymond, who held the key of the pantomime,

gathered therefrom that Lady Rebecca had for the six-and-thirtieth

time rallied from the jaws of death, and plunged her long-suffering

heir once more into dejection and disappointment. He knew what was

in store for his private ear, and heaved a sigh. “But the present

hour shall be a respite,” Sir Simon seemed to say; and he quitted the

subject abruptly, and proceeded to catechise Franceline on her behavior

since his departure. He was surprised and annoyed to find that she had

been to no parties; that nothing more exciting than that short visit

to Rydal had come of his deep-laid scheme with the dowager; and that

there had been no rivalry of gallant suitors attacking the citadel of

The Lilies. He had been rather nervous before meeting her; for, though

it had been made quite clear to him by Raymond’s letters that _he_ had

received no crushing blow of any description, Sir Simon had a lurking

fear that recent events might have left a deeper shadow on his daughter’s

existence than he was conscious of. Her aspect, however, set him at

ease on this score. He could hardly have lighted on a more favorable

moment for the confirmation of his sanguine hopes regarding Franceline’s

heart-wholeness. True, she had been crying, only half an hour ago,

bitter, burning tears enough; but her face retained no trace of them, and

it still held the glow of inward triumph that Father Henwick’s last words

had called up into her eyes, and her cheeks had got a faint color from

the rapid walking. Sir Simon breathed freely as he took note of these

outward signs; he could indulge in a little chaffing without remorse or

_arrière-pensée_. He wanted to know, merely as a matter of curiosity, how

many hearts she had broken in his absence--how many unfortunates had been

mortally struck as they passed within reach of her arrows on the wayside.

Franceline protested that she carried no quiver, and had not inflicted a

scratch on any one. Humph! Sir Simon invited her to convey that answer to

the marines.

“And how about Ponsonby Anwyll? Has he been here lately?”

“No; he called twice, but papa and I were out.”

“Poor devil! so much the better for him! But he won’t have the sense to

keep out of harm’s way; he’ll be at it again before long.”

Franceline gave one of her merry laughs--she was in a mood to enjoy the

absurdity of the joke--and went to take off her things; for Angélique put

in her head to say that dinner was ready.

Things fell quickly into their old course at the Court. There was a

procession of morning callers every day, and pleasant friendly dinners,

and a few men down in relays to shoot. Sir Simon insisted on M. de la

Bourbonais coming to join them frequently, and bringing Franceline;

he had established a precedent, and he was not going to let it drop.

Franceline, on the whole, was glad of the excitement; she was determined

to use everything that could help her good resolutions; and the necessity

for seeming to enjoy soon led to her doing so in reality. After the

stillness of her little home-life, filled as it was with restless voices

audible to no ear but hers, the gay stir of the Court was welcome. It

was a pleasurable sensation, too, to feel herself the object of admiring

attentions from a number of agreeable gentlemen, to be deferred to and

made much of, as if she were a little queen amongst them all. Sir Simon

was more indulgent than ever, and spoiled her to his heart’s content.

Father Henwick, who was kept _au courant_ of what was going on, could

not find it in his heart to oppose what seemed to be an innocent

diversion of her thoughts.

It was, therefore, anything but a welcome break when Lady Anwyll came

down one morning, accompanied by Sir Simon, to announce her intention

of carrying off her friend the next day to Rydal. Franceline fought off

while she could, but Sir Simon pooh-poohed her excuses about not liking

to leave her father, and so forth; _he_ was there now to look after him,

and she must go. So she went. Rydal had a dreadful association in her

mind, and she shrank from going there as from revisiting the scene of

some horrible tragedy. She shrank, too, from leaving her father. Of late

they had been more bound up in their daily life than ever; she had coaxed

him into accepting her services as an amanuensis, and he had quickly

grown so used to them that he was sure to miss her greatly at his work.

There was nothing, moreover, in the inmates of Rydal to compensate her

for the sacrifice; they were not the least interesting. It was always

the same good-natured petting from Lady Anwyll, as if she were a kitten

or a baby. She knew exactly what the conversation would be--gossip

about local trifles, about the family, especially Ponce, his boots, his

eccentricities, his pet dishes, his pranks in the regiment; the old tune

played over and over again on the same string. As to Ponce himself,

Franceline knew the big hussar already by heart; he would do his best to

be entertaining, and would only be awkward and commonplace. Nothing at

Rydal, in fact, rose above the dead-level of Dullerton.

The dowager had some few young people in for a carpet-dance, in which

Franceline had to take her part, and did without any repugnance. Dancing

brought back certain memories that pierced her like steel blades; but

her heart was proof against the thrusts, and she defied them to wound

her. Lord Roxham was invited, and showed himself cordial and friendly,

but nothing more. He said he had been called away to London soon after

they last met, or else he would have profited by M. de la Bourbonais’

permission to call at The Lilies; he hoped that the authorization might

still hold good.

“Oh! yes; do come. I shall be so glad to see you,” was the frank and

unaffected reply.

Lady Anwyll had meantime felt rather aggrieved at Lord Roxham’s behavior.

Her little scheme had gone off so swimmingly at first she could not

understand why it had suddenly collapsed in its prosperous course,

and come to a dead halt. At any rate, she would give him one more

chance. The young legislator seemed in no violent hurry to improve it.

He danced a couple of times with Franceline, and once with two other

young girls, and then subsided to dummy whist with the rector of Rydal

and his wife, leaving Franceline to the combined fascinations of Mr.

Charlton and Ponce, who usurped her between them. The latter bestowed

such an unequal share of a host’s courtesy on the young French girl,

indeed, that his mother felt it incumbent on her to explain to the other

young ladies that Mlle. de la Bourbonais was a foreigner; therefore

Ponce, being so good-natured, paid her particular attention. And he

certainly did--not only on that occasion, but while she remained. He

was continually hovering about her like a huge overshadowing bird

whose wings were always in the way of its movements. He tripped over

footstools in attempting to place them under her feet; but then he

was always so thankful that it was himself, not her, he nearly upset!

He spilt several cups of tea in handing them to her, and was nearly

overcome with gratitude when he saw the carpet had got the contents,

and that her pretty muslin frock was safe! He _would_ hold an umbrella

open over her because it looked so uncommonly like rain; and it was

such a mercy to have only spoiled her bonnet and made a hole in her

veil, when he might so easily have run the point into her eye. Ponce,

like many wiser men, had endless satisfaction in the contemplation of

the blunders he might have committed and did not. Yet, with all his

boyish awkwardness, Franceline was growing very fond of him. He was so

thoroughly kind-hearted, and so free from the taint of conceit; and then

there was an undeniable enjoyment in the sense of being cared for, and

thought of, and watched over; and it was all done in a naïve, boyish

way, and with a brotherly absence of compliment or constraint that left

her free to accept it without any sense of undue obligation, or the fear

of being called upon to repay it except by being pleased and grateful.

When he followed her into the conservatory with a shawl and wrapped it

round her unceremoniously, she looked up at his fresh, honest face, and

said, almost as if he had been a woman: “I wish I had you for a brother,

Captain Anwyll!” He got very red, and was fumbling somewhere in his mind

for an answer, when his mother called to him for the watering-pot; Ponce

seized it, and, dashing out a sudden shower-bath upon the dowager’s

dress, narrowly escaped drenching Franceline’s. But it did escape. What a

lucky dog he was!

How pleasant it was riding home in the fresh afternoon! Lady Anwyll came

in the carriage, while Franceline and Capt. Anwyll cantered on before.

Nothing was likely to have happened at The Lilies during her absence;

but as they drew near she grew impatient and rode at a pace, as if she

expected wonderful tidings at the ride’s end. The air was so clear that

Dullerton, yet a mile off, sent its hum of life towards the riders with

sharp distinctness. The panting of the train, as it moved out of the

station, sounded close by; every street cry and tinkling cart-bell rang

out like a chime. Soon the soft cooing of the doves came wafted above the

distant voice of the town; and when the travellers came within sight of

The Lilies, the flock flew to greet Franceline, wheeling round high up in

the air several times before alighting on her shoulders and outstretched

wrist. Then came her father’s delighted exclamation, as he hurried down

the little garden-walk, and Angélique’s affectionate embrace. And once

more the small, still home-life, that was so sweet and so rich in a

restored joy, recommenced. Franceline devoted hours every day now to

working with her father, and soon she became almost as much absorbed in

the work as he was. Sometimes, indeed, she hindered rather than helped,

stopping him in the midst of his dictation to demand an explanation; but

Raymond never chided her or grudged the delay. Her fresh young eyesight

and diligent, nimble hand were invaluable to him, and he wondered how he

had got on so long without them.

* * * * *

Lord Roxham redeemed his promise of calling at The Lilies. He talked

a good deal to Raymond about politics and current events, saying very

little to Franceline, who sat by, stitching away at some bit of plain

sewing. This was just what she liked. Her father was entertained and

interested. A breeze from the outer world always refreshed him, though

he was hardly conscious of it, still less of needing any such reviving

incident in his quiet, monotonous existence; but Franceline always hailed

it with thankfulness for him, and was well content to remain in the shade

now while the visitor devoted himself to amusing her father. Was it

fancy, or did she, on glancing up suddenly from her needle-work, detect

an expression, half compassionate, half searching, in Lord Roxham’s face,

as he looked fixedly at her? Whether it was fancy or not, her eyes fell

at once, and the blood mantled her cheek; she did not venture to let her

gaze light on him again, and it was with a sense of shyness that she

shook hands with him at parting.

Ponsonby Anwyll was now a frequent visitor at The Lilies, sometimes

coming alone, sometimes with Sir Simon; and it was a curious coincidence,

if quite accidental, that he generally made his appearance as Franceline

was on the point of starting for her ride; and as he was always on

horseback, there was no conceivable reason why he should not join the

party. The burly hussar was a safer companion in the saddle than in the

drawing-room; he rode with the masterly ease of a cavalryman, and, the

road being free from the disturbing influence of tea-trays and chairs,

he spilt nothing and upset nobody, and Franceline was always glad of

his company. She was too inexperienced and too much absorbed in other

thoughts to forecast any possible results from this state of things.

Ponsonby continued the same familiar, kind, brother-like manner to her;

was mightily concerned in keeping her out of the bad bits of road, and

out of the way of the cattle that might be tramping to market and prove

offensive to her mettlesome pony. He never aimed at making himself

agreeable, only useful. But the eyes of Dullerton looked on at all this

brotherly attention, and drew its own conclusion. The Langrove young

ladies, of whom somehow she had of late seen less than ever, grew excited

to the highest pitch about it, and were already discussing how many of

them would be bridemaids at the wedding, if bridemaids there were. Most

likely Sir Simon would settle that and probably give the dresses. Even

discreet Miss Merrywig could not forbear shaking her finger and her

barrel curls at Franceline one day when the latter hurried off to get

ready for her ride, with the excuse that Sir Simon and Capt. Anwyll were

due at three o’clock. But Franceline knew by this time what Dullerton

was, and what it could achieve in the way of gossip; spinning a yarn a

mile long out of a thread the length of your finger. She only laughed,

and mentally remarked how little people knew. They would be marrying her

to Sir Simon next, when Ponsonby rejoined his regiment and was seen no

more at her saddle-bow.

The three had set out for a ride one afternoon, when, as they were

dashing along at full tilt, Sir Simon pulled up with a strong formula of

exclamation.

“What’s the matter?” cried Sir Ponsonby, plunging back heavily, while

Franceline reined in Rosebud, and turned in some alarm to see what had

occurred.

“If I have not actually forgotten all about Simpson, who comes down from

London by appointment this afternoon! I dare say he’s waiting for me by

this, and he must return by the 5:20. I must leave you, and post home as

quick as Nero will carry me.” And with a “by-by” to Franceline and a nod

to Capt. Anwyll, coupled with an injunction not to let her ride too fast

and to keep her out of mischief, the baronet turned his horse’s head and

galloped away, desiring the groom to follow on with the others.

They went on at a good pace until they reached the foot of a gentle

ascent, when both of one accord fell into a walk. For the first time in

their intercourse Franceline was conscious of a certain vague awkwardness

with Capt. Anwyll; of casting about for something to say, and not finding

anything. The place was perfectly solitary, the woods on one side,

the fields sloping down to the river on the other. The groom lagged

respectfully a long way behind, quite out of ear-shot, often out of

sight; for the road curved and wheeled abruptly every now and then, and

hid the foremost riders from his view. Ponsonby broke the silence:

“Miss Franceline”--he would call her Miss Franceline, because it was

easier and shorter--“I have something on my mind that I want badly to say

to you. I’ve been wanting to say it for some time. I hope it won’t make

you angry?”

“I can’t say till I hear it; but if you are in doubt about it, perhaps

it would be safer not to say it,” remarked Franceline, beginning to

tremble ominously.

“I wouldn’t vex you for anything in the world! ’Pon my honor I wouldn’t!”

protested Ponce warmly. “But, you see, I don’t know whether what I’m

going to say will vex you or not.”

“Then don’t say it; you are sure not to vex me then,” was the encouraging

advice, and she devoutly hoped he would take it. But he was not so minded.

“That’s true,” he assented; “but then, you see, it might please you. I’m

half afraid it won’t, though, only I can’t be sure till I try.” After

musing a moment, in obvious perplexity, he resumed, speaking rapidly, as

if he had made up his mind to bolt it all out and take the consequences.

“I’m not a puppy--my worst enemy won’t accuse me of that; but I’m not a

bad fellow either, as my mother and all the fellows in the Tenth will

tell you; and the fact is, I’ve grown very fond of you, Miss Franceline,

and if you’ll take me as I am I’ll do my best to be a good husband to you

and to make you happy.”

He said it quickly, as if he were reciting a lesson got by heart, and

then came to a dead halt and “paused for a reply.” He might have paused

long enough, if he had not at last turned round and read his fate in

Franceline’s scared, white face and undisguised agitation.

“Oh! now, don’t say no before you think it over!” entreated the young

man. “I know you’re ten times too good for me; but, for that matter,

you’re too good for the best fellow that ever lived. I said so myself

to Sir Simon only this morning. But I do love you with all my heart,

Franceline; and if only you could care for me ever so little to begin

with, I’d be satisfied, and you’d make me the happiest man alive!”

Franceline had now recovered her self-possession, and was able to speak,

though she still trembled.

“I am so sorry!” she exclaimed. “I never dreamed of this; indeed I did

not! I dare say I have been very selfish, very thoughtless; but it was

not wilful. I am very unhappy to have given you pain!”

“Oh! don’t say that. You’ll make me miserable if you say that!” pleaded

Ponsonby. “Of course you never thought of it. It’s great impudence of me

to think of it, I have so little to offer you! But if you don’t quite

hate the sight of me, I’m sure I could make you a devoted husband, and

love you better than many a cleverer fellow. I’ve been fond of you from

the first, and so has my mother.”

“You are both very good to me; I am very, very grateful!” The tears

rose to her eyes, and with a frank, impulsive movement she held out her

hand to him. Ponsonby bent from the saddle and raised it to his lips,

although it was gloved. If he had not been over-sanguine at heart and a

trifle stupid, poor fellow, he would have felt that it was all over with

him. The little hand lay with cold, sisterly kindness in his grasp, and

Franceline looked at him with eyes that were too kind and pitying to

promise anything more than sisterly pity and gratitude.

“I cannot, I cannot. You must never think of it any more. Do you not see

that it is impossible? I am a Catholic!”

“Pshaw! as if that mattered a whit! I mean as if it need make any

difference between us! I don’t mind it a pin--’pon my honor I don’t!

I said so to the count. We’ve settled all that, in fact, and if he’s

satisfied to trust me why will not you?”

“Then you have spoken to my father?”

“Oh! yes; that was the right thing, Sir Simon told me, as he was a

Frenchman.”

“And what did he say to you?”

“He said that if you said yes, he was quite willing to give you to me. I

wanted to come to settlements at once--I only wish I was ten times better

off!--but he would not hear a word about that until I had consulted you.

Only, he said he would be glad to receive me as his son; he did indeed,

Franceline!” She was looking straight before her, her eyes dilated, her

whole face aglow with some strong emotion that his words seemed to have

stirred in her.

“You remember,” continued Ponsonby, “that you said to me once you

would like to have me for a brother? Well, it will be nearly the same

thing. You would get used to me as a husband after a while; you would,

Franceline!”

“Never, never, never!” she repeated, not passionately, but with a calm

emphasis that made Ponsonby’s heart die within him. He could not find a

word to oppose to the strong, quiet protest.

“No, it is all a mistake,” said Franceline. “I don’t know who is to

blame--I suppose I am. I should not have let you come so often; but you

were so kind, and I have so few people to care for me; and when one is

sad at heart, kindness is so welcome! But I should have thought of you; I

have been selfish!”

“No, no, you have not been selfish at all; it’s all my doing and my

fault,” affirmed the young man. “I wish I had held my tongue a little

longer. My mother will come and see you to-morrow; she will explain it

all, and how it sha’n’t make any trouble to you, my being a Protestant.”

“She must not come,” said Franceline with decision; “there is nothing

to explain. I am sincerely grateful to her and to you; but I have only

gratitude to give you. I hope with all my heart that you may soon forget

me and any pain I am causing you, and that you may meet with a wife who

will make you happier than I could have done.”

Ponsonby was silent for a few moments, and then he said, speaking with a

certain hesitation and diffidence:

“I could be satisfied to wait and to go on hoping, if I were sure of one

thing:… that you did not care for anybody else. Do you?”

She flashed a glance of indignant pride at him.

“What right have you to put such a question to me? I tell you I do not

care for you, and that I will never marry you! You have no right to ask

me any more.”

Ponsonby recoiled as if a flash of lightning had forked out of the cold,

gray sky. “Good heavens! I did not mean to offend you. I declare solemnly

I did not!”

But he had touched a vibrating chord unawares, and set every fibre in her

heart thrilling and every pulse throbbing; and the disturbance was not to

be laid by any words that he could utter. Franceline turned homewards,

and they did not exchange a word until they reached The Lilies and

Ponsonby was assisting her to alight.

“Say you forgive me!” he said, speaking very low and penitently.

She had already forgiven him but not herself.

“I do, and I am sorry for being so impetuous. Good-by!”

“And my mother may come and see you to-morrow?”

“No, no! It is no use; it is no use! I say again I wish you were my

brother, Sir Ponsonby, but, as you care to remain my friend, never speak

to me again of this.”

He pressed the hand she held out to him; the groom backed up to take the

reins of her horse, and Ponsonby rode away with a thorn in his honest

heart.

Miss Merrywig was within, chatting and laughing away with the count.

Franceline was not in a mood to meet the garrulous old lady or anybody;

so she went straight to her room, and only came down when the visitor was

gone.

“Father,” she said, going up behind him and laying a hand on each

shoulder, “what is this Sir Ponsonby tells me? That you are tired of your

_clair-de-lune_, and want to get rid of her?”

M. de la Bourbonais drew down the two trembling hands, and clasped them

on his breast, and lifted his head as if he would look at her.

“It would not be losing her, but gaining a son, who would take care of

her when I am gone! She has not thought of that!”

“No; and she does not wish to think of it! I will live with you while I

live. I don’t care to look beyond that; nor must you, petit père. But I

am very sorry for Sir Ponsonby. You must write and tell him so, and that

he must not come any more--until he has forgotten me; that you cannot

give me up.”

“My cherished one! Let us talk about this matter; it is very serious. We

must not do anything rashly.” He tried to unclasp her hands and draw her

to his side; but she locked them tighter, and laid her cheek on his head.

“Petit père, there is nothing to talk about; I will never marry him or

anybody!”

“My child, thou speakest without reflection. Captain Anwyll is a good,

honorable man, and he loves thee, and it would be a great comfort to me

to see thee married to him, and not to leave thee friendless and almost

penniless whenever God calls me away. I understand it has taken thee by

surprise, and that thou canst not accept the idea without some delay and

getting used to it; but we must not decide so important a matter hastily.

Come, sit down, and let us discuss it.”

“No, father,” she answered in a tone of determination that was quite

foreign to her now, and reminded him of the wilful child of long ago;

“there is no use in discussing what is already decided. I will never

marry Ponsonby--or anybody. Why, petit père, do you forget that he is a

Protestant?”

“Nay, I have forgotten nothing; that has been all arranged. He is most

liberal about it; consents to leave you to … to have everything your own

way in that respect, and assures me that it shall make no difference

whatever to you, his not being of your religion.”

“No difference, father! No difference to a wife that her husband should

be a heretic! You cannot be in earnest. What blessing could there be on

such a marriage?”

“But you would soon convert him, my little one; you would make a good

Catholic of him before the year was out,” said M. de la Bourbonais.

“Think of that!”

“And suppose it were the other way, and that he made a good Protestant

of me? It is no more than I should deserve for my presumption. You know

what happens to those who seek the danger.…”

“Oh! that is a different thing; that warning applies to those who seek

it rashly, from vain or selfish motives,” protested Raymond, moving his

spectacles, as he always did instinctively when his argument was weak;

and he knew right well that now it was slipping into sophistry.

“I cannot see anything but a selfish motive in marrying against the

express prohibition of the church and without any affection for the

person, but simply because he could give you a position and the good

things of this life,” said Franceline.

“The prohibition is conditional,” persisted Raymond, “and those

conditions would be scrupulously fulfilled; and as to there not being the

necessary affection, there is enough on his side for both, and his love

would soon beget thine.”

“Father, it is no use. I am grieved to contradict you; but I cannot,

cannot do this to please you. You must write and say so to Capt. Anwyll;

you must indeed.”

Raymond heaved a sigh. He felt as powerless as an infant before this new

wilfulness of his _clair-de-lune_; it was foolish as well as imprudent to

yield, but he did not know how to deal with it. There was honest truth

on her side; no subterfuges could baffle the instinctive logic of her

childlike faith.

“We will let things remain as they are for a few days, and then, if thou

dost still insist, I will write and refuse the offer,” he said, seeking a

last chance in temporizing.

“No, petit père; if you love me, write at once. It is only fair to Sir

Ponsonby, and it will set my mind at rest. Here, let me find you a pen!”

She chose one out of a number of inky goose-quills on the little Japan

tray, and thrust it playfully between his fingers.

The letter was written, and Angélique was forthwith despatched with it to

the pillar at the park gate.

During the remainder of the afternoon Franceline worked away diligently

at the Causes of the French Revolution, and spent the evening reading

aloud. But M. de la Bourbonais could not so lightly dismiss the day’s

incident from his thoughts. He had experienced a moment of pure joy and

unutterable thankfulness when Ponsonby had come in and stammered out

his honest confession of love, and pleaded so humbly with the father to

“take his part with Miss Franceline.” The pleasure was all the greater

for being a complete surprise. Sir Simon had cautiously resolved to

have no hand in negotiating between the parties; he had let things take

their course from the first, determined not to interfere, but clearly

foreseeing the issue. Raymond was bewildered by Franceline’s rejection

of the proposed marriage. He did not try much to explain it to himself;

it was a puzzle that did not come within the rule and compass of his

philosophy--a young girl refusing to be married when an eligible husband

presented himself for her father’s acceptance. He heaved many a deep sigh

over it, as his anxious gaze rested on the golden-haired young head bent

over the desk. But he did not ask any questions.

Sir Simon came down next morning in high displeasure. He was angry,

disappointed, aggrieved. Here he had been at considerable pains of

ingenuity and forethought to provide a model husband for Franceline,

a young fellow whom any girl ought to jump at--high-principled,

unencumbered rent-roll, good-looking, good-tempered--and the little

minx turns up her nose at him, and sends him to the right-about! Such

perverseness and folly were not to be tolerated. What did she mean by it?

What did she see amiss in Anwyll? Sir Simon was for having her up for a

round lecture. But Raymond would not allow this. He might groan in his

inmost heart over Franceline’s refusal, but he was not going to let her

be bullied by anybody; not even by Sir Simon. He stood up for his child,

and defended her as if he had fully approved of her conduct.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Bourbonais, you’re just as great a fool as

she is; only she is a child, and knows nothing of life, and can’t see

the madness of what she is doing. But you ought to know better. I have

no patience with you. When one thinks of what this marriage would do for

both of you--lifting you out of penury, restoring your daughter to her

proper position in the world, and securing her future, so that, if you

were called away to-morrow, you need have no care or anxiety about her!

And to think of your backing her up in rejecting it all!”

“I did not back her up in it. I deplore her having done so,” replied

Raymond. “But I will not coerce her; her happiness is dearer to me than

her interest or my own.”

“What tomfoolery! As if her interest and her happiness were not identical

in this case! A man who is fond of her, and rich enough to give her

everything in life a girl could wish for! What does she want besides?”

demanded Sir Simon angrily.

“I believe she wants nothing, except to be left with her old father. She

does not care for Capt. Anwyll,” said Raymond; but his French mind felt

this was very weak argument.

“The devil she doesn’t! Who does she care for?” retorted the baronet.

But he had no sooner uttered the words than he regretted them; they

seemed to recoil on him like a stone flung too near. He seized his hat,

and, muttering impatiently something about the nonsense of giving into

childish fancies, etc., strode out of the cottage, and did not show

himself there for several days.

He was pursued by that question of his own, “Who did Franceline care

for?” and made uncomfortable by the persistency with which it kept

dinning in his ears. He had made up his mind long ago that the failure

of his first matrimonial plot had had no serious effect on her heart or

spirits. She was looking very delicate when he came back, but that was

the dulness of the life she had been leading during his absence. She

had picked up considerably since then. It was plain to everybody she

had; her spirits were better. There was certainly nothing wrong in that

direction. How could there be when he, Sir Simon, so thoroughly desired

the contrary, and did so much to cheer up the child--and himself into

the bargain--and make her forget any impression that unlucky Clide might

have made? Still, no matter how emphatically he answered it, the tiresome

question kept sounding in his ears day after day. He could stand it no

longer. He must go and see them at The Lilies--see Franceline, and read

on her innocent young face that all was peace within, and cheer up his

own depressed spirits by a talk with Raymond. Nobody listened to him and

sympathized with him as Raymond did. He had no worries of his own to

distract him, for one thing; and if he had, he was such a philosophical

being he would carry them to the moon and leave them there. Sir Simon was

blessed with no such happy faculty. He could forget his troubles for a

while under the stimulating balm of cheerful society and generous wine;

but as soon as he was alone they were down on him like an army of ants,

stinging and goading him. Things were very gloomy just now, and he could

less than ever dispense with the opiate of sympathetic companionship.

Lady Rebecca had taken a fresh start, and was less likely to depart than

she had been for the last ten years. The duns, who watched her ladyship’s

fluctuations between life and death with almost as sincere and breathless

an interest as her heir, had got wind of this, and were up and at him

again, hunting him like a hare--the low, grasping, insolent hounds! His

revived money annoyances made him the more irascible with Franceline for

throwing away her chance of being for ever saved and protected from the

like. But he would harp no more on that string.

He had been into Dullerton on horseback, and, overtaking the postman on

his way home, he stopped to take his letters, and then asked if there

were any for The Lilies. He was going there, and would save the postman

the walk that far.

“Thank you, sir! There is one for the count.” And the man held up a large

blue envelope, like a lawyer’s letter, which Sir Simon thrust into his

pocket. He left his horse at the Court, and walked on through the park,

reading his letters as he went. Their contents were not of the most

agreeable, to judge by the peevish and angry ejaculations that the reader

emitted in the course of their perusal. He had not done when he reached

the cottage.

“Here’s a letter for you, Bourbonais; I’ll finish mine while you’re

reading it.” He handed the blue envelope to his friend, and, flinging

himself into a chair, became again absorbed and ejaculatory.

M. de la Bourbonais, meanwhile, proceeded to open his official-looking

communication. He surveyed it with uplifted eyebrows, examined well the

large red seal, and scrutinized the handwriting of the address, before

he tore it open. His eye ran quickly over the page. A nervous twitch

contracted his features; his hand shook as if a string at his elbow had

been rudely pulled; but he controlled all further sign of emotion, and,

after reading the contents twice over, silently folded the letter and

replaced it in the envelope. Sir Simon had seen nothing; he was deep in

suppressed denunciations of some rascally dun.

“Hang me if I know what’s to be the end of it, or the end of me--an ounce

of lead in my skull, most likely!” he burst out, ramming the bundle of

offending documents into his coat-pocket. “The brutes are in league to

drive me mad!”

“Has anything new happened?” inquired the count anxiously. “I hoped

things had arranged themselves of late?”

“Not they! How can they when these vampires are sucking the blood of one?

It’s pretty much like sucking a corpse!” he laughed sardonically. “The

fools! If they would but have sense to see that it is their own interest

not to drive me to desperation! But they will goad me to do something

that will make an end of their chance of ever being paid!”

M. de la Bourbonais ought to have been hardened to this sort of thing;

but he was not. The vague threats and dark innuendoes always alarmed

him. He never knew but that each crisis which called them out might be

the supreme one that would bring about their fulfilment. At such moments

he had not the heart to rebuke Sir Simon and add the bitterness of

self-reproach to his excited feelings. His look of keen distress struck

Sir Simon with compunction.

“Oh! it will blow off, as it has done so often before, I suppose,” he

said, tossing his head. “Here’s a letter from L---- to say he is coming

down next week with a whole houseful of men to shoot. I’ve not seen

L---- for an age. He’s a delightful fellow; he’ll cheer one up.” And the

baronet heaved a sigh from the very depths of his afflicted spirit.

“Mon cher, is it wise to be asking down crowds of people in this way?”

asked Raymond dubiously.

“I did not ask them! Don’t I tell you they have written to invite

themselves?”

It was true; but Sir Simon forgot how often he had besought his friends

to do just what they were now doing--to write and say when they could

come, and to bring as many as they liked with them. That had always been

the way at the Court; and he was not the man to belie its old traditions.

But Raymond, who had also his class of noble traditions, could not see

it.

“Why not write frankly, and, without explaining the precise motive, say

that you cannot at present receive any one?”

Sir Simon gave an impatient pshaw!

“Nonsense, my dear Bourbonais, nonsense! As if a few fellows more or less

signified that”--snapping his fingers--“at the end of the year! Besides,

what the deuce is the good of having a place at all, if one can’t have

one’s friends about one in it? Better shut up at once. It’s the only

compensation a man has; the only thing that pulls him through. And then

the pheasants are there, and must be shot. I can’t shoot them all. But

it’s no use trying to make you take an Englishman’s view of the case. You

simply can’t do it.”

M. de la Bourbonais agreed, and inwardly hoped he never might come to see

the case as his friend did. But, notwithstanding this, Sir Simon went on

discussing his own misfortunes, denouncing the rascality and rapacity of

the modern tradesman, and bemoaning the good old times when the world was

a fit place for a gentleman to live in. When he had sufficiently relieved

his mind on the subject, and drew breath, M. de la Bourbonais poured what

oil of comfort he could on his friend’s wounds. He spoke confidently

of the ultimate demise of Lady Rebecca, and expressed equal trust in

the powers of Mr. Simpson to perform once again the meteorological feat

known to Sir Simon as “raising the wind.” Under the influence of these

soothing abstractions the baronet cheered up, and before long Richard

was himself again. He overhauled Raymond’s latest work; read aloud some

notes on Mirabeau which Franceline had taken down at his dictation the

previous evening, and worked himself into a frenzy of indignation at the

historian’s partiality for that thundering demagogue. Raymond waxed warm

in defence of his hero; maintained that at heart Mirabeau had wished to

save the king; and almost lost his philosophical self-control when Sir

Simon called him the master-knave of the Revolution, a traitor and a

bully, and other hard names to the same effect.

“I wash my hands of you, if you are going to play panegyrist to that

pock-marked ruffian!” was the baronet’s concluding remark; and he

flung out his hands, as if he were shaking the contamination from his

fingers. Suddenly his eye fell upon the great blue letter, and, abruptly

dismissing Mirabeau, he said: “By the way, what a formidable document

that is that I brought you just now! Has it anything to do with the

Revolution?”

Raymond shook his head and smothered a rising sigh.

“It has been as good as a revolution to me, at any rate.”

“My dear Bourbonais, what is it? Nothing seriously amiss, I hope?”

exclaimed Sir Simon, full of alarmed interest.

The count took up the letter and handed it to him.

“Good heavens! Bankrupt! Can pay nothing! How much had you in it?”

“Nearly two hundred--the savings of the last fourteen years,” replied M.

de la Bourbonais calmly.

“My dear fellow, I’m heartily sorry!” exclaimed his friend in an accent

of sincere distress; “with all my heart I’m sorry! And to think of

you having read this and said nothing, and I raving away about my own

troubles like a selfish dog as I am! Why did you not tell me at once?”

“What good would it have done?” Raymond shrugged his shoulders, and with

another involuntary sigh threw the letter on the table. “It’s hard,

though. I was so little prepared for it; the house bore such a good

name.…”

“I should have said it was the safest bank in the country. So it was,

very likely; only one did not reckon with the dishonesty of this scheming

villain of a partner--if it be true that he is the cause of it.”

“No doubt it is; why should they tell lies about it? The whole affair

will be in the papers one of these days, I suppose.”

“And you can stand there and not curse the villain!”

“What good would cursing him do? It would not bring back my poor

scrapings.” Raymond laughed gently. “I dare say his own conscience will

curse him before long--the unhappy man! But who knows what terrible

temptation may have driven him to the deed? Perhaps he got into some

difficulty that nothing else could extricate him from, and he may have

had a wife and children pulling at his conscience by his heart-strings!

Libera nos a malo, Domine!” And looking upwards, Raymond sighed again.

“What a strange being you are, Raymond!” exclaimed Sir Simon, eyeing him

curiously. “Verily, I believe your philosophy is worth something after

all.”

M. de la Bourbonais laughed outright. “Well, it’s worth nearly the money

to have brought you to that!”

“To see you stand there coolly and philosophize about the motives that

may possibly have led an unprincipled scoundrel to rob you of every penny

you possessed! Many a man has got a fit from less.”

“Many a fool, perhaps; but it would be a poor sort of man that such

a blow would send into a fit!” returned the count with mild contempt.

“But I must not be forgetful of the difference of conditions,” he added

quickly. “It all depends on what the money is worth to one, and what its

loss involves. I don’t want it at present. It was a little hoard for the

rainy day; and--qui sait?--the rainy day may never come!”

“No; Franceline may marry a rich man,” suggested the baronet, not with

any intent to wound.

“Just so! I may never want the money, and so never be the poorer for

losing it.”

“And supposing there was at this moment some pressing necessity for

it--that your child was in absolute need of it for some reason or

other--what then?” queried Sir Simon.

Raymond winced and started imperceptibly, as if a pain went through him.

“Thank heaven there is no necessity to answer that,” he said. “We were

taught to pray to be delivered from temptation; let us be thankful when

we are, and not set imaginary traps for ourselves.”

“Some men are, I believe, born proof against temptation; I should say you

are one of them, Bourbonais,” said his friend, looking steadily at him.

“You are mistaken,” replied Raymond quietly. “I don’t know whether any

human being may be born with that sort of fire-proof covering; but I

know for certain that I was not.”

“Can you, then, conceive yourself under a pressure of temptation so

strong as that your principles, your conscience, would give way? Can

you imagine yourself telling a deliberate lie, for instance, or doing a

deliberate wrong to some one, in order to save yourself--or, better, your

child--from some grievous harm?”

Raymond thought for a moment, as if he were poising a balance in his

mind before he answered; then he said, speaking with slow emphasis, as

if every word was being weighed in the scales: “Yes, I can fancy myself

giving way, if, at such a crisis as you describe, I were left to myself,

with only my own strength to lean on; but I hope I should not be left to

it. I hope I should ask to be delivered from it.”

The humility of the avowal went further to deepen Sir Simon’s faith in

his friend’s integrity and in the strength of his principles than the

boldest self-assertion could have done. It informed him, too, of the

existence of a certain ingredient in Raymond’s philosophy which the

careless and light-hearted man of the world had not till then suspected.

“One thing I know,” he said, taking up his hat, and extending a hand to

M. de la Bourbonais: “if your conscience were ever to play you false, it

would make an end of my faith in all mankind--and in something more.”

TO BE CONTINUED.

QUESTIONS CONCERNING THE SYLLABUS.

DOCTRINAL AUTHORITY OF THE SYLLABUS.

FROM LES ETUDES RELIGIEUSES, ETC.

We enter on a work whose practical usefulness no one, we suspect, will

dispute, since it concerns perhaps the most memorable act of the reign

of Pius IX.--the Syllabus. There has been a great deal of discussion

about the Syllabus--much has been written on it in the way both of attack

and defence--but it is remarkable that it has scarcely been studied at

all. The remark was made by one of the editors of this review, Father

Marquigny, in the General Congress of Catholic Committees at Paris;

and, so true was it felt to be, that it provoked the approving laughter

of the whole assembly. But to pass by those who busy themselves about

this document without having read it, how many are there, even among

Catholics, who, after having read it, have only the most vague and

confused notions about it--how many who, if they were asked, “What does

the Syllabus teach you; what does it make obligatory on you?” would not

know what to answer! Thus is man constituted. He skims willingly over the

surface of things; but he has no fancy for stopping awhile and digging

underneath. If he is pleased with looking at a great many things, he does

not equally concern himself to gain knowledge; because there is no true

science without labor, and labor is troublesome. Yet nothing could be

more desirable for him than to come by this luminous entrance from the

knowledge to the possession of truth. Christian faith, when it is living

and active, necessarily experiences the desire of it; for, according to

the beautiful saying of S. Anselm, it is, by its very nature, a seeker of

science--of knowing: _Fides quærens intellectum_.

But, not to delay ourselves by these considerations, is it possible to

exaggerate the importance of the study of the Syllabus in the critical

circumstances in which we are placed? The uncertainty of the future; the

impossibility of discovering a satisfactory course in the midst of the

shadows which surround us; the need of knowing what to seize a firm hold

of in the formidable problems whose obscurity agitates, in these days,

the strongest minds; above all, the furious assaults of the enemies of

the church, and the authority belonging to a solemn admonition coming

to us from the chair of truth--all these things teach us plainly enough

how culpable it must be for us to remain indifferent and to neglect the

illumination offered to us. The teachings of the Vicar of Jesus Christ

deserve to be meditated on at leisure. It is this which inspires us with

a hope that our work will be favorably received. Truth, moreover, claims

the services of all, even of the feeblest, and we must not desert her

cause for fear our ability may not suffice for her defence.

Certainly, no one will expect us, here, to give an analytical exposition

of the eighty propositions condemned by Pius IX. Several numbers of the

_Etudes_ would scarcely suffice for that. General questions dominate

all others; it is to the careful solution of these that we shall devote

ourselves. They have always appeared to us to need clear and decisive

explanation. Often they are incorrectly proposed, oftener still they

are ill-defined. The object of our efforts will be to point out with

precision the limits within which they must be restrained, the sense

in which they must be accepted, and their necessary import; then, to

give them, as clearly as we are able, a solution the most sure and the

most conformable to first principles. If it should be objected that in

this we are entering on a wide theological field, we shall not deny it.

Proudhon, who desired anarchy in things, in principles--everywhere, in

fact, except in reasoning--averred that rigorous syllogism lands us

inevitably at theology. How, then, would it be possible not to find it

in the Syllabus? They, on the other hand, who are unceasing in their

violent attacks on this pontifical act, are they not the first to provoke

theological discussions? We are compelled to take their ground. As Mgr.

Dupanloup judiciously observed, in his pamphlet on the Encyclical of the

8th December: “It is needful to recur to first principles in a time when

thousands of men, and of women even, in France talk theology from morning

to night without knowing much about it.”

The first and fundamental question to be determined is: What is the

precise weight to be ascribed to the Syllabus, or, rather, what is its

doctrinal authority? On the manner in which we reply to this depends the

solution of numerous practical difficulties which interest consciences,

and which have more than once been the subject of the polemic of the

journals themselves. For example, are the decisions of the Syllabus

unchangeable; is it not possible that they should be modified some day;

is it certain they will never be withdrawn; are Catholics obliged to

accept them as an absolute rule of their beliefs, or may they content

themselves with doing nothing exteriorly in opposition to them? It is

understood, in fact, that if we are in presence of an act wherein the

successor of S. Peter exercises his sovereign and infallible authority,

the doctrine is irrevocably, eternally, fixed without possible recall;

and, by an inevitable corollary, the most complete submission, not of

the heart only, but also of the intelligence, becomes an obligation

binding on the conscience of the Catholic which admits of no reserve or

subterfuge. If, on the contrary, the step taken by the Pope is merely

an act of good administration or discipline, the door remains open for

hopes of future changes, the constraint imposed on the minds of men in

the interior forum is much less rigorous; a caviller would remain in

Catholic unity provided that, with the respectful silence so dear to the

Jansenists, he should also practise proper obedience. Now, the question,

in the terms in which we have stated it, although treated of at various

times by writers of merit, has not always been handled in a complete

manner. Writers have been too often contented with generalities, with

approaching only the question, and nothing has been precisely determined.

Some have asserted, with much energy, the necessity of this submission,

but they have not sufficiently defined its extent and nature. Others

have dwelt upon the deference and profound respect with which every

word of the Holy Father should be received, but, not having given any

further explanation, they have left us without the necessary means

for ascertaining what precisely they intended. Others have ventured

to insinuate that the Syllabus was perhaps merely an admonition, a

paternal advice benevolently given to some rash children, to which such

as are docile are happy to conform, without feeling themselves under

the absolute necessity of adopting it. Others, more adventurous still,

have been unwilling to see more in it than a mere piece of information,

an indication. According to these, Pius IX., wishing to notify to all

the bishops of Christendom his principal authoritative acts since the

commencement of his pontificate, had caused a list of them to be drawn

out, and to be forwarded to them. The Syllabus was this illustrious

catalogue, neither more nor less.

Is there any excuse to be found for this indecision on one hand,

presumption on the other? We do not think so; but they do, we must

confess, admit of a plausible explanation. And here, let it be observed,

we come to the very marrow of the difficulty. The Syllabus was drawn

out in an unusual form. It resembles no pontifical documents hitherto

published. When, in other times, the sovereign pontiffs wished to

stigmatize erroneous propositions, they did not content themselves

with reproducing the terms of them, in order to mark them out for the

reprobation of the people. They were always careful to explain the

motives of the judgment they delivered, and above all to formulate

with clearness and precision the judgment itself. Invariably, the

texts they singled out for condemnation were preceded by grave and

weighty words, wherein were explained the reasons for and the nature of

the condemnation. In the Syllabus, there is nothing of the kind. The

propositions, stated without commentary, are classified and distributed

under general titles; at the end of each of them we read the indication

of the Encyclical Letter, or pontifical Allocution, in which it had been

previously rebuked. For the rest, there is no preamble, no conclusion,

no discourse revealing the mind or intention of the pontiff, unless it

be the following words, inscribed at the head of the document, and which

we here give both in the Latin and in English: _Syllabus complectens

præcipuos nostræ ætatis errores, qui notantur in Allocutionibus

consistorialibus, in Encyclicis, aliisque Apostolicis Litteris

sanctissimi Domini Papæ Pii IX._--Table, or synopsis, containing the

principal errors of our epoch, noted in the consistorial Allocutions, the

Encyclicals, and other Apostolic Letters of our most Holy Father, Pope

Pius IX.

We may add, that nowhere does the Pope formally express an intention

of connecting the Syllabus with the bull _Quanta cura_, although he

issued them both on the same day, at the same hour, under the same

circumstances, and upon the same subjects. He left it to the public

common sense and to the faith of Christians to decide whether these two

acts are to be taken together, or whether they are to be considered as

isolated acts having no common tie between them.

Such are the facts. Minds, either troubled or prejudiced, or, may be,

too astute, have drawn from them consequences which, if we lay aside

accessory details of not much importance here, we may reduce to two

principal ones.

It has been stated--and they who hold this language form, as it were,

the extreme group of opposers--that the Apostolic Letters mentioned in

the Syllabus are the only documents which have authoritative force; that

the latter, on the contrary, has no proper weight of its own--absolutely

none, whether as a dogmatic definition, or as a disciplinary measure,

or even as a moral and intellectual direction. To these assertions, not

a little hazardous, have been added others whose rashness would fain be

hidden under the veil of rhetorical artifices. We will lift the veil, and

expose the naked assertions. The meaning of the Syllabus, it is stated,

must not be looked for in the Syllabus, but in the pontifical letters

whence it is drawn. The study of the letters may be useful; not only is

that of the Syllabus not so, but it is dangerous, because it often leads

to lamentable exaggerations. To know the true doctrines of Rome, we must

search the letters for them, not the Syllabus. In fact, to sum up all in

a few words, as a condemnation of error and a manifestation of truth, the

letters are all, the Syllabus nothing.

The other group, which we may describe as the moderates, knows how to

guard itself against excess. It does not diminish the authority of the

Syllabus to the extent of annihilation. Very far from it--it recognizes

it and proclaims it aloud; but, struck with the peculiar form given

to the act, it asserts that it is impossible to discover in it the

marks of a dogmatic definition, and, to borrow a stock expression, of

a definition _ex cathedra_. The Syllabus, it is said, is undoubtedly

something by itself--to deny it would be ridiculous and absurd. It has a

weight of its own; who would venture to dispute it? It may be termed, if

you please, an universal law of the church, so only that its pretensions

be not carried further, and that it does not claim to be considered an

infallible decision of the Vicar of Jesus Christ.

What, then, have we to do but to demonstrate that the Syllabus is

by itself, and independently of the pontifical acts which supply

the matter of it, a veritable teaching; that this teaching obliges

consciences because it issues from the infallible authority of the head

of the church? We shall not have omitted, it seems to us, any of the

considerations calculated to throw light on this important subject if,

after having thus followed it through all its windings and discussed all

its difficulties, we succeed in illustrating the triple character of the

pontifical act--its doctrinal character, its obligatory character, and

its character of infallibility.

To assert that Pius IX., when he denounced with so much firmness to the

Christian world the errors of our time, did not propose to teach us

anything, that he had no intention of instructing us, was, even at the

time of the appearance of the Syllabus, to advance a sufficiently hardy

paradox; but to state it, to maintain it, at this time of day, when we

are the fortunate witnesses of the effects produced by that immortal

act, is to speak against evidence. Undoubtedly--we stated it at the

commencement--the Syllabus is not sufficiently known nor sufficiently

studied. Little known as it may be, however, it cannot be denied that

it has already set right many ideas, and corrected and enlightened

many minds. Thanks to it, not learned men only and those who are close

observers of events, but Catholics generally, perceive more clearly the

dangers with which certain doctrines threaten their faith. They have been

warned, they keep themselves on their guard, they see more distinctly

the course they must follow and the shoals they must avoid. Pius IX. has

lighted a torch and placed it in their hands.

That being the case, what is the use of playing with words, as if

vain subtleties could destroy the striking evidence of this fact?

Let them say, as often as they please, “The Syllabus is only a

list, a catalogue, a table of contents, a memorial of previously

condemned propositions”--what good will they have done? What matter

these denominations, more or less disrespectful, if it be otherwise

demonstrated that this list, catalogue, or table of contents explains

to us exactly what we must believe or reject, and is imposed upon us

as a rule to which we owe subjection. The imprudent persons who speak

thus would seem never to have studied the monuments of our beliefs. Had

they considered their nature more attentively, would they have allowed

themselves to indulge in such intemperance of language? If they would

more closely examine them, their illusions would soon be dissipated. Are

not all the series of propositions condemned by the Popes, veritable

lists? Did not Martin V. and the Council of Constance, Leo X. and S.

Pius V., when they smote with their anathemas the errors of Wycliffe,

John Huss, Luther, Baïus, draw out catalogues? Are not the canons of

our councils tables in which are inscribed an abridgment, summary,

or epitome of the impious doctrines of heretics? Is not every solemn

definition, every symbol of the faith, a memorial designed to remind the

Christian what he is obliged to believe? It is, then, useless to shelter

one’s self behind words of doubtful meaning, and which can only perplex

the mind without enlightening it. It is to assume gratuitously the air of

men who wish to deceive others and to deceive themselves. What is the use

of it?

They are much mistaken who imagine themselves to be proposing a serious

difficulty when they demand how the Syllabus, which, before its

publication, existed already in the letters of the Holy Father, can

possibly teach us anything new? Let us, for the sake of argument, since

they ask it, reduce it to the humble _rôle_ of echo or reverberator, if

we may be pardoned such expressions. Let us suppose that its whole action

consists in repeating what has been already said. We ask if an echo does

not often convey to the ear a sound which, without it, would not have

been heard--if it does not sometimes send back the sound stronger, more

resounding, and even more distinct than the original voice? It is not a

new voice it brings to us. Be it so. But it does bring it to us in fact,

and is able to give it to us again fuller and more sonorous.

Comparison, it is true, is not reason. We will therefore abandon the

redundancy of figurative language, and reply directly to the question

put to us. What is wanted is to know what the Syllabus is in itself,

independently of the pontifical letters which are its original sources.

It is as follows:

It is, at least, a new promulgation, more universal, more authentic,

and therefore more efficacious, of previous condemnations. Now, it is

well known, it is a maxim of law, that a second promulgation powerfully

confirms and, in case of need, supersedes the first. The history of

human legislation is full of instances of this. When, by reason of the

negligence of men, of the difficulty of the times, of the inconstancy

or waywardness of peoples, a law has fallen into partial neglect and

oblivion, they in whom the sovereign power resides re-establish its

failing authority by promulgating it anew. It revives thus, and if it has

been defunct it receives a second life. What can the greater number of

Christians know of so many scattered condemnations, buried, one may say,

in the voluminous collection of pontifical encyclicals, if the Syllabus

had not revealed them? How could they respect them, how obey them? It was

necessary that they should hear them resound, in a manner, a second time,

in the utterance of the great Pontiff, in order to be able to submit anew

to their authority, and to resume a yoke of which many of them did not

know the very existence. The salvation of the church required this.

The Syllabus is, however, not only a new promulgation, it is often a

luminous interpretation of the original documents to which it relates;

an interpretation at times so necessary that, should it disappear,

from that moment the meaning of those documents would become, on many

points, obscure or at least doubtful. It is worthy of remark that in

order to deny the doctrinal value of the Syllabus the following fact

is relied on--that it is unaccompanied with any explanation, with any

reflections. “It is a dry nomenclature,” it has been said, “of which we

cannot determine either the character or the end.” Now, it happens to

be exactly here that brevity has brought forth light. The eighty-four

propositions, in fact, isolated from their context, appear to us more

exact, in stronger relief, more decidedly drawn. One may perceive that in

the bulls their forms were, as yet, slightly indistinct; here they detach

themselves vividly, and with remarkable vigor. And we wish that all our

readers were able to judge of this for themselves. They would better

understand, possibly, wherefore certain men insist with so much energy

on our abandoning the Syllabus and applying ourselves exclusively to the

sources--an excellent mode of preventing certain questions from becoming

too clear.

We will cite a few examples in illustration of our argument.

The second paragraph of the Syllabus has for its object the condemnation

of _moderate rationalism_. Some of the seven propositions contained in

it reproduce the doctrine of a man little known in France, but much

thought of in Germany--a kind of independent Catholic, who, before he

opposed himself to the church, from which he is now, we believe, quite

separated, having transferred his allegiance to the pastoral staff of the

aged Reinkens, wrote some works destined to sow among the students of

the university of Munich the damaged grain of infidel science. We allude

to M. Froschammer, a canon who has lost his hood, professor of misty

philosophy, as befits a doctor on the other side of the Rhine. Pius IX.

rebuked his errors in a letter addressed to the Archbishop of Munich the

12th December, 1862. We will lay aside the Syllabus, and take merely the

letter. We shall find in it only the condemnation of M. Froschammer and

his works; nothing whatever else. But who, in this our country, France,

has ever opened the works of M. Froschammer? The Catholic Frenchman

who might read the letter of Pius IX. knowing nothing of the condemned

works, would say to himself: “This Munich professor has doubtless written

according to his own fancy; he must have been rash, as every good German

is bound to be who loses himself in the shadowy mazes of metaphysics.

After all, there is nothing to show that he has written exactly my

opinions. Why should I trouble myself about the letter of Pius IX.? It

does not concern me.”

Another example. In Paragraph X. we find the same principle of modern

liberalism enunciated in the following manner: “In this our age, it is no

longer expedient that the Catholic religion should be considered as the

only religion of the state, to the exclusion of all others.” “Ætate hac

nostra, non amplius expedit religionem Catholicam haberi, tanquam unicam

status religionem, cæteris quibuscumque cultibus exclusis.” The document

to which we refer is a consistorial Allocution pronounced the 26th July,

1855, and it commences with these words, _Nemo vestrum_. What is this

Allocution? A solemn protest against the criminality of the Spanish

government, which, in contempt of its word and oath, of the rights of the

church and the eternal laws of justice, had dared to perjure itself by

abrogating, of its own single authority, the first and second articles

of the concordat. Pius IX., full of grief, speaks in these terms: “You

know, venerable brethren, how, in this convention, amongst all the

decisions relative to the interests of the Catholic religion, we have,

above all, established that this holy religion should continue to be the

only religion of the Spanish nation, to the exclusion of every other

worship.” The proposition of the Syllabus is not expressed in any other

way in the Allocution. A man of great ability, or a scientific man,

taking into account the facts, and weighing carefully the expressions of

the Pontiff, might perhaps detect it therein. But how many others would

it wholly escape! How many would not perceive it, or, if they should

chance to catch sight of it, would remain in suspense, uncertain which

was rebuked, the application of the doctrine or the doctrine itself! How

many, in short, would be unwilling to recognize, in these words, aught

but the sorrowful complaint of the Vicar of Jesus Christ outraged in his

dearest rights! Return, however, to the Syllabus, and that which was

obscure comes to light and manifests itself clearly. The two propositions

we have cited do not appear, in it, confused or uncertain. Detached, on

the contrary, from the particular circumstances which were calculated

to weaken their meaning, and clad in a form more lofty, more universal,

more abstract, they receive an unspeakable signification. No hesitation

is possible. It is no longer the doctrine of M. Froschammer, nor the

sacrilegious usurpations of the Spanish government, which are rebuked;

it is but the doctrine considered in itself and in its substance. And

since the Roman Pontiff, after having isolated it, fixes on it a mark of

reprobation by declaring it erroneous, he denounces it to all ages and

all people as deserving the everlasting censure of the church.

It is for this reason, as far as ourselves, at least, are concerned, we

shall never accept without restriction a phrase which we find, under one

form or other, in all directions, even from the pen of writers for whom

we entertain, in other respects, the highest esteem: “The Syllabus has

only a relative value, a value subordinate to that of the pontifical

documents of which it is the epitome.” No! We are unable to admit an

appreciation of it, in our opinion, so full of danger. We must not allow

ourselves to weaken truth if we would maintain its salutary dominion

over souls. They talk of the value of the Syllabus. What is meant by

this? Its authority? It derives that most undoubtedly from itself, and

from the sovereign power of him who published it. It is as much an act

of that supreme authority as the letters or encyclicals to which it

alludes. The meaning of the propositions it contains? Doubtless many of

these, if we thus refer to their origin, will receive from it a certain

illustration. Others, and they are not the fewest, will either lose there

their precision, or will rather shed more light upon it than they receive

from it. Between the two assertions--The pontifical letters explain the

Syllabus, and, The Syllabus explains the pontifical letters--the second

is, with a few exceptions, the most rigorously true. A very simple

argument demonstrates it. Suppose that, by accident or an unforeseen

catastrophe, one or other of these documents were to perish and not leave

any trace of its existence, which is the one whose preservation we should

most have desired, in order that the mind of Pius IX. and the judgment of

the church concerning the errors of our age might be transmitted more

surely to future generations?

Most fertile in subtleties is the mind of man when he wishes to escape

from a duty that molests him. We must not, consequently, be astonished

if many opponents of the Syllabus have lighted on ingenious distinctions

which allow of their almost admitting, in theory, the doctrines we have

just explained, whilst contriving to elude their practical consequences.

For that, what have they done? They have acknowledged the real authority

of this grand act in so far as it is a doctrinal declaration, or, if it

is preferred, a manifestation of doctrine; adding, nevertheless, that

the Pope has not imposed it on us in the way of obligation, but _only

in the way of guidance_. The expression, only in the way of guidance,

would have been a happy enough invention, had it been possible, in

matter so important, and in an act so solemn, to imagine a guidance

truly efficacious--such, for instance, as the Pope could not but wish

it to be--which would not be an obligation. But we ourselves must avoid

reasoning with too much subtlety, and content ourselves with opposing a

difficulty more specious than solid with a few positive proofs.

We interpose, in the first place, the very title of the Syllabus: “Table,

or abridgment, of the principal errors of our time, pointed out in

consistorial Allocutions,” etc. To which we add the titles of various

paragraphs: “Errors in relation to the church”; “Errors in relation to

civil society”; “Errors concerning natural and Christian morals,” etc.

For the Pope, the guardian and protector of truth, obliged by the duty

of his office to hinder the church from suffering any decline or any

alteration, to denounce to the Christian world a doctrine by inflicting

on it the brand of error, is evidently to forbid the employment of

it, and to command all the faithful to eschew it. What communion is

there between light and darkness, between life and death? There can

be no question about guidance or counsel when the supreme interest

is at stake. The duty speaks for itself. It is imposed by the nature

of things. When Pius IX. placed at the head of his Syllabus the word

“error,” and intensified it by adding words even more significant, when

he expressed himself thus, “Principal errors of this our age,” he as good

as said, “Here is death! Avoid it.” And if, in order still to escape

from the consequences, a distinction is attempted to be drawn between

an obligation created by the force of circumstances and an obligation

imposed by the legislator, we would wish it to be remembered that the

same Pius IX. uttered, in reference to the Syllabus, the following

memorable sentence: “When the Pope speaks in a solemn act, it is to be

taken literally; what he has said, he intended to say.” For our part, we

would say, “What the Pope has done, he intended to do.”

But what need is there of so much discussion? The proof of what we

have urged is written in express terms in the letter accompanying the

Syllabus--a letter signed by his eminence Cardinal Antonelli, secretary

of state, and intended to make known to the bishops the will of His

Holiness. It is sufficient to quote this decisive document, which we do

in full, on account of its importance:

“MOST REVEREND EXCELLENCY:

“Our Holy Father, Pope Pius IX., profoundly solicitous for

the safety of souls and of holy doctrine, has never ceased,

since the commencement of his pontificate, to proscribe and to

condemn by his encyclicals, his consistorial Allocutions, and

other apostolic letters already published, the most important

errors and false doctrines, above all, those of our unhappy

times. But since it may come to pass that all the political

acts reach not every one of the ordinaries, it has seemed

good to the same sovereign Pontiff that a Syllabus should be

drawn out of these same errors, to be sent to all the bishops

of the Catholic world, _in order that these same bishops may

have before their eyes all the errors and pernicious doctrines

which have been reproved and condemned by him_. He has

therefore commanded me to see that this printed Syllabus be

sent to your most reverend excellency, on this occasion, and

at this time. When the same sovereign Pontiff, in consequence

of his great solicitude for the safety and well-being of the

Catholic Church, and of the whole flock which has been divinely

committed to him by the Lord, has thought it expedient to write

another encyclical letter to all the Catholic bishops, thus

executing, as is my duty, with all befitting zeal and respect,

the orders of the same Pontiff, I hasten to send to your

excellency this Syllabus with this letter.”

This Syllabus, placed by the order of the Holy Father “before the eyes

of all the bishops,” what else is it, we ask, than the text of the

law brought under the observation of the judges charged with the duty

of causing it to be executed? What is it except a rule to which they

owe allegiance, and from which they must not swerve? They must not

lose sight of it. Wherefore? Because it is their duty to be careful

to promulgate its doctrine in their own teaching, because it is their

duty to repress every rash opinion which should dare to raise itself

against and contradict it. It is thus that all have understood the

commandment given to them. The fidelity and unconquerable courage of

their obedience prove it. What has taken place in France? In the midst

of the universal emotion produced by the appearance of the Syllabus, the

government, abusing its power, had the sad audacity to constitute itself

judge of it. Through the instrumentality of the keeper of the seals,

minister of justice and of public worship, it forbade the publication

of the pontifical document in any pastoral instruction, alleging that

“it contained propositions contrary to the principles on which the

constitution of the empire rests.” What was the unanimous voice of the

episcopate? Eighty-four letters of bishops are in existence to bear

witness to it. All, united in the same mind, opposed to the ministerial

letter the invincible word of the apostles, _Non possumus_. All declared

that they must obey God rather then man; and two amongst them, ascending

courageously their cathedral thrones, braved the menaces of a susceptible

government by reading before the assembled people that which they had

been forbidden to print. Could they have acted all alike with this power

truly episcopal, if they had not been inspired by the conviction that

they were fulfilling a duty, and putting into practice the adage of the

Christian knights, “I do my duty, happen what may”?

We will insist no further on this point. We approach, lastly, the

question which might well supersede all the others. Let us enquire

whether the Syllabus is an infallible decision of the Vicar of Jesus

Christ.

It appears to us that, in reality, we have already settled this question.

Can a definition _ex cathedra_ be anything else than an instruction

concerning faith and morals addressed to, and imposed on, the whole

church by her visible head upon earth? How can we recognize it except

by this mark, and is not that the idea given to us of it by the Council

of the Vatican? Read over the words, so weighty and selected with so

much care by the fathers of that august assembly, and you will find that

nothing could express more accurately the exact and precise notion of it.

After that, all doubts ought to disappear. The Syllabus emanates from

him who is the master and sovereign doctor of Catholic truth. It belongs

exclusively to faith and morals by the nature of the subjects of which

it treats. It has received from the circumstances which have accompanied

its publication the manifest character of an universal law of the church.

What is wanting to it to be an irreformable decision, an act without

appeal, of the infallible authority of Peter?

We know the objection with which we shall be met. Peter may speak, it

will be urged, and not wish to exert the plenitude of his doctrinal

power. Yes; but when he restrains thus within voluntary limits the

exercise of his authority, he gives us to understand it clearly. He

is careful, in order not to overtax our weakness, to apprise us that,

notwithstanding the obligation with which he binds consciences, it is not

in his mind, as yet, to deliver a definitive sentence upon the doctrine.

Frankly, does the Syllabus offer to us an indication, however faint, of

any such reserve? What more definitive than a judgment formulated in

these terms: “This is error, that is truth”? Is any revision possible

of such a judgment? Is it possible to be revoked or abrogated? Does it

not settle us necessarily in an absolute conclusion which excludes all

possibility of diminution or of change? In a word, can the assertion

be ever permissible--“Error in these days, truth in others”? It may be

added that, by the admission of all, friends and enemies--an admission

confirmed by the declaration of the cardinal secretary of state, the

Syllabus is an appendix to, and as it were a continuation of, the bull

_Quanta cura_, to which no one can reasonably refuse the character of

a definitive and irreformable decree; and it will be understood how

unreasonable it would be to despise the evidence of facts, in order to

cling to an objection without consistency, and which falls of itself for

want of a solid foundation.

For the rest, the mind of the Holy Father is not concealed, as has been

at times suggested, under impenetrable veils. It appears the moment

we look for it; and we find it, for example, in the preparation of

the Syllabus. It should be known that the Syllabus was not the work

of a day. Pius IX. has often asserted this. He had early resolved to

strike a signal blow, and to destroy from top to bottom the monstrous

edifice of revolutionary doctrines. To this end, immediately after the

proclamation of the dogma of the Immaculate Conception, he transformed

the congregation of cardinals and theologians who had aided him in the

accomplishment of that work into a congregation charged with the duty of

singling out for the Apostolic See the new errors which, for a century,

had been ravaging the church of God. Ten years passed away; encyclicals

were published, allocutions pronounced; the theologians multiplied

their labors. At length, on the 8th of December, 1864, the moment of

action appearing to have arrived, Pius IX. addressed to the world that

utterance whose prolonged echoes we all have heard. The bull _Quanta

cura_ and the Syllabus were promulgated. It is obvious that an act so

long prepared, and with so much anxiety, cannot be likened to an ordinary

act. The object of the Pontiff was not simply to check the evil--it was

to uproot it. The object of such efforts could not have been to determine

nothing. Who is there, then, who will venture to assert that the whole

thought of an entire reign, and of such a reign as that of Pius IX.,

should miserably collapse in a measure without authority and without

effectiveness? To believe it would be an outrage; to affirm it would be

an insult to the wisdom and prudence of the most glorious of pontiffs.

But what need is there for searching for proofs? A single reflection

banishes every difficulty. We have in the church two means for

ascertaining whether a pontifical act is, or is not, a sovereign

definition, an infallible decision. We have to enquire of the pontiff

who is the author of it, or the people who subordinate themselves to

his teaching. Neither one nor the other can deceive us in the answer

they give. The divine promise continues equally assured in both: in the

former, when he teaches; in the latter, when they listen and obey. It is

what the theologians call active and passive infallibility. Admit that

Pius IX. had left us in ignorance; that he published the Syllabus, but

did not tell us what amount of assent he required of us. Well, none of

us are in any doubt as to that. How many times has not this people said,

how many times has it not repeated with an enthusiasm inspired by love,

that this Syllabus, despised, insulted by the enemies of the church,

they accept as the rule of their beliefs, as the very word of Peter, as

the word of life come down from heaven to save us. Is it not thus that

have spoken, one after the other, bishops, theologians, the learned and

the ignorant, the mighty and the humble? Who amongst us has not heard

this language? A celebrated doctor, Tanner, has said that in order to

distinguish amongst the teachings of the church those which belong to its

infallible authority, we must listen to the judgment of wise men, and

above all consult the universal sentiment of Christians. If we adhere to

this decision, it reveals to us our duties in regard to the sovereign act

by which Pius IX. has withdrawn the world from the shadow in which it was

losing its way, and has prepared for it a future of better destinies.

We have the more reason for acting thus as hell, by its furious hatred,

gives us, for its part, a similar warning, and proclaims, after its

fashion, the imperishable grandeur of the Syllabus. Neither has it, nor

have those who serve it, ever been under any illusion in this respect.

They have often revealed their mind both by act and word. What implacable

indignation! what torrents of insults! what clamor without truce or

mercy! And when importunate conciliators interfered to tell them they

were mistaken, that the Syllabus was nothing or next to nothing, and need

not provoke so much anger, how well they knew how to reply to them and to

bury them under the weight of their contempt! At the end of 1864, at the

moment when the struggle occasioned by the promulgation of the Encyclical

and Syllabus was the most furious, an agency of Parisian publicity, the

agency Bullier, could insert the following notice: “The Encyclical is

not a dogmatic bull, but only a doctrinal letter. It is observable that

the Syllabus does not bear the signature of the Pope. This Syllabus

has besides been published in a manner to allow us to believe that the

Holy Father did not intend to assign to it a great importance. One may

conclude, therefore, that the propositions which do not attack either the

dogma or morals of Catholics, and do not at all impeach faith, are not

condemned, but merely blamed.” To these words, poor in sense, but crafty

and treacherous in expression, the journal _Le Siècle_ replied as follows:

“There are now people who tell us that the Encyclical is not a dogmatic

bull, but a doctrinal letter; that the eighty propositions are not

condemned, because they do not figure in the Encyclical, but only in the

Syllabus; that this Syllabus does not bear the signature of the Pope;

that it has been composed only by a commission of theologians, etc. These

people would do better to be silent. Encyclical or Syllabus, the fact is

that the theocracy has just hurled as haughty a defiance against modern

ideas as it was possible for it to do. We shall soon see what will be the

result.”

We will leave them to settle their quarrels between themselves. For

ourselves, listening to these voices of heaven and of hell, of the church

and of the world, which coincide in exalting the work eternally blessed

by Pius IX., we repeat with profounder conviction than ever: “Yes, the

Syllabus is the infallible word of Peter; and if our modern society is

within the reach of cure, it is by the Syllabus that it is to be saved!”

SIR THOMAS MORE.

_A HISTORICAL ROMANCE._

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

I.

In a sumptuous apartment, whose magnificent furniture and costly

adornings announced it as the abode of kings, in a large Gothic

arm-chair--whose massive sides were decorated with carvings in ebony and

ivory of exquisite delicacy, and which was in itself, altogether, a model

of the most skilful workmanship--there reclined the form of a stately and

elegant woman.

Her small feet, but half-concealed beneath the heavy folds of a rich

blue velvet robe, rested on a footstool covered with crimson brocade,

embroidered with golden stars. Bands of pearls adorned her beautiful

neck, contrasted with its dazzling whiteness, and were profusely twined

amid the raven tresses of her luxuriant hair. An expression of profound

melancholy was imprinted upon her noble features; her eyes were cast

down, and the long, drooping lashes were heavy with tears which she

seemed vainly endeavoring to repress, as she sat absorbed in thought, and

nervously entwining her snowy fingers with the silk and jewelled cord

which, according to the fashion of that day, she wore fastened at her

girdle and hanging to her feet. This royal personage was Catherine of

Aragon, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, wife of Henry VIII.,

and queen of England.

The king himself was hurriedly pacing to and fro in the apartment, with

contracted brow, a deeply troubled expression gleaming from his dark eyes

and obscuring, with a shade of gloomy fierceness, the naturally fine

features of his face. The ordinary grace of his carriage had disappeared;

his step was hurried and irregular; and every movement denoted a man

laboring under some violent excitement. From time to time he approached

the window, and gazed abstractedly into the distance; then, returning

to Catherine, he would address her abruptly, with a sharp expression or

hurried interrogation, neither waiting for nor seeming to desire a reply.

While this strange scene was being enacted within the palace at

Greenwich, one of an entirely different nature was occurring in the

courtyard. From the road leading from Greenwich a cavalcade approached,

headed by a personage invested with the Roman purple, and apparently

entitled to and surrounded by all the “pomp and circumstance” of royalty.

He was mounted on a richly caparisoned mule with silver-plated harness,

adorned with silver bells and tufted with knots of crimson silk. This

distinguished personage was no other than the Archbishop of York, the

potent minister, who united in his person all the dignities both of

church and state--the Cardinal Legate, the king’s acknowledged favorite,

Wolsey. To increase his already princely possessions, to extend his

influence and authority, had been this man’s constant endeavor, and the

sole aim of his life. And so complete had been his success that he was

now regarded by all as an object of admiration and envy. But how greatly

mistaken was the world in its opinion!

In his heart, Wolsey suffered the constant agony of a profound

humiliation. Compelled to yield in all things, and bow with servile

submission to the haughty will of his exacting and imperious master--who

by a word, and in a moment, could deprive him of his dignities and

temporalities--he lived in a state of constant dread, fearing to lose the

patronage and favor to secure which he had sacrificed both his honor and

his conscience.

He was accompanied on this journey by a numerous retinue, composed

of gentlemen attached to his household and young pages carrying his

standard, all of whom were eagerly pressing upon him the most obsequious

attentions. They assisted him to dismount, and as he approached the

palace the guards saluted and received him with the utmost military

deference and respect; and with an air of grave dignity Wolsey passed on,

and disappeared beneath the arch of the grand stairway.

Let us again return to the royal apartments. The king, seeing Wolsey

arrive, immediately turned from the window and, confronting Catherine,

abruptly exclaimed:

“Come, madam, I wish you to retire; the affairs of my kingdom demand

instantly all my time and attention.” And hastily turning to the window,

he looked eagerly into the courtyard.

Catherine arose without uttering a word, and approaching the centre of

the apartment she took from the table a small silver bell, and rang it

twice.

On this table was a magnificent cloth cover that she had embroidered

with her own hands. The design represented a tournament, in which Henry,

who was devoted to chivalrous amusements, had borne off the prize over

all his competitors. In those days her husband received such presents

with grateful affection and sincere appreciation, and, as the souvenir

recalled to her mind the joy and happiness of the past, tears of

bitterness flowed afresh from the eyes of the unhappy princess.

In answer to her signal, the door soon opened, the queen’s ladies in

waiting appeared, and, arranging themselves on either side, stood in

readiness to follow their royal mistress. She passed out, and was slowly

walking in silence through the vast gallery leading to the king’s

apartments, when Wolsey appeared, advancing from the opposite end of the

gallery, followed by his brilliant retinue.

Catherine, then, instantly understood why the king had so abruptly

commanded her to retire. Suddenly pausing, she stood transfixed and

immovable, her soul overwhelmed with anguish; but, with a countenance

calm and impassible, she awaited the approach of the cardinal, who

advanced to salute her. In spite of all her efforts, however, she could

no longer control her feelings.

“My lord cardinal,” she exclaimed in a low voice, trembling with emotion,

“go, the king waits for you!” And as she uttered these words, the

unhappy woman fell senseless to the floor.

The hardened soul of the ambitious Wolsey was moved to its very depths

with compassion as he silently gazed on the noble woman before him, who

possessed the unbounded love and grateful esteem of all her household,

not only as their sovereign, but also as their beneficent mother.

The cloud of ambition that forever surrounded him, darkening his soul and

obscuring his perceptions, was for the moment illuminated, and for the

first time he realized the enormity of Henry’s proceedings against the

queen.

As this sudden light flashed on him, he felt remorse for having

encouraged the divorce, and resolved that henceforward all his influence

should be used to dissuade his sovereign from it.

At the approach of the royal favorite the ushers hastily made their

salutations (although the queen had been permitted to pass them with

scarcely the slightest mark of respect), and seemed to consider the

most humble and servile attitude they could assume before him as only

sufficiently respectful. They hastened to throw open the doors before

him as he advanced, and Wolsey soon found himself in the presence of the

king, who awaited his arrival in a state of almost angry impatience.

“Well! what do you come to tell me?” he cried. “Do you bring me good

news?”

Wolsey, whose opinions had so recently undergone a very great change,

for a moment hesitated. “Sire,” he at length replied, “Campeggio, the

cardinal legate, has arrived.”

“Has he indeed?” said Henry, with an ironical smile. “After so many

unsuccessful applications, we have then, at last, obtained this favor.

Well, I hope now this affair will proceed more rapidly; and, Wolsey,

remember that it is your business so entirely to compromise and surround

this man, that he shall not be able even to _think_ without my consent

and sanction. And, above all, beware of the intrigues of the queen.

Catherine is a Spaniard, with an artful, unyielding nature and fierce,

indomitable will. She will, without doubt, make the most determined and

desperate effort to enlist the legate in favor of her cause.”

“Is the decision of your majesty irrevocable on the subject of this

divorce?” replied Wolsey, in a hesitating and embarrassed manner. “The

farther we advance, the more formidable the accumulating difficulties

become. I must acknowledge, sire, I begin myself to doubt of success.

Campeggio has already declared that, if the queen appeals to Rome, he

will not refuse to present her petition, and defend her cause; that

he himself will decide nothing, and will yield to nothing he cannot

conscientiously approve.”

On hearing Wolsey express these sentiments, Henry’s face flushed with

rage, and a menacing scowl contracted his brow.

“Can it be possible,” he cried, “that you dare address me in this manner?

I will castigate the Pope himself if he refuses his sanction. He shall

measure his power with mine! He trembles because Charles V. is already on

his frontier. I will make him tremble now, in my turn! I will marry Anne

Boleyn--yes, I will marry her before the eyes of the whole world!”

“What do you say, sire? Anne Boleyn!” cried Wolsey.

“Yes, Anne Boleyn!” replied the king, regarding Wolsey with his usual

haughty and contemptuous expression. “You know her well. She is attached

to the service of Catherine.”

“Lady Anne Boleyn!” again cried Wolsey after a moment’s silence, for

astonishment had almost for the time rendered him speechless and

breathless. “Lady Anne Boleyn! The King of England, the great Henry,

wishes, then, to marry Anne Boleyn! Why, if contemplating such a marriage

as that, did you send me to seek the alliance of France, and to offer the

hand of your daughter in marriage to the Duke of Orleans? And why did

you instruct me to declare to Francis I. that your desire was to place

on the throne of England a princess of his blood? It was only by these

representations and promises that I succeeded in inducing him to sign the

treaty which deprived Catherine of all assistance. You have assured me of

your entire approval of these negotiations. This alliance with France was

the only means by which to secure for yourself any real defence against

the Pope and the Emperor. Do you suppose that Charles V. will quietly

permit you to deprive his aunt of her position and title as queen of

England?” Here Wolsey paused, wholly transported with indignation.

“Charles!” replied the king, “Charles? I can easily manage and pacify him

by fine promises and long negotiations. As to our Holy Father, I will

stir up strife enough to fill his hands so full that he will not be able

to attend to anything else. The quarrels of Austria and France always

end by recoiling on his head, and I imagine he will not soon forget the

sacking Rome and his former imprisonment.”

“Yes, but you forget,” said Wolsey, “that the King of France will

accuse you of flagrant bad faith: and will you bring on yourself their

abhorrence in order to espouse Anne Boleyn?”

The minister pronounced these last words with an expression and in a

tone of such contemptuous scorn as to arouse in a fearful degree the

indignation of the king, accustomed only to the flattery and servile

adulation of his courtiers. At the same time, he was compelled to feel

the force of the cardinal’s reasoning, although the truth only served

still more to irritate and enrage him.

“Cease, Wolsey!” cried Henry, fixing his flashing eyes fiercely upon him;

“I am not here to listen to your complaints. I shall marry whom I please;

and your head shall answer for the fidelity with which you assist me in

executing my will.”

“My head, sire,” replied Wolsey courageously, “has long belonged to you;

my entire life has been devoted to your service; and yet I shall most

probably, in the end, have bitter cause to repent having always made

myself subservient to your wishes. But your majesty will surely reflect

more seriously on the dishonor you will necessarily incur by such a

choice as this. The queen’s party will grow stronger and stronger, and I

tell you frankly, I fear lest the legate be inflexible.”

“Wolsey,” cried Henry, elevating his voice in a threatening manner, “I

have already declared my intentions--is that not sufficient? As to the

legate, I repeat, he must be gained over to my cause. Gold and flattery

will soon secure to us that tender conscience whose scruples you now so

sorely apprehend. Bring him to me to-morrow.”

“He is suffering too much, sire. The cardinal is aged and very infirm; I

have no idea he will be in a condition to see your majesty for several

days yet.”

“Too long, entirely too long to wait!” replied the king. “I must see him

this very day; he shall be compelled to make his appearance. I wish you

to be present also, as we shall discuss affairs of importance, and then I

shall depart.”

With these words Henry withdrew and went to look for a casket, of which

he alone carried the key, and in which he usually kept his most valuable

and important papers.

During his absence, Wolsey remained leaning on the table, before which

he was seated, absorbed in deep and painful reflections. He feared Henry

too much to oppose him long in any of his designs; besides, he saw no

possible means to induce him to change his resolution. He had felt, as

we have seen, a momentary compassion for the misfortunes of the queen,

but that impression had been speedily effaced by considerations of far

greater moment to himself.

As a shrewd diplomatist, he regretted the alliance with France; besides,

he was really too much interested in the welfare of the king not to

deplore his determination to contract such a marriage.

But the cause of his deepest anxiety was the knowledge he possessed of

Anne’s great dislike for him, and the consciousness that her family

and counsellors were his rivals and enemies; in consequence of which

he clearly foresaw they would induce her to use all the influence she

possessed with the king in order to deprive him of Henry’s favor

and patronage. He was suffering this mental conflict when the king

reappeared, bearing a bronze casket carved with rare perfection. Placing

it on the table, he unlocked it. Among a great many papers which it

contained was a very handsome book, the printing beautifully executed,

and every page ornamented with arabesques exquisitely tinted and shaded.

The cover, formed of two metal plates, represented in bass-relief the

figures of Faith, Hope, and Charity as young virgins, bearing in their

hands and on their foreheads the allegorical emblems of those sublime

Christian virtues. Emeralds of immense value, surrounded by heavy gold

settings, adorned the massive gold clasps, and also served to hold them

firmly in their places.

On the back of this book, deeply engraven in the metal, were the

following words: _The Seven Sacraments_. Henry had written this work

in defence of the ancient dogmas of the Catholic Church, when first

attacked by the violent doctrines of a monk named Luther. Whether the

king had really composed it himself, or whether he had caused it to be

secretly done by another, and wished to enjoy the reputation of being

the author, he certainly attached great importance to the work. Not only

had he distributed it throughout his own kingdom, but had sent it to the

Pope and to all the German princes, through the Dean of Windsor, whom he

instructed to say that he was ready to defend the faith, not only with

his pen but, if need be, with his sword also. It was at that time that he

asked and obtained from the court of Rome the title of “Defender of the

Faith.”

Now he was constantly busy with a manuscript, which he took from the

mysterious casket, containing a Treatise on Divorce, and to which he

every day devoted several hours. Greatly pleased with a number of

arguments he had just found, he came to communicate them to Wolsey. The

latter, after urging several objections, at length reminded him of the

fraudulent and persistent means that had been employed to extract from

the University of Oxford an opinion favorable to divorce. “And yet,”

added the cardinal, “it has been found impossible to prevent them from

increasing the number of most important restrictions, and thus rendering

your case exceedingly difficult, if not entirely hopeless.”

“What!” said the king, “after the good example of the University of

Cambridge, are we still to encounter scruples? Consider it well,

cardinal, in order not to forget the recompense, and, above all, the

punishment, for that is the true secret of success! You will also take

care to write to the Elector Frederick, and say that I wait to receive

the humble apologies of that man Luther, whom he has taken so entirely

under his protection.”

“Sire,” replied the cardinal, “I have received frequent intelligence with

regard to that matter which I have scarcely dared communicate to you.”

“And why not?” demanded the king. “Do you presume, my lord cardinal, that

the abuse of an obscure and turbulent monk can affect me? And besides, to

tell you the truth, I do not know but this man may, after all, be useful

to me. He has attracted the attention of the court of Rome, and may yet

have to crave my protection.”

“Well, sire, since you compel me to speak, I will tell you that, far

from making humble apologies, his violence against you has redoubled. I

have just received a tract he has recently published. In it I find many

passages where, in speaking of you, he employs the most abusive epithets

and expressions. For instance, he repeatedly declares that your majesty

‘is a fool, an ass, and a madman,’ that you are ‘coarser than a hog,

and more stupid than a jackass.’ He speaks with equal scurrility of our

Holy Father the Pope, addressing him, in terms of the most unparalleled

effrontery, this pretended warning, which is of course intended simply

as an insult: ‘My petit Paul, my petit Pope, my young ass, walk

carefully--it is very slippery--you may fall and break your legs. You

will surely hurt yourself, and then people will say, “What the devil does

this mean? The petit Pope has hurt himself.”’ Further on, I find this

ridiculous comparison, which could only emanate from a vile and shameless

pen: ‘The ass knows that he is an ass, the stone knows that it is a

stone, but these asses of popes are unable to recognize themselves as

asses.’ He concludes at length with these words, which fill the measure

of his impiety and degradation: ‘If I were ruler of an empire, I would

make a bundle of the Pope and his cardinals, and throw them altogether

into that little pond, the Tuscan Sea. I pledge my word that such a bath

would restore their health, and I pledge Jesus Christ as my security!’”

“What fearful blasphemy!” cried Henry. “Could a Christian possibly be

supposed to utter such absurd, blasphemous vulgarities? I trow not! This

pretended ‘reformer’ of the ‘discipline and abuses of the church’ seems

to possess any other than an evangelical character. No one can doubt his

divine mission and his Christian charity! A man who employs arguments

like these is too vile and too contemptible to be again mentioned in my

presence. Let me hear no more of this intolerable apostate! Proceed now

with business.”

“Sire,” then continued the cardinal, presenting a list to the king,

“here are the names of several candidates I wish you to consider for

the purpose of appointing a treasurer of the exchequer. Thomas More has

already filled, most honorably, a number of offices of public trust, and

is also a man of equal ability and integrity. I recommend him to your

majesty for this office.”

“I approve your selection most unhesitatingly,” replied the king. “I am

extremely fond of More, and perfectly satisfied with the manner in which

he has performed his official duties heretofore. You will so inform him

from me. What next?”

“I would also petition your majesty that Cromwell be confirmed as

intendant-general of the monasteries latterly transformed into colleges.”

“Who is this Cromwell?” inquired Henry. “I have no recollection of him.”

“Sire,” replied Wolsey, “he is of obscure birth, the son of a fuller of

this city. He served in the Italian wars in his youth; afterwards he

applied himself to the study of law. His energies and abilities are such

as to entitle him to the favorable consideration of your majesty.”

“Let him be confirmed as you desire,” replied the king very graciously,

as he proceeded to sign the different commissions intended for the newly

appointed officials.

“I wish,” he added, regarding Wolsey with a keen, searching glance, “that

you would find some position for a young ecclesiastic called Cranmer, who

has been strongly recommended to me for office.”

The brow of the cardinal contracted into a heavy frown as he heard the

name of a man but too well known to him. He immediately divined that it

was from Anne Boleyn alone the king had received this recommendation.

* * * * *

In the meantime, the queen had been carried to her apartments. The

devoted efforts of the ladies of her household, who surrounded her with

the tenderest ministrations, soon recalled her to the consciousness and

full realization of her misery.

Now the night has come, and found Catherine still seated before the

grate, absorbed in deep thought. Born under the soft skies of Spain,

she had never become acclimated, nor accustomed to the humid, foggy

atmosphere of England. Like a delicate plant torn from its native soil,

she sighed unceasingly for the balmy air and the golden sunlight of

her own genial southern clime. Such regrets, added to the sorrows she

had experienced, had thrown her into a state of habitual melancholy,

from which nothing could arouse her, and which the slightest occurrence

sufficed to augment. For a long time her firmness of character had

sustained her; but her health beginning to fail, and no longer able

to arouse the energy and courage which had before raised her above

misfortune, she sank beneath the burden and abandoned herself to hopeless

sorrow.

As she sat all alone in her chamber, she held in her hand a letter but

recently received from her native country. Reading it slowly, she mused,

dreaming of the days of her happy childhood, when suddenly the door was

opened, and a young girl, apparently ten or twelve years of age, ran

in and threw her arms around the neck of the queen. The figure of the

child was slight and graceful; around her waist was tied a broad sash

of rose-colored ribbon, with long ends floating over her white muslin

dress; her beautiful blonde hair was drawn back from her forehead and

fastened with bows of ribbon, leaving exposed a lovely little face

glowing with animation and spirit, and a frank, ingenuous expression,

at once prepossessing and charming. This was the Princess Mary, the

daughter of Henry, the future consort of a Spanish prince, to whom the

shrewd diplomatist Wolsey had promised her hand, in order to deprive the

unfortunate mother of this her only remaining consolation.

“Why is it, my dearest mamma,” she exclaimed, “that you are again in

tears?” And, laughingly, she took the handkerchief from the queen and put

it to her own eyes, pretending to weep.

“See now, this is the way I shall do when I am grown up, for it seems to

me grown-up people are always weeping. Oh! I wish I could always remain

a child, and then I should never be miserable! Listen, my dear mamma,”

she continued, again twining her arms around her mother’s neck, “why is

it that you are always weeping and so sad? It must surely do you harm.

Everybody is not like you, constantly sighing and in tears, I do assure

you. Only this morning, I was at St. James’ Park with Alice, and there

I met Lady Anne Boleyn; she was laughing gaily as she promenaded with a

number of her friends. I ran immediately to her to say good morning, for

I was really very glad to see her. How is it, mamma--I thought you told

me she had gone to Kent to visit her father?”

“My child,” replied the queen, her tears flowing afresh, “what I told you

was true; but she has since returned without my being informed.”

“But, mamma, since this is your own house, why has she not yet presented

herself? I am very sorry she has acted so, for I love her better than any

of the other ladies. She told me all she saw in France when she travelled

with my aunt, the Duchess of Suffolk. Oh! how I would love to see France.

Lady Anne says it is a most beautiful country. She has described to me

all the magnificent entertainments that King Louis XII. gave in honor of

my aunt. Mamma, when I marry, I want the King of France to be my husband.”

“And you--you also love Anne Boleyn?” replied the queen.

“Oh! yes, mamma, _very_ much, very much indeed!” innocently answered the

child. “I am very sorry she is no longer to be here, she is so amiable,

and when she plays with me she always amuses me so much!”

“Well, my dear child,” replied the queen, “I will tell you now why people

weep when they are grown up, as you say: it is because they very often

love persons who no longer return their affection.”

“And do you believe she no longer loves me?” replied the impulsive little

Mary with a thoughtful expression. “And yet, mamma, I kissed her this

morning and embraced her with all my heart. However, I now remember that

she scarcely spoke a word to me; but I had not thought of it before. She

seemed to be very much embarrassed. But why should she no longer love me

when I still love her so dearly?”

As Mary uttered these words, a woman entered the room and, whispering a

moment in the ear of the queen, placed a note in her hand.

Catherine arose and approached the light; after reading the note, she

called the young princess and requested her to retire to her chamber, as

she had something to write immediately that was very important.

Mary ran gaily to her mother, and, after kissing and embracing her fondly

and tenderly again and again, she at last bade her good-night, and with a

smiling face bounded from the room in the same light and buoyant manner

that she had entered it.

“Leonora,” said the queen, “my dear child, you have left for my sake our

beautiful Spain, and have ever served me with faithful devotion. Listen,

now, to the request I shall make--go bring me immediately the dress and

outer apparel belonging to one of the servant women.”

“Why so, my lady?”

“Ask no questions--I have use for them; you will accompany me; I must go

to London this night.”

“Good heaven! my dear mistress, what are you saying?” cried Leonora in

great alarm. “Go to London to-night? It is five miles; you will never be

able to walk it, and you well know it would be impossible to attempt the

journey in any other way--they would detect us.”

“Leonora,” answered the queen, “I am resolved to go. Faithful friends

inform me that the legate has arrived. Henry will now redouble his

vigilance. I have but one day--if I lose this opportunity, I shall

never succeed. My last remaining hope rests upon this. If you refuse to

accompany me, I shall go alone.”

“Alone!--oh! my beloved mistress,” cried Leonora, her hands clasped and

her eyes streaming tears, “you can never do this! Think of what you are

going to undertake! If you were recognized, the king would be at once

informed, and we would both be lost.”

“Even so, Leonora; but what have I to lose? Is it possible for me to be

made more wretched? Shall I abandon this, my last hope? No, no, Leonora;

I am accountable to my children for the honor of their birth. Go now, my

good girl! fly--there is not a moment to lose. Fear nothing; God will

protect us!”

Leonora, shrewd and adroit like the women of her country, was very soon

in possession of the desired habiliments. Her actions might have excited

suspicion, perhaps; but entirely devoted to the queen as she was she felt

no fear, and would, without hesitation, have exposed herself to even

greater danger, had it been necessary, in the execution of her mistress’

wishes.

Catherine feigned to retire; and, after her attendants had been

dismissed, she left the palace, closely enveloped in a long brown cloak,

such as was habitually worn by the working-women of that period. The

faithful Leonora tremblingly followed the footsteps of her mistress. They

breathed more freely when they found themselves at last beyond the limits

of the castle. Leonora, however, when they entered the road leading to

London, anxiously reflected on the danger of meeting some one who would

probably recognize them. Her excited imagination even began to conjure up

vague apprehensions of the dead, to blend with her fears of the living.

She also dreaded lest the strength of the queen should prove unequal

to the journey--in fine, she feared everything. The sighing winds, the

rustling leaves, the sound of her own footsteps as she walked over the

stones, startled and filled her with apprehension. Very soon there was

another cause for alarm. The wind suddenly arose with violence; dark

clouds overspread the heavens; the moon disappeared; large drops of

rain began to fall, and soon poured in torrents, deluging the earth and

drenching their garments.

In vain they increased their speed; the storm raged with such fury they

were compelled to take refuge under a tree by the roadside.

“My poor Leonora,” said the queen, supporting herself against the trunk

of the tree, whose wide-spread branches were being lashed and bent by the

fury of the storm, “I regret now having brought you with me. I am already

sufficiently miserable without the additional pain of seeing my burdens

laid upon others.”

“My beloved lady and mistress,” cried Leonora, “I am not half so unhappy

at this moment as I was when I feared my brothers would prevent me from

following you to England. It seems to me I can see the vessel now,

with its white sails unfurled, bearing you away, whilst I, standing on

the shore, with frantic cries, entreated them to let me rejoin you.

That night, I remember, being unable to sleep, I went down into the

orange-grove, the perfume of whose fruits and flowers embalmed the air

of the palace gardens. Wiping away the sad tears, I fixed my eyes upon

your windows, which the light of our beautiful skies rendered distinctly

visible even at night. In Spain, at that hour, we can walk by the light

of the stars; but in this land of mud and water, this horrid England,

one has to be wrapped to the ears in furs all the year round, or shiver

with cold from morning till night. This is doubtless the reason why

the English are so dull and so tiresome to others. In what a condition

is this light mantle that covers our heads!” said Leonora, shaking the

coarse woollen cloak dripping with water, that enveloped Catherine.

“These Englishwomen,” she resumed, “know no more about the sound of a

guitar than they do about the rays of the sun; they are all just as

melancholy as moles. There is not one of them, except the Princess Mary,

who seems to have the slightest idea of our beautiful Spain.”

“Ah!” sighed the queen, “she is just as I was at her age. God forbid that

her future should resemble that of her mother!”

In the meantime the storm had gradually abated; time pressed, and

Catherine again resumed her journey with renewed courage and accelerated

speed. In spite of the mud, in which she sank at every step, she

redoubled her efforts. For what cannot the strong human will accomplish,

when opposed to feeble, physical strength alone, or even when the

obstacles interposed proceed from the elements themselves? She at length

arrived at the gate of the palace of Lambeth, situated on the banks of

the Thames, where the cardinal Campeggio, according to the intelligence

conveyed to her, would hold his court.

The courtyards, the doors, the ante-chambers, were thronged with servants

and attendants, eager and active in the performance of their duties, for

Henry had ordered that the cardinal should be entertained in a style

of princely munificence, and entirely free from personal expense. All

these valets, being strangers to their new masters, and unaccustomed to

their new employments, permitted the queen to pass without question or

detention, not, however, without a stare of stupid curiosity at her muddy

boots and draggled garments.

Catherine, being perfectly familiar with the interior of the palace, had

no difficulty in finding the legate’s cabinet.

The venerable prelate was slightly lame, and in a feeble and precarious

state of health. She found him seated before the fire in a large velvet

arm-chair, engaged in reading his Breviary. His face was pale and

emaciated; a few thin locks of snow-white hair hung about his temples.

Hearing the door open, he rested the book on his knee, casting upon the

queen, as she entered, a keen, penetrating glance.

Without hesitation, Catherine advanced towards him. “My lord cardinal,”

she exclaimed, removing the hood from her face, “you see before you the

queen of England, the legitimate spouse of Henry VIII.”

Hearing these words, Campeggio was unable to suppress an exclamation of

surprise. He arose at once to his feet, and, perceiving the extraordinary

costume in which Catherine was arrayed, he cast upon her a look of

incredulous astonishment. He was about to speak when she, with great

vehemence, interrupted him.

“Yes,” she cried, raising her hands towards heaven, “I call upon God to

witness the truth of what I say--I am Queen Catherine! You are astonished

to see me here at this hour, and in this disguise. Know, then, that I am

a prisoner in my own palace; my cruel husband would have prevented me

from coming to you. They tell me you are sent to sit in judgment on my

case. Surely, then, you should be made acquainted with my bitter woes and

grievances. Lend not your aid to the cause of injustice and wrong, but be

the strength of the weak, the defence of the innocent. A stranger in this

country, I have no friends; fear of the king drives them all from me.

I cannot doubt it--no, you will not refuse to hear my appeal. You will

defend the cause of an injured mother and her helpless children. What!

would you be willing to condemn me without first hearing my cause--I,

the daughter of kings? Have I been induced to marry Henry of Lancaster

to enjoy the honors of royalty, when all such honors belong to me by my

birthright? Catherine of Aragon has never been unfaithful to her husband;

but to-day, misled by a criminal passion, he wishes to place upon the

throne of England a shameless woman, to deny his own blood, and brand his

own children with the stigma of illegitimacy! Yes, I solemnly declare to

you that nothing can shake my resolution or divert me from my purpose!

Strong in my innocence and in the justice of my cause, I will appeal to

the whole world--aye, even to God himself!”

The cardinal stood motionless, regarding Catherine with reverence, as an

expression of haughty indignation lighted up her noble features. He was

struck with admiration at her courage and filled with compassion for her

woes.

“No, madam,” he replied, “I am not to be your judge. I know that it is

but too true that you are surrounded by enemies. But let me assure you

that in me, at least, you will not find another. I shall esteem myself

most happy if, by my counsel or influence, I may be of service to your

cause, and it is from the depths of my heart that I beg you to rely upon

this assurance.”

Catherine would have thanked him, but a noise was that moment heard of

the ushers throwing the doors violently open and announcing, in a loud

voice, “His Eminence Cardinal Wolsey!”

“Merciful heaven!” cried Catherine, “must this odious man pursue me for

ever?” She hurriedly lowered her veil, and took her place at the left of

the door, and the moment he entered passed out behind him. Wolsey glanced

at her sharply, the appearance of a woman arousing instantly a suspicion

in his mind, but, being compelled to respond with politeness to the

legate’s salutations, he had no time to scrutinize, and Catherine escaped

without being recognized.

Wolsey was passionately fond of pomp and pageant. The principal positions

in his house were filled by barons and chevaliers. Among these attendants

were numbered the sons of some of the most distinguished families, who,

under his protection and by the aid of his all-powerful patronage and

influence, aspired to civil or military preferment.

On this occasion, he considered it necessary to make an unusual display

of luxurious magnificence. It was with great difficulty and trepidation

that the queen threaded her way through the crowd of prelates, noblemen,

and young gentlemen who awaited in the ante-chambers the honor of being

presented by the king’s favorite to the cardinal-legate.

The courtyard was filled with their brilliant equipages, conspicuous

among which were observed a great number of mules, richly caparisoned,

and carrying on their backs immense chests, covered with crimson cloth,

trimmed with fringe and embroidered with gold.

A crowd of idle valets were engaged in conversation at the foot of the

stairs. The queen, in passing them, attracted their attention, exciting

their ridicule and coarse gibes, and she heard them also indulge in the

most insolent conjectures regarding her.

“Who is that woman?” said one. “See how dirty she is.” “She looks like

a beggar, indeed,” cried another, addressing himself to one of the

new-comers engaged to attend the legate. “Your master receives strange

visitors; we, on the contrary, have nothing to do with people like that,

except quickly to show them the door.”

“Ha! ha! you will have your hands full,” exclaimed the most insolent

of the crowd, “if your master gives audience to such rabble as that.”

Emboldened by these remarks, one of the porters approached the queen,

and, rudely pushing her, exclaimed with an oath: “Well, beldame, what

brought you here? Take yourself off quickly. My lord is rich, but his

crowns were not made for such as you.” These words excited the loudest

applause from the whole crowd, who clapped their hands and cheered

vociferously. Catherine trembled with mortification.

“It is thus,” she mentally exclaimed, “that the poor are received in

the palaces of the rich. And I myself have probably more than once,

without knowing it, permitted them to sigh in vain at the gates of my own

palace--mothers weeping for their children, or men, old and helpless,

making a last appeal for assistance.”

The queen, entirely absorbed in these reflections, together with the

impression made upon her by the appearance of the venerable legate, the

sudden apparition of Wolsey, the snares that had been laid for her, and

the temptations with which they had surrounded her, mechanically followed

Leonora, to whom the fear that her mistress might be pursued and arrested

seemed to have given wings.

“Leonora,” at length cried the queen, “I feel that I can go no farther.

Stop, and let us rest for a moment; you walk too quickly.” Exhausted with

fatigue, she seated herself on a rock by the roadside.

She had scarcely rested a moment when a magnificent carriage passed.

The silken curtains were drawn back, and the flaming torches, carried

by couriers, who surrounded the carriage, completely illuminated the

interior. Seated in this princely equipage was a young girl, brilliant

in her youthful beauty and the splendor of her elegant dress and

jewelled adornings. At a glance, Catherine recognized Anne Boleyn, who

was returning from a grand entertainment given her by the Lord Mayor of

London.

She passed like the light; the carriage rapidly whirling through the mud

and water, that flew from the wheels and covered anew the already soiled

garments of the hapless queen.

Catherine, completely overcome by painful emotions, felt as though she

were dying.

“Leonora, listen!” she said in a faint voice, scarcely audible--“Leonora,

come near me--give me your hand; I feel that I am dying! You will carry

to my daughter my last benediction!”

She sought in the darkness the hand of Leonora; the film of death

seemed gathering over her eyes; she did not speak, her head sank on her

shoulder, and poor Leonora thought the queen had ceased to breathe. She

at first held her in her arms; but at length, overcome by fatigue, she

sank upon the earth as she vainly endeavored to revive her by breathing

into her mouth her own life-breath. But seeing all her efforts to restore

animation useless, she came to the terrible conclusion that Catherine was

indeed dead.

“My dear mistress,” she cried wildly, wringing her hands, “my good

mistress is dead! What will become of me? It is my fault: I should

have prevented her from going. Ah! how miserable I am!” And her tears

and cries redoubled. At length she heard in the distance the sound of

approaching footsteps, and was soon able to distinguish a litter, borne

by a number of men. “Help!” she cried, her hopes reviving at the sight,

and very soon they were near her--“help! come to my assistance; my

mistress is dying!” Seeing two women, one lying on the ground supported

in the arms of another, who appeared half-deranged, the person who

occupied the litter commanded the men to stop immediately, and he quickly

alighted. It was the king! He also was going to London to see the

legate; to prevent his anxious haste from being known, and commented on,

he had adopted this secret conveyance. When she saw him, Leonora was

paralyzed with apprehension and alarm. The king instantly recognized

the queen and the unhappy Leonora. In a furious voice, he demanded what

she was doing there and where she had been. But in vain she endeavored

to reply--her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth--she was unable to

articulate a word. Transported with rage at her silence, and by what

he suspected, he immediately had the queen placed in the litter, and

ordering the men to walk slowly, he followed them on foot to the palace.

Catherine was carried to her own apartment, and soon restored to

consciousness; but on opening her eyes she looked around, vainly hoping

to behold her faithful Leonora. She never saw her again! She had been

taken away, and the punishment that was meted out to her, or the fate

that befel the unfortunate girl, was for ever involved in mystery.

While discord filled the royal palace with perplexity and sorrow a

statesman, simple and peaceful, awaited, with happiness mingled with

impatience, the arrival of a friend. In his house, all around him seemed

possessed of redoubled activity. The family table was more elegantly

spread, fresh flowers decorated all the apartments, the children ran to

and fro in the very excess of their joy and delight, until at length,

in every direction, the glad announcement was heard, “He has come! he

has come!” The entire family eagerly descended to the court-yard to meet

and welcome the visitor, and Sir Thomas, with feelings of inexpressible

joy, folded in his embrace the Bishop of Rochester, the wise and virtuous

Fisher, whom he loved with the purest and tenderest sentiments of

friendship.

“At last you are here,” he exclaimed; “how happy I am to see you once

more!”

While the good bishop was ascending the stairs, surrounded by a troop

of Sir Thomas’ youngest children, Margaret, the eldest daughter, came

forward and saluted him, accompanied by Lady More, her step-mother,

and young William Roper, her affianced husband. They all entered the

drawing-room together, and, after engaging a short time in general

conversation, Sir Thomas bade the children retire, that he might converse

with more freedom.

“My dear friend,” he exclaimed, taking the bishop’s hand again in his

own, “I cannot express the joy I feel at your return. I have been so long

deprived of your presence, and I have so many things to say to you. But

my heart is too full at this moment to permit me to express all I feel or

would say! But why have you not answered my letters?”

“Your letters!” replied the bishop. “Why, it has been more than a month

since I received one from you.”

“How can that be possible unless they have been intercepted?” replied

More. “The king every day becomes more and more suspicious. If this

continues, it will soon be considered high treason for a man to think.”

“I cannot tell what has become of your letters. I only know I have

not received them, and it has caused me a great deal of anxiety and

apprehension. But my friend, since I find you full of life and health,

I am quite satisfied and happy. Now, let me hear all that has happened

at court; but let me begin by first telling you that the king has sent

me, through Cardinal Wolsey, a document he has written on the subject

of divorce, asking my opinion and advice. I have answered him with all

frankness and candor, expressing myself strongly against his views.

Certainly, there is nothing more absurd than the idea of the king’s

wishing to repudiate, after so many years of marriage, a princess so

virtuous and irreproachable, to whom he can find no other objection

than that she was betrothed to his brother, Prince Arthur. Besides, a

dispensation was obtained on that account at the time of his marriage,

therefore it would seem his conscience ought to be perfectly satisfied.”

“Yes, yes, his conscience should be entirely at rest,” replied Sir

Thomas. “And if he sincerely believes the marriage has been void

until this time, why does he not make the effort to have it rendered

legitimate, instead of endeavoring to annul it entirely? It is because he

wishes to marry one of the queen’s ladies--the young Anne Boleyn!”

“Oh! horrible,” cried Fisher. “Are you sure, my friend, of what you say?

Gracious heaven! If I had only suspected it! But I assure you I have

had entire confidence in him. I have, therefore, examined the subject

conscientiously and with the greatest possible diligence before giving

him my reply. Had I suspected any such scheme as this, I should never

have had the patience to consider the arguments he has presented with so

much duplicity.”

“Well, my dear Fisher,” replied Sir Thomas, “such is the sad truth, and

such are the ‘scruples’ that disturb the tender conscience of the king.

To repudiate the queen and the Princess Mary, his daughter, is his sole

aim, his only desire. I also have received an order to read and give my

opinion on the divorce question; but I have asked to be excused, on the

ground of my very limited knowledge of theological matters. Moreover, all

these debates and hypocritical petitions for advice are entirely absurd

and unnecessary. Cardinal Campeggio, the Pope’s legate, has already

arrived from Rome, and the queen will appear before a court composed of

the legate and Wolsey, together with several other cardinals.”

“The queen brought to trial!” cried the Bishop of Rochester. “The queen

arraigned to hear her honor and her rank disputed? What a shame upon

England! Who will speak for her? I would give my life to be called to

defend her! But how is it that Wolsey--the all-powerful Wolsey--has not

diverted the king from his unworthy purpose?”

“He is said to have tried; but he stands in awe of the king. You know an

ambitious man never opposes him to whom he owes his power. Nevertheless,”

added More, “I cannot believe he will dare to pronounce the Princess Mary

illegitimate. For, all laws aside, supposing even that the marriage were

annulled, the good faith in which it was contracted invests her birth

with an inalienable right.”

“I hope it may be so,” said Fisher; “but what immense calamities this

question will bring on our unhappy country!”

“I fear so, my friend,” replied More. “At present, the people are pledged

to the queen’s cause; it could not be otherwise, she is so much beloved

and esteemed; and they declare, if the king does succeed in repudiating

Catherine, that he will find it impossible to deprive his daughter of her

right to reign over them.”

“And Wolsey,” replied the bishop thoughtfully, “will be called to

sit in judgment on his sovereign! He will be against her! And this

Campeggio--what says he in the matter?”

“We believe,” replied More, “that he will sustain the queen; he seems to

possess great firmness and integrity of character. His first interview

with the king gave us great hopes. Henry has overwhelmed him with

protestations of his entire submission, but all his artifices have been

frustrated by the discernment and prudence of the Italian cardinal. His

impenetrable silence on the subject of his own personal opinions has

plunged the king into despair. Since that day he has honored him with

incessant visits, has offered him the rich bishopric of Durham, and

worked unceasingly to corrupt his integrity by promises and flattery.”

“How keenly the queen must suffer,” said Fisher--“she that I saw, at

the time of her arrival in the kingdom, so young, so beautiful, and so

idolized by Henry!”

“Alas! I think so,” said More. “For some time I have found it impossible

to approach her. However, she appears in public as usual, always gracious

and affable; there is no change in her appearance. The queen is truly

a most admirable woman. During your absence, an epidemic made its

appearance called the ‘sweating sickness,’ which made terrible ravages.

Wolsey fled from his palace, several noblemen belonging to his household

having died very suddenly of the disease. The king was greatly alarmed;

he never left the queen for a moment, and united with her in constant

prayers to God, firmly believing that her petitions would avail to stay

the pestilence. He immediately despatched Anne Boleyn to her father,

where she was attacked by the disease, and truly we would have felt

no regret at her loss if the Lord in taking her had only deigned to

show mercy to her soul. At one time we believed the king had entirely

reformed, but, alas! the danger had scarcely passed when he recalled Anne

Boleyn, and is again estranged from the queen.”

“Death gives us terrible lessons,” replied the Bishop of Rochester. “In

his presence we judge of all things wisely. The illusions of time are

dissipated, to give place to the realities of eternity!” As the bishop

said these words, several persons who had called to see Sir Thomas

entered the room. Conspicuous among them was Cromwell, the protégé of

Wolsey. This man was both false and sinister, who made use of any means

that led to the acquisition of fortune. He possessed the arts of intrigue

and flattery. To a profound dissimulation he added an air of politeness

and a knowledge of the world that, in general, caused him to be well

received in society. A close scrutiny of his character, however, made

it evident that there was something in the depths of this man’s soul

rendering him unworthy of any confidence. To him, vice and virtue were

words devoid of any meaning. When he found a man was no longer necessary

to his designs, or that he could not in some manner use him, he made no

further effort to conciliate or retain his friendship. He saluted Sir

Thomas and the Bishop of Rochester with a quiet ease, and seated himself

beside young Cranmer--“with whom I am very well acquainted,” he remarked.

For Cromwell, like all other intriguers, assumed intimacy with all the

world.

Scarcely had he uttered the words when a Mr. Williamson was ushered in,

who had returned to London a few days before, after a long absence on the

Continent.

“And so you are back, Mr. Williamson,” cried More, taking his hand. “You

are just from Germany, I believe? Well, do tell us how matters stand in

that country. It seems, from what we hear, everything is in commotion

there.”

“Your supposition is quite correct, sir,” replied Williamson in a

half-serious, half-jesting manner. “The emperor is furious against our

king, and has sent ambassadors to Rome to oppose the divorce. But the

empire is greatly disturbed by religious dissensions, therefore I doubt

if he will be able to give the subject as much attention as he desires.

New reformers are every day springing up. The foremost now is Bacer,

a Dominican monk; then comes Zwingle, the curate of Zürich--where he

endeavored to abolish the Mass, to the great scandal of the people--and

there is still another, named Œcolampadius, who has joined Zwingle. But

strangest of all is that these reformers, among themselves, agree in

nothing. The one admits a dogma, the other rejects it; to-day they think

this, to-morrow that. Every day some new doctrine is promulgated. Luther

has a horror of Zwingle, and they mutually damn each other. The devil is

no longer able to recognize himself. They occasionally try to patch up a

reconciliation, and agree altogether to believe a certain doctrine, but

the compact is scarcely drawn up before the whole affair is upset again.”

Cranmer, while listening to this discourse, moved uneasily in his chair,

until at length, unable to restrain himself longer, he interrupted

Williamson in a sharp, cutting manner that he endeavored to soften.

“In truth, sir, you speak very slightingly of these learned and

distinguished men. And only, it seems, because they demand a reform in

the morals of the clergy, and preach against and denounce the abuses of

the church in the matter of indulgences.”

“Beautiful reformers!” cried Williamson. “They protest to-day against an

abuse which they alone have felt as such, and that but for a very short

time. And permit me to insist on your observing a fact, which it is by no

means necessary or expedient to forget, that this quarrel originated in

the displeasure felt by Luther because it was not to his own order, but

to that of the Dominicans, to whom the distribution of indulgences was

entrusted.”

“That may be possible, sir,” interrupted Cranmer, “but at least you will

not deny that the immorality of the German clergy imperatively demanded a

thorough reformation.”

“It is quite possible, my dear sir, that I may not be ready at once to

agree with you in your opinions. But if the German church has become

relaxed in morals, it is the fault of those only who before their

elevation to the holy office had not, as they were bound to have, the

true spirit of their vocation. But I pray you, on this point of morals,

it will not do to boast of the severity of these new apostles. The

disciples of Christ left their wives, when called to ‘go into all the

world and preach the Gospel,’ but these men begin by taking wives. Luther

has married a young and beautiful nun, an act that has almost driven his

followers to despair, and scandalized and excited the ridicule of the

whole city. As to Bucer, he is already married to his second wife!”

“What!” cried the bishop, “these men marry! Marry--in the face of the

holy church! Do they forget the solemn vows of chastity they have

made?--for they are all either priests or monks.”

“Their vows! Oh! they _retract_ their vows, they say. These ‘vows’ are

what they call _abuses_; and the priests of this so severely reformed

church will hereafter enjoy the inestimable privilege of marrying.”

Whilst this conversation had been going on, Sir Thomas kept his eyes

closely fixed on Cranmer, trying to discover, from the expression of his

pale, meagre face, the impression made on him by the conversation. He

was well convinced that latterly Cranmer, although he had already taken

orders, maintained the new doctrines with all the influence he possessed.

And the reason why he had so thoroughly espoused them was because of a

violent passion conceived for the daughter of Osiander, one of the chief

reformers.

Born of a poor and obscure family, he had embraced the ecclesiastical

state entirely from motives of interest and ambition, and without the

slightest vocation, his sole aim being to advance his own interests

and fortunes by every possible means, and he had already succeeded in

ingratiating himself with the Earl of Wiltshire, who, together with all

the family of Anne Boleyn, were his devoted patrons and friends. It was

by these means that he was afterwards elevated to the archiepiscopal see

of Canterbury, where we will find him servilely devoting himself to the

interests of Henry VIII., and at last dying the death of a traitor.

Influenced by such motives, Cranmer warmly defended the new doctrines,

bringing forward every available argument, and ended by declaring he

thought it infinitely better that the priests should be allowed to marry

than be exposed to commit sin.

“Nothing obliges them to commit sin,” cried the Bishop of Rochester, who

was no longer able to maintain silence. “On the contrary, sir, every

law and regulation of the discipline and canons of the church tends to

inspire and promote the most immaculate purity of morals. These rules

may seem hard to those who have embraced the ecclesiastical state from

motives of pride and an ambitious self-interest, and without having

received from God the graces necessary for the performance of the duties

of so exalted and holy a ministry. This is why we so often have to grieve

over the misconduct of so many of the clergy. But if they complain of

their condition now, what will it be when they have wives and families

to increase their cares and add to their responsibilities? The priest!”

continued the bishop, seeming to penetrate the very depths of Cranmer’s

narrow, contracted soul, “have you ever reflected upon the sublimity of

his vocation? The priest is the father of the orphan, the brother of the

poor, the consoler of the dying, the spiritual support of the criminal

on the scaffold, the merciful judge of the assassin in his dungeon. Say,

do you not think the entire human race a family sufficiently large, its

duties sufficiently extended, its responsibilities, wants, and cares

sufficiently arduous and pressing? How could a priest do more, when his

duty now requires him to devote, and give himself entirely to, each and

every one of the human family? No; a priest is a man who has made a

solemn vow to become an angel. If he does not intend to fulfil that vow,

then let him never pronounce it!”

“O Rochester!” cried Sir Thomas More, greatly moved, “how I delight to

hear you express yourself in this manner!”

And Sir Thomas spoke with all sincerity, for the bishop, without being

conscious of it, had faithfully described his own life and character,

and those who knew and loved him found no difficulty in recognizing the

portrait.

As Sir Thomas spoke, the door again opened, and all arose respectfully

on seeing the Duke of Norfolk appear--that valiant captain, to whom

England was indebted for her victory gained on the field of Flodden.

He was accompanied by the youngest and best-beloved of his sons, the

young Henry, Earl of Surrey. Even at his very tender age, the artless

simplicity and graceful manners of this beautiful child commanded the

admiration of all, while his brilliant intellect and lively imagination

announced him as the future favorite and cherished poet of the age.

Alas! how rapidly fled those golden years of peace and happiness. Later,

and Norfolk, this proud father, so happy in being the parent of such a

son, lived to behold the head of that noble boy fall upon the scaffold!

The crime of which Henry VIII. will accuse him will be that of having

united his arms with those of Edward the Confessor, whose royal blood

mingled with that which flowed in his own veins.

Sir Thomas approached the duke and saluted him with great deference. The

Bishop of Rochester insisted on resigning him his chair, but the duke

declined, and seated himself in the midst of the company.

“I was not aware,” said he, turning graciously towards the bishop, “that

Sir Thomas was enjoying such good company. I congratulate myself on the

return of my Lord of Rochester. He will listen, I am sure, with lively

interest to the recital I have come to make; for I must inform you,

gentlemen, I am just from Blackfriars, where the king summoned me this

morning in great haste, to assist, with some of the highest dignitaries

of the kingdom, at the examination of the queen before the assembly of

cardinals.”

He had scarcely uttered these words when an expression of profound

amazement overspread the features of all present. More was by no means

the least affected.

“The queen!” he cried. “Has she then appeared in person? And so

unexpectedly and rudely summoned! They have done this in order that she

might not be prepared with her defence!”

“I know not,” replied the duke; “but I shall never be able to forget

the sad and imposing scene. When we entered, the cardinals and the two

legates were seated on a platform covered with purple cloth; the king

seated at their right. We were arranged behind his chair in perfect

silence. Very soon the queen entered, dressed in the deepest mourning.

She took her seat on the left of the platform, facing the king. When the

king’s name was called he arose, and remained standing and in silence.

But when the queen was in her turn summoned, she arose, and replied,

with great dignity, that she boldly protested against her judges for

three important reasons: first, because she was a stranger; secondly,

because they were all in possession of royal benefices, which had been

bestowed on them by her adversary; and, thirdly, that she had grave and

all-important reasons for believing that she would not obtain justice

from a tribunal so constituted. She added that she had already appealed

to the Pope, and would not submit to the judgment of this court. Having

said these words, she stood in silence, but when she heard them declare

her appeal should not be submitted to the Pope, she passed before the

cardinals, and, walking proudly across the entire hall, she threw herself

at the feet of the king.

“It would be impossible,” continued Norfolk, “to describe the emotion

excited by this movement.

“‘Sire,’ she cried, with a respectful but firm and decided tone, ‘I beg

you to regard me with compassion. Pity me as a woman, as a stranger

without friends on whom I can rely, without a single disinterested

adviser to whom I can turn for counsel! I call upon God to witness,’

she continued, raising her expressive eyes towards heaven, ‘that I have

always been to you a loyal, faithful wife, and have made it my constant

duty to conform in all things to your will; that I have loved those whom

you have loved, whether I knew them to be my enemies or my friends. For

many years I have been your wife; I am the mother of your children. God

knows, when I married you, I was an unsullied virgin, and since that time

I have never brought reproach on the sanctity of my marriage vows. Your

own conscience bears witness to the truth of what I say. If you can find

a single fault with which to reproach me, then will I pledge you my word

to bow my head in shame, and at once leave your presence; but, if not, I

pray you in God’s holy name to render me justice.’

“While she was speaking, a low murmur of approbation was heard throughout

the assembly, followed by a long, unbroken silence. The king grew deadly

pale, but made no reply to the queen, who arose, and was leaving the

hall, when Henry made a signal to the Duke of Suffolk to detain her. He

followed her, and made every effort to induce her to return, but in vain.

Turning haughtily round, she said, in a tone sufficiently distinct to be

heard by the entire assembly:

“‘Go, tell the king, your master, that until this hour I have never

disobeyed him, and that I regret being compelled to do so now.’

“Saying these words, she immediately turned and left the hall, followed

by her ladies in waiting.

“Her refusal to remain longer in the presence of her judges, and the

touching, unstudied eloquence of the appeal she had made, cast the

tribunal into a state of great embarrassment, and the honorable judges

seemed to wish most heartily they had some one else to decide for them;

when suddenly the king arose, and, turning haughtily towards them, spoke:

“‘Sirs,’ he said, ‘most cheerfully and with perfect confidence do

I present my testimony, bearing witness to the spotless virtue and

unsullied integrity of the queen. Her character, her conduct, in every

particular, has been above reproach. But it is impossible for me to

live in the state of constant anxiety this union causes me to suffer.

My conscience keeps me in continual dread because of having married

this woman, who was the betrothed wife of my own brother. I will use no

dissimulation, my lords; I know very well that many of you believe I

have been persuaded by the Cardinal of York to make this appeal for a

divorce. But I declare in your presence this day, this is an entirely

false impression, and that, on the contrary, the cardinal has earnestly

contended against the scruples which have disturbed my soul. But, I

declare, against my own will, and in spite of all my regrets, his

opinions have not been able to restore to me the tranquillity of a heart

without reproach. I have, in consequence, found it necessary to confer

again with the Bishop of Tarbes, who has, unhappily, only confirmed the

fears I already entertain. I have consulted my confessor and many other

prelates, who have all advised me to submit this question to the tribunal

of our Holy Father, the Sovereign Pontiff. To this end, my lords, you

have been invested by him with his own supreme authority and spiritual

power. I will listen to you as I would listen to him--that is to say,

with the most entire submission. I wish, however, to remind you again

that my duty towards my subjects requires me to prevent whatever might

have the effect in the future of disturbing their tranquillity; and,

unfortunately, I have but too strong reasons for fearing that, at some

future day, the legitimacy of the right of the Princess Mary to the

throne may be disputed. It is with entire confidence that I await your

solution of a question so important to the happiness of my subjects and

the peace of my kingdom. I have no doubt that you will be able to remove

all the obstacles placed in my way.’

“Saying these words, the king retired, and started instantly for his

palace at Greenwich. The noblemen generally followed him, but I remained

to witness the end of what proved to be a tumultuous and stormy debate.

Nevertheless, after a long discussion, they decided to go on with the

investigation, to hear the advocates of the queen, and continue the

proceedings in spite of her protest.”

“Who is the queen’s advocate?” demanded the Bishop of Rochester.

“He has not yet been appointed,” replied Norfolk. “It seems to me it

would only be just to let the queen select her own counsel.”

“But she will refuse, without a doubt,” replied Cromwell, “after the

manner she has adopted to defend herself.”

They continued to converse for a long time on this subject, which filled

with anxious apprehension the heart of Sir Thomas, as well as that of his

faithful friend, the good Bishop of Rochester.

TO BE CONTINUED.

THE BIRTH-PLACE OF S. VINCENT DE PAUL

“I love all waste

And solitary places where we taste

The pleasure of believing what we see

Is boundless as we wish our souls to be:

And such was this wide ocean and the shore

More barren than its billows.”

--_Shelley._

The Landes--that long, desolate tract on the western coast of France

between the Gironde and the Adour, with its vast forests of melancholy

pines, its lone moors and solitary deserts, its broad marshes, and its

dunes of sand that creep relentlessly on as if they had life--appeal

wonderfully to the imagination, that _folle du logis_, as Montaigne calls

it, but which, in spite of him, we love to feed. One may travel for hours

through these vast steppes covered with heather without discovering the

smoke of a single chimney, or anything to relieve the monotonous horizon,

unless a long line of low sand-hills that look like billows swayed to

and fro in the wind; or some low tree standing out against the cloudless

heavens, perhaps half buried in the treacherous sands; or a gaunt

peasant, the very silhouette of a man, on his stilts, “five feet above

contradiction,” like Voltaire’s preacher, perhaps with his knitting-work

in his hands, or a distaff under his arm, as if fresh from the feet of

Omphale, driving his flock before him--all birds of one feather, or

sheep of one wool; for he is clad in a shaggy sheepskin coat, and looks

as if he needed shearing as much as any of them. Or perhaps this Knight

of the Sable Fleece--for the sheep of the Landes are mostly black--is

on one of the small, light horses peculiar to the region, said to have

an infusion of Arabian blood--thanks to the Saracen invaders--which are

well adapted to picking their way over quaking bogs and moving sands, but

unfortunately are fast degenerating from lack of care in maintaining the

purity of the breed.

During the winter season these extensive heaths are converted by the

prolonged rains into immense marshes, as the impermeable _alios_ within

six inches of the surface prevents the absorption of moisture. The

peasant is then obliged to shut himself up with his beasts in his low,

damp cottage, with peat for his fuel, a pine torch for his candle,

brackish water relieved by a dash of vinegar for drink, meagre broth,

corn bread, and perhaps salt fish for his dinner. Whole generations are

said to live under one roof in the Landes, so thoroughly are the people

imbued with the patriarchal spirit. Woman has her rights here--at least

in the house. The old _dauna_ (from _domina_, perhaps) rules the little

kingdom with a high hand, including her sons and her sons’ wives down to

the remotest generation, with undisputed sway. It is the very paradise

of mothers-in-law. The _paterfamilias_ seldom interferes if his soup is

ready at due time and she makes both ends meet at the end of the year,

with a trifle over for a barrel of _pique-pout_ to be indulged in on

extraordinary occasions. From La Teste to the valley of the Gave this

old house-mother is queen of the hive, active, thrifty, keen of eye, and

sharp of tongue. The slightest murmur is frozen into silence beneath the

arctic ray of her Poyser-like glance. She is a hawk by day and an owl by

night. She directs the spinning and weaving of the wool and flax, orders

the meals, and superintends the wardrobe of the whole colony. The land

is so poor that it is seldom divided among the children. The oldest heir

becomes head of the family, and they all fare better by sharing in the

general income. In unity there is safety--and economy.

At every door is the clumsy machine for breaking the flax that is spun

during the long winter evenings for the sail-makers of Bayonne or the

weavers of Béarn, whose linen, if not equal to that of Flanders, is

as good as that of Normandy. Before every house is also the huge oven

where the bread is baked for general consumption. Flocks of geese paddle

from pool to pool in the marshes, and wild ducks breed undisturbed in

the fens. In the villages on the borders of the Landes you hear in the

morning a sharp whistle that might serve for a locomotive. It is the

swineherd summoning his charge, which issue in a gallop, two or three

from each house, to seek their food in the moors. They all come back in

the evening, and go to their own pens to get the bucket of bran that

awaits them. Feeding thus in the wild, their meat acquires a peculiar

flavor. Most of these animals go into the market. The hams of Bayonne

have always been famous. We might say they are historic, for Strabo

speaks of them.

When the rainy season is at an end, these bogs and stagnant pools give

out a deadly miasma in the burning sun, engendering fevers, dysentery,

and the fatal pellagra. The system is rapidly undermined, and the peasant

seldom attains to an advanced age. He marries at twenty and is old at

forty.

A kind of awe comes over the soul in traversing this region, and yet

it has a certain mysterious attraction which draws us on and on, as

if nature had some marvellous secret in store for us. The atmosphere

is charged with a thin vapor that quivers in the blazing sun. Strange

insects are in the air. A sense of the infinite, such as we feel in the

midst of the ocean, comes over us. We grow breathless as the air--grow

silent as the light that gilds the vast landscape before us. One of the

greatest of the sons of the Landes--the Père de Ravignan--says: “Solitude

is the _patrie des forts_: silence is their prayer.” One feels how true

it is in these boundless moors. It is the only prayer fit for this realm

of silence, where one is brought closer and closer to the heart of

nature, and restored, as it were, at least in a degree, to the primeval

relation of man with his Creator.

Carlyle says the finest nations in the world, the English and the

American, are all going away into wind and tongue. We recommend a season

in the Landes, where one becomes speedily impressed that “silence is the

eternal duty of man.”

We wonder such a region should be inhabited. The _daunas_, we hope, never

have courage enough to raise their still voices in the open air. We fancy

wooing carried on in true Shaksperian style:

“O Imogen! I’ll speak to thee in silence.”

--“What should Cordelia do? Love and be silent.”

However this may be, the Landes are peopled, though thinly. Here and

there at immense distances we come to a cottage. The men are shepherds,

fishermen, or _résiniers_, as the turpentine-producers are called.

Pliny, Dioscorides, and other ancient writers speak of the inhabitants

as collecting the yellow amber thrown up by the sea, and trafficking in

beeswax, resin, and pitch. The Phœnicians and Carthaginians initiated

them into the mysteries of mining and forging. The Moors taught them the

value of their cork-trees. They still keep bees that feed on the purple

bells of the heather, and sell vast quantities of wax for the candles

used in the churches of France--_cierges_, as they are called, from _cire

vierge_--virgin wax, wrought by chaste bees, and alone fit for the sacred

altars of Jesus and Mary.

Ausonius thus speaks of the pursuits of the people:

“Mercatus ne agitas leviore numismate captans,

Insanis quod mox pretiis gravis auctio vendat,

Albentisque sevi globulos et pinguia ceræ

Pondera, Naryciamque picem, scissamque papyrum

Fumantesque olidum paganica lumina tœdas.”

They are devoting more and more attention to the production of turpentine

by planting the maritime pine which grew here in the days of Strabo,

and thereby reclaiming the vast tracts of sand thrown up by the sea.

A priest, the Abbé Desbiez, and his brother are said to have first

conceived the idea of reclaiming their native deserts and staying the

progress of the quicksands which had buried so many places, and were

moving unceasingly on at the rate of about twenty-five yards a year,

threatening the destruction of many more. That was about a hundred

years ago. A few years after M. Brémontier, a French engineer, tested

the plan by planting, as far as his means allowed, the maritime pine,

the strong, fibrous roots of which take tenacious hold of the slightest

crevice in the rock, and absorb the least nutriment in the soil. But this

experiment was slow to lead to any important result, as the _pinada_, or

pine plantations, involve an outlay that makes no return for years. It

was not till Louis Philippe’s time that the work was carried on with any

great activity. Napoleon III. also greatly extended the plantations--the

importance of which became generally acknowledged--not only to arrest the

progress of the sands, but to meet the want of turpentine in the market,

so long dependent on imports.

In ten years the trees begin to yield an income. Each acre then furnishes

twelve or fifteen thousand poles for vineyards or the coalman. The

prudent owner does not tap his trees till they are twenty-five years old.

By that time they are four feet in circumference and yield turpentine

to the value of fifty or sixty francs a year. Then the _résinier_ comes

with his hatchet and makes an incision low down in the trunk, from which

the resin flows into an earthern jar or a hollow in the ground. These

jars are emptied at due intervals, and the incision from time to time

is widened. Later, others are made parallel to it. These are finally

extended around the tree. With prudence this treatment may be continued

a century; for this species of pine is very hardy if not exhausted. When

the poor tree is near its end, it is hacked without any mercy and bled to

death. Then it is only fit for the sawmill, wood-pile, or coal-pit.

Poor and desolate as the Landes are, they have had their share of great

men. “Every path on the globe may lead to the door of a hero,” says some

one. We have spoken of La Teste. This was the stronghold of the stout old

Captals de Buch,[4] belonging to the De Graillys, one of the historic

families of the country. No truer specimen of the lords of the Landes

could be found than these old captals, who, poor, proud, and adventurous,

entered the service of the English, to whom they remained faithful as

long as that nation had a foothold in the land. Their name and deeds are

familiar to every reader of Froissart. The nearness of Bordeaux, and the

numerous privileges and exemptions granted the foresters and herdsmen of

the Landes, explain the strong attachment of the people to the English

crown. The De Graillys endeavored by alliances to aggrandize their

family, and finally became loyal subjects of France under Louis XI. They

intermarried with the Counts of Foix and Béarn, and their vast landed

possessions were at length united with those of the house of Albret.

Where would the latter have been without them? And without the Albrets,

where the Bourbons?

And this reminds us of the Sires of Albret, another and still more

renowned family of the Landes.

Near the source of the Midou, among the pine forests of Maremsin, you

come to a village of a thousand people called Labrit, the ancient

Leporetum, or country of hares, whence Lebret, Labrit, and Albret. Here

rose the house of Albret from obscurity to reign at last over Navarre and

unite the most of ancient Aquitaine to the crown of France. The history

of these lords of the heather is a marvel of wit and good-luck. Great

hunters of hares and seekers of heiresses, they were always on the scent

for advantageous alliances, not too particular about the age or face of

the lady, provided they won broad lands or a fat barony. Once in their

clutches, they seldom let go. They never allowed a daughter to succeed to

any inheritance belonging to the _seigneurie_ of Albret as long as there

was a male descendant. Always receive, and never give, was their motto.

Their daughters had their wealth of beauty for a dowry, with a little

money or a troublesome fief liable to reversion.

The Albrets are first heard of in the XIth century, when the Benedictine

abbot of S. Pierre at Condom, alarmed for the safety of Nérac, one of

the abbatial possessions, called upon his brother, Amanieu d’Albret, for

aid. The better to defend the monk’s property, the Sire of Albret built a

castle on the left bank of the Baïse, and played the _rôle_ of protector

so well that at last his descendants are found sole lords of Nérac, on

the public square of which now stands the statue of Henry IV., the most

glorious of the race. The second Amanieu went to the Crusades under the

banner of Raymond of St. Gilles, and entered Jerusalem next to Godfrey

of Bouillon, to whom an old historian makes him related, nobody knows

how. Oihenard says the Albrets descended from the old kings of Navarre,

and a MS. of the XIVth century links them with the Counts of Bigorre;

but this was probably to flatter the pride of the house after it rose to

importance. We find a lord of Albret in the service of the Black Prince

with a thousand lances (five thousand men), and owner of Casteljaloux,

Lavazan, and somehow of the abbey of Sauve-Majour; but not finding the

English service sufficiently lucrative, he passed over to the enemy.

Charles d’Albret was so able a captain that he quartered the lilies of

France on his shield, and held the constable’s sword till the fatal

battle of Agincourt. Alain d’Albret made a fine point in the game by

marrying Françoise de Bretagne, who, though ugly, was the niece and only

heiress of Jean de Blois, lord of Périgord and Limoges. His son had still

better luck. He married Catherine of Navarre. If he lost his possessions

beyond the Pyrenees, he kept the county of Foix, and soon added the lands

of Astarac. Henry I. of Navarre, by marrying Margaret of Valois, acquired

all the spoils of the house of Armagnac. Thus the princely house of

Navarre, under their daughter Jeanne, who married Antoine de Bourbon, was

owner of all Gascony and part of Guienne. It was Henry IV. of France who

finally realized the expression of the blind faith of the house of Albret

in its fortune, expressed in the prophetic device graven on the Château

de Coarraze, where he passed his boyhood: “_Lo que ha de ser no puede

faltar_”--That which must be will be!

But we have not yet come to the door of our hero. There is another native

of the Landes whose fame has gone out through the whole earth--whose

whole life and aim were in utter contrast with the spirit of these

old lords of the heather. The only armor he ever put on was that of

righteousness; the only sword, that of the truth; the only jewel, that

which the old rabbis say Abraham wore, the light of which raised up the

bowed down and healed the sick, and, after his death, was placed among

the stars! It need not be said we refer to S. Vincent de Paul, the great

initiator of public charity in France, who by his benevolence perhaps

effected as much for the good of the kingdom as Richelieu with his

political genius. He was born during the religious conflicts of the XVIth

century, in the little hamlet of Ranquine, in the parish of Pouy, on the

border of the Landes, a few miles from Dax. It must not be supposed the

_particule_ in his name is indicative of nobility. In former times people

who had no name but that given them at the baptismal font often added the

place of their birth to prevent confusion. S. Vincent was the son of a

peasant, and spent his childhood in watching his father’s scanty flock

among the moors. The poor cottage in which he was born is still standing,

and near it the gigantic old oak to the hollow of which he used to retire

to pray, both of which are objects of veneration to the pious pilgrim

of all ranks and all lands. Somewhere in these vast solitudes--whether

among the ruins of Notre Dame de Buglose, destroyed a little before by

the Huguenots, or in his secret oratory in the oak, we cannot say--he

heard the mysterious voice which once whispered to Joan of Arc among

the forests of Lorraine--a voice difficult to resist, which decided his

vocation in life. He resolved to enter the priesthood. The Franciscans

of Dax lent him books and a cell, and gave him a pittance for the love

of God; but he finished his studies and took his degree at Toulouse, as

was only discovered by papers found after his death, so unostentatious

was his life. He partly defrayed his expenses at Toulouse by becoming

the tutor of some young noblemen of Buzet. Near the latter place was a

solitary mountain chapel in the woods, not far from the banks of the

Tarn, called Notre Dame de Grâce. Its secluded position, the simplicity

of its decorations, and the devotion he experienced in this quiet

oratory, attracted the pious student, and he often retired there to pray

before the altar of Our Lady of Grace. It was there he found strength to

take upon himself the yoke of the priesthood--a yoke angels might fear

to bear. It was there, in solitude and silence, assisted by a priest and

a clerk, that he offered his first Mass; for, so terrified was he by the

importance and sublimity of this divine function, he had not the courage

to celebrate it in public. This chapel is still standing, and is annually

crowded with pilgrims on the festival of S. Vincent of Paul. It is good

to kneel on the worn flag-stones where the saint once prayed, and pour

out one’s soul before the altar that witnessed the fervor of his first

Mass. The superior-general of the Lazarists visited this interesting

chapel in 1851, accompanied by nearly fifty Sisters of Charity. They

brought a relic of the saint, a chalice and some vestments for the use of

the chaplain, and a bust of S. Vincent for the new altar to his memory.

Every step in S. Vincent’s life is marked by the unmistakable hand of

divine Providence. Captured in a voyage by Algerine pirates, he is sold

in the market-place of Tunis, that he might learn to sympathize with

those who are in bonds; he falls into the hands of a renegade, who,

with his whole family, is soon converted and makes his escape from the

country. S. Vincent presents them to the papal legate at Avignon, and

goes to Rome, whence he returns, charged with a confidential mission by

Cardinal d’Ossat. He afterwards becomes a tutor in the family of the

Comte de Gondi--another providential event. The count is governor-general

of the galleys, and the owner of vast possessions in Normandy. S. Vincent

labors among the convicts, and, if he cannot release them from their

bonds, he teaches them to bear their sufferings in a spirit of expiation.

He establishes rural missions in Normandy, and founds the College of

Bons-Enfants and the house of S. Lazare at Paris.

A holy widow, Mme. Legros, falls under his influence, and charitable

organizations of ladies are formed, and sisters for the special service

of the sick are established at S. Nicolas du Chardonnet. Little children,

abandoned by unnatural mothers, are dying of cold and hunger in the

streets; S. Vincent opens a foundling asylum, and during the cold winter

nights he goes alone through the most dangerous quarters of old Paris

in search of these poor waifs of humanity.[5] Clerical instruction is

needed, and Richelieu, at his instance, endows the first ecclesiastical

seminary. The moral condition of the army excites the saint’s compassion,

and the cardinal authorizes missionaries among the soldiers. The province

of Lorraine is suffering from famine. Mothers even devour their own

children. In a short time S. Vincent collects sixteen hundred thousand

livres for their relief. Under the regency of Anne of Austria he becomes

a member of the Council of Ecclesiastical Affairs. In the wars of

the Fronde he is for peace, and negotiates between the queen and the

parliament. The foundation of a hospital for old men marks the end of

his noble, unselfish life. The jewel of charity never ceases to glow

in his breast. It is his great bequest to his spiritual children. How

potent it has been is proved by the incalculable good effected to this

day by the Lazarists, Sisters of Charity, and Society of S. Vincent of

Paul--beautiful constellations in the firmament of the church!

In the midst of his honors S. Vincent never forgot his humble origin, but

often referred to it with the true spirit of _ama nesciri et pro nihilo

reputari_. Not that he was inaccessible to human weakness, but he knew

how to resist it. We read in his interesting _Life_ by Abbé Maynard that

the porter of the College of Bons-Enfants informed the superior one day

that a poorly-clad peasant, styling himself his nephew, was at the door.

S. Vincent blushed and ordered him to be taken up to his room. Then he

blushed for having blushed, and, going down into the street, embraced his

nephew and led him into the court, where, summoning all the professors of

the college, he presented the confused youth: “Gentlemen, this is the

most respectable of my family.” And he continued, during the remainder of

his visit, to introduce him to visitors of every rank as if he were some

great lord, in order to avenge his first movement of pride. And when, not

long after, he made a retreat, he publicly humbled himself before his

associates: “Brethren, pray for one who through pride wished to take his

nephew secretly to his room because he was a peasant and poorly dressed.”

S. Vincent returned only once to his native place after he began his

apostolic career. This was at the close of a mission among the convicts

of Bordeaux. During his visit he solemnly renewed his baptismal vows

in the village church where he had been baptized and made his First

Communion, and on the day of his departure he went with bare feet on a

pilgrimage to Notre Dame de Buglose, among whose ruins he had so often

prayed in his childhood, but which was now rebuilt. He was accompanied,

not only by his relatives, but by all the villagers, who were justly

proud of their countryman. He sang a solemn Mass at the altar of Our

Lady, and afterwards assembled the whole family around the table for a

modest repast, at the end of which he rose to take leave of them. They

all fell at his feet and implored his blessing. “Yes, I give you my

blessing,” replied he, much affected, “but I bless you poor and humble,

and beg our Lord to continue among you the grace of holy poverty.

Never abandon the condition in which you were born. This is my earnest

recommendation, which I beg you to transmit as a heritage to your

children. Farewell for ever!”

His advice was religiously kept. By mutual assistance his family might

have risen above its original obscurity. Some of his mother’s family were

advocates at the parliament of Bordeaux, and it would have been easy to

obtain offices that would have given them, at least, prominence in their

own village; but they clung to their rural pursuits. The advice of their

sainted relative was too precious a legacy to be renounced.

Not that S. Vincent was insensible to their condition or unambitious

by nature, but he knew the value of the hidden life and the perils

of worldly ambition. We have on this occasion another glimpse of his

struggles with nature. Hardly had he left his relatives before he gave

vent to his emotion in a flood of tears, and he almost reproached himself

for leaving them in their poverty. But let us quote his own words: “The

day I left home I was so filled with sorrow at separating from my poor

relatives that I wept as I went along--wept almost incessantly. Then came

the thought of aiding them and bettering their condition; of giving so

much to this one, and so much to that. While my heart thus melted within

me, I divided all I had with them. Yes, even what I had not; and I say

this to my confusion, for God perhaps permitted it to make me comprehend

the value of the evangelical counsel. For three months I felt this

importunate longing to promote the interests of my brothers and sisters.

It constantly weighed on my poor heart. During this time, when I felt a

little relieved, I prayed God to deliver me from this temptation, and

persevered so long in my prayer that at length he had pity on me and

took away this excessive tenderness for my relations; and though they

have been needy, and still are, the good God has given me the grace to

commit them to his Providence, and to regard them as better off than if

they were in an easier condition.”

S. Vincent was equally rigid as to his own personal necessities, as may

be seen by the following words from his own lips: “When I put a morsel of

bread to my mouth, I say to myself: Wretched man, hast thou earned the

bread thou art going to eat--the bread that comes from the labor of the

poor?”

Such is the spirit of the saints. In these days, when most people are

struggling to rise in the world, many by undue means, and to an unlawful

height, it is well to recall this holy example; it is good to get a

glimpse into the heart of a saint, and to remember there are still many

in the world and in the cloister who strive to counterbalance all this

ambition and love of display by their humility and self-denial.

Immediately after S. Vincent’s canonization, in 1737, the inhabitants of

Pouy, desirous of testifying their veneration for his memory, removed the

house where he was born a short distance from its original place, without

changing its primitive form in the least, and erected a small chapel

on the site, till means could be obtained for building a church. The

great Revolution put a stop to the plan. In 1821 a new effort was made,

a committee appointed, and a subscription begun which soon amounted to

thirty thousand francs; but at the revolution of 1830 material interests

prevailed, and the funds were appropriated to the construction of roads.

The ecclesiastical authorities at length took the matter in hand, and

formed the plan, not only of building a church, but surrounding it with

the various charitable institutions founded by S. Vincent--a hospital

for the aged, asylums for orphans and foundlings, and perhaps a _ferme

modèle_ in the Landes.

In 1850 the Bishop of Aire appealed to the Catholic world for aid. Pius

IX. blessed the undertaking. On the Festival of the Transfiguration,

1851, the corner-stone was laid by the bishop, assisted by Père Etienne,

the superior-general of the Lazarists. Napoleon III. and the Empress

Eugénie largely contributed to the work, and in a few years the church

and hospice were completed. The consecration took place April 24, 1864,

in the presence of an immense multitude from all parts of the country.

From three o’clock in the morning there were Masses at a dozen altars,

and the hands of the priests were fatigued in administering the holy

Eucharist. Among the communicants were eight hundred members of the

Society of S. Vincent de Paul, from Bordeaux, who manifested their joy

by enthusiastic hymns. At eight in the forenoon Père Etienne, surrounded

by Lazarists and Sisters of Charity, celebrated the Holy Sacrifice at

the newly-consecrated high altar, and several novices made their vows,

among whom was a young African, a cousin of Abdel Kader. A _châsse_

containing relics of S. Vincent was brought in solemn procession from the

parish church of Pouy, where he had been held at the font and received

the divine Guest in his heart for the first time. The road was strewn

with flowers and green leaves. The weather was delightful and the heavens

radiant. At the head of the procession was borne a banner, on which S.

Vincent was represented as a shepherd, followed by all the orphans of

the new asylum and the old men of the hospice. Then came a long line

of _Enfants de Marie_ dressed in white, carrying oriflammes, followed

by the students of the colleges of Aire and Dax. Behind were fifteen

hundred members of the Society of S. Vincent de Paul, and a file of

sisters of various orders, including eight hundred Sisters of Charity,

with a great number of Lazarists in the rear. Then came thirty relatives

of S. Vincent, wearing the peasant’s costume of the district, heirs of

his virtues and simplicity--_Noblesse oblige_. Then the Polish Lazarists

with the flag of their nation, beloved by S. Vincent, and after them

the clergy of the diocese and a great number from foreign parts, among

whom was M. Eugène Boré, of Constantinople, now superior-general of the

two orders founded by the saint. The shrine came next, surrounded by

Lazarists and Sisters of Charity. Behind the canons and other dignitaries

came eight bishops, four archbishops, and Cardinal Donnet of Bordeaux,

followed by the civil authorities and an immense multitude of people

nearly two miles in extent, with banners bearing touching devices.

This grand procession of more than thirty thousand people proceeded with

the utmost order, to the sound of chants, instrumental music, and salutes

from cannon from time to time, to the square in front of the new church,

where, before an altar erected at the foot of S. Vincent’s oak, they were

addressed by Père Etienne in an eloquent, thrilling discourse, admirable

in style and glowing with imagery, suited to the fervid nature of this

southern region. He spoke of S. Vincent, not only as the man of his age

with a providential mission, but of a type suited to all ages.

The man who loved his brethren, reconciled enemies, brought the rich and

poor into one common field imbued with a common idea of sacrifice and

devotion, fed the orphan, aided the needy, and wiped away the tears of

the sufferer, is the man of all times, and especially of an age marked by

the fomentation of political passions.

The old oak was gay with streamers, the hollow was fitted up as an

oratory, before which Cardinal Donnet said Mass in the open air, after

which thousands of voices joined in the solemn _Te Deum Laudamus_, and

the thirteen prelates terminated the grand ceremony by giving their

united benediction to the kneeling crowd.

A whole flock of Sisters of Charity, with their dove-like plumage of

white and gray, took the same train as ourselves the pleasant September

morning we left Bayonne for the birth-place of S. Vincent of Paul. They

seemed like birds of good omen. They were also going to the _Berceau_

(cradle), as they called it, not on a mere pilgrimage, but to make their

annual retreat. What for, the saints alone know; for they looked like the

personification of every amiable virtue, and quite ready to spread their

white wings and take flight for heaven. It was refreshing to watch their

gentle, unaffected ways, wholly devoid of those demure airs of superior

sanctity and repulsive austerity so exasperating to us worldly-minded

people. They all made the sign of the cross as the train moved out of

the station--and a good honest one it was, as if they loved the sign

of the Son of Man, and delighted in wearing it on their breast. Some

had come from St. Sebastian, others from St. Jean de Luz, and several

from Bayonne; but they mingled like sisters of one great family of

charity. Some chatted, some took out their rosaries and went to praying

with the most cheerful air imaginable, as if it were a new refreshment

just allowed them, instead of being the daily food of their souls; and

others seemed to be studying with interest the peculiar region we were

now entering. For we were now in the Landes--low, level, monotonous, and

melancholy. The railway lay through vast forests of dusky-pines, varied

by willows and cork-trees, with here and there, at long distances, an

open tract where ripened scanty fields of corn and millet around the low

cottages of the peasants. The sides of the road were purple with heather.

The air was full of aromatic odors. Each pine had its broad gash cut by

some merciless hand, and its life-blood was slowly trickling down its

side. Passing through this sad forest, one could not help thinking of

the drear, mystic wood in Dante’s _Inferno_, where every tree encloses a

human soul with infinite capacity of suffering, and at every gash cut,

every branch lopped off, utters a despairing cry:

“Why pluck’st thou me?

Then, as the dark blood trickled down its side,

These words it added: Wherefore tear’st me thus?

Is there no touch of mercy in thy breast?

Men once were we that now are rooted here.”

Though the sun was hot, the pine needles seemed to shiver, the branches

swayed to and fro in the air, and gave out a kind of sigh which sometimes

increased into an inarticulate wail. We look up, almost expecting to see

the harpies sitting

“Each on the wild thorn of his wretched shade.”

Could we stop, we might question these maimed trees and learn some

fearful tragedy from the imprisoned spirits. Perhaps they recount them

to each other in the wild winter nights when the peasants, listening

with a kind of fear in their lone huts, start up from their beds and

say it is Rey Artus--King Arthur--who is passing by with his long train

of dogs, horses, and huntsmen, from an old legend of the time of the

English occupation which says that King Arthur, as he was hearing Mass on

Easter-day, attracted by the cries of his hounds attacking their prey,

went out at the elevation of the Host. A whirlwind carried him into the

clouds, where he has hunted ever since, and will, without cessation or

repose, till the day of judgment, only taking a fly every seven years.

The popular belief that he is passing with a great noise through space

when the winds sweep across the vast moors on stormy nights probably

embodies the old tradition of some powerful lord whose hounds and

huntsmen ruined the crops of the poor, who, in their wrath, consigned

them to endless barren hunting-fields in the spirit-land--a legend which

reminds us of the _Aasgaardsreja_ of whom Miss Bremer tells us--spirits

not good enough to merit heaven, and yet not bad enough to deserve

hell, and are therefore doomed to ride about till the end of the world,

carrying fear and disaster in their train.

In a little over an hour we arrived at Dax, a pleasant town on the banks

of the Adour, with long lines of sycamores, behind which is a hill

crowned with an old château, now belonging to the Lazarists. The place

is renowned for its thermal springs and mud-baths, known to the Romans

before its conquest by the Cæsars. It was from Aquæ Augustæ, the capital

of the ancient Tarbelli (called in the Middle Ages the _ville d’Acqs_,

or _d’Acs_, whence Dax), that the name of Aquitaine is supposed to be

derived. Pliny, the naturalist, speaking of the Aquenses, says: _Aquitani

indè nomen provinciæ_. The Bay of Biscay was once known by the name of

Sinus Tarbellicus, from the ancient Tarbelli. Lucan says:

“Tunc rura Nemossi

Qui tenet et ripas Aturri, quo littore curvo

Molliter admissum claudit Tarbellicus æquor.”

S. Vincent of Saintonge was the first apostle of the region, and fell a

martyr to his zeal. Dax formed part of the dowry of the daughter of Henry

II. of England when she married Alfonso of Castile, but it returned to

the Plantagenets in the time of Edward III. The city was an episcopal

see before the revolution of 1793. François de Noailles, one of the

most distinguished of its bishops, was famous as a diplomatist in the

XVIth century. He was sent to England on several important missions, and

finally appointed ambassador to that country in the reign of Mary Tudor.

Recalled when Philip II. induced her to declare war against France, he

landed at Calais, and, carefully examining the fortifications, his keen,

observant eye soon discovered the weak point, to which, at his arrival

in court, he at once directed the king’s attention, declaring it would

not be a difficult matter to take the place. His statements made such an

impression on King Henry, who had always found him as judicious as he was

devoted to the interests of the crown, that he resolved to lay siege to

Calais, notwithstanding the opposition of his ministers, and the Duke of

Guise began the attack January 1, 1558. The place was taken in a week.

It had cost the English a year’s siege two hundred and ten years before.

Three weeks after its surrender Cardinal Hippolyte de Ferrara, Archbishop

of Auch (the son of Lucretia Borgia, who married Alphonso d’Este, Duke

of Ferrara) wrote François de Noailles as follows: “No one can help

acknowledging the great hand you had in the taking of Calais, as it was

actually taken at the very place you pointed out.” French historians have

been too forgetful of the hand the Bishop of Dax had in the taking of a

place so important to the interests of the nation, which added so much to

the glory of the French arms, and was so humiliating to England, whose

anguish was echoed by the queen when she exclaimed that if her heart

could be opened the very name of Calais would be found written therein!

This great churchman was no less successful in his embassy to Venice,

where he triumphed over the haughty pretensions of Philip II., and, as

Brantôme says, “won great honor and affection.” After five years in Italy

he returned to Dax, where he devoted most of his revenues to relieve

the misery that prevailed at that fearful time of religious war. Dax,

as he said, was “the poorest see in France.” In 1571 he was appointed

ambassador to Constantinople by Charles IX. Florimond de Raymond, an old

writer of that day, tells us the bishop was at first troubled as to his

presentation to the sultan, who only regarded the highest dignitaries

as the dust of his feet, and exacted ceremonies which the ambassador

considered beneath the dignity of a bishop and a representative of

France. He resolved not to submit to them, and, thanks to his pleasing

address, and handsome person dressed for the occasion in red _cramoisie_

and cloth of gold, he was not subjected to them. Moreover, by his

fascinating manners and agreeable conversation, he became a great

favorite of the sultan, and took so judicious a course that his embassy

ended by rendering France mistress of the commerce of the Mediterranean,

and giving her a pre-eminence in the East which she has never lost.

It was after his return from the Levant that, in an interview with Henry

III., the sagacious bishop urged the king to declare war against Spain,

as the best means of delivering France from the horrors of a civil war.

De Thou says the king seemed to listen favorably to the suggestion; but

it was opposed by the council, and it was not till ten years later that

Henry IV. declared war against that country, as Duruy states, “the better

to end the civil war.”

The Bishop of Dax seems to have been poorly remunerated for his eminent

services. Like Frederick the Great’s father, he said kings were always

hard of hearing when there was a question of money, and complained

that, notwithstanding his long services abroad, he had never received

either honors or profit. Even his appointments as ambassador to Venice,

amounting to more than thirty thousand livres, were still due. Many of

his letters to the king and to Marie de Médicis have been preserved,

which show his elevation of mind, and his broad political and religious

views, which give him a right to be numbered among the great churchmen of

the XVIth century.

At Dax we took a carriage to the _Berceau_ of S. Vincent, and, after

half an hour’s drive along a level road bordered with trees, we came

in sight of the great dome of the church rising up amid a group of fine

buildings. Driving up to the door, the first thing we observed was the

benign statue of the saint standing on the gable against the clear, blue

sky, with arms wide-spread, smiling on the pilgrim a very balm of peace.

Before the church there is a broad green, at the right of which is the

venerable old oak; at the left, the cottage of the De Pauls; and in the

rear of the church, the asylums and hospice--fine establishments one is

surprised to find in this remote region. We at once entered the church,

which is in the style of the Renaissance. It consists of a nave without

aisles, a circular apsis, and transepts which form the arms of the cross,

in the centre of which rises the dome, lined with an indifferent fresco

representing S. Vincent borne to heaven by the angels. Directly beneath

is the high altar where are enshrined relics of the saint. Around it,

at the four angles of the cross, are statues of four S. Vincents--of

Xaintes, of Saragossa, of Lerins, and S. Vincent Ferrer. The whole life

of S. Vincent of Paul is depicted in the stained-glass windows. And on

the walls of the nave are four paintings, one representing him as a boy,

praying before Our Lady of Buglose; the second, his first Mass in the

chapel of Notre Dame de Grâce; in the third he is redeeming captives, and

in the fourth giving alms to the poor.

We next visited the asylums, admiring the clean, airy rooms, the

intelligent, happy faces of the orphans, and the graceful cordiality of

the sister who was at the head of the establishment--a lady of fortune

who has devoted her all to the work.

At length we came to the cottage--the door of the true hero to which

our path had led. The broad, one-story house in which S. Vincent was

born is now a mere skeleton within, the framework of the partitions

alone remaining, so one can take in the whole at a glance. There is the

kitchen, with the huge, old-fashioned chimney, around which the family

used to gather--so enormous that in looking up one sees a vast extent of

blue sky. Saint’s house though it was, we could not help thinking--Heaven

forgive us the profane thought!--it must have been very much like the

squire’s chimney in _Tylney Hall_, the draught of which, like the Polish

game of draughts, was apt to take backwards and discharge all the smoke

into his sitting-room! The second room at the left, where the saint was

born, is an oratory containing an altar, the crucifix he used to pray

before, some of the garments he wore, shoes broad and much-enduring as

his own nature, and many other precious relics. Not only this, but every

room has an altar. We counted seven, all of the simplest construction,

for the convenience of the pilgrims who come here with their _curés_ at

certain seasons of the year to honor their sainted countryman who in his

youth here led a simple, laborious life like themselves. We found several

persons at prayer in the various compartments, all of which showed the

primitive habits and limited resources of the family, though not absolute

poverty. The floor was of earth, the walls and great rafters only

polished with time and the kisses of the pilgrims, and above the rude

stairway, a mere loft where perchance the saint slept in his boyhood.

Everything in this cottage, where a great heart was cradled, was from its

very simplicity extremely touching. It seemed the very place to meditate

on the mysterious ways of divine Providence--mysterious as the wind that

bloweth where it listeth--the very place to chant the _Suscitans à terrâ

inopem: et de stercore erigens pauperem; ut collocet eum cum principibus,

cum principibus populi sui_.

S. Vincent’s oak, on the opposite side of the green, looks old enough to

have witnessed the mysterious rites of the Druids. It is surrounded by

a railing to protect it from the pious depredations of the pilgrim. It

still spreads broad its branches covered with verdure, though the trunk

is so hollowed by decay that one side is entirely gone, and in the heart,

where young Vincent used to pray, stands a wooden pillar on which is a

statue of the Virgin, pure and white, beneath the green bower. A crowd of

artists, _savants_, soldiers, and princes have bent before this venerable

tree. In 1823 the public authorities of the commune received the Duchess

of Angoulême at its foot. The learned and pious Ozanam, one of the

founders of the Society of S. Vincent of Paul, came here in his last days

to offer a prayer. On the list of foreign visitors is the name of the

late venerable Bishop Flaget of Kentucky, of whom it is recorded that he

kissed the tree with love and veneration, and plucked, as every pilgrim

does, a leaf from its branches.

There is an herb, says Pliny, found on Mt. Atlas; they who gather it see

more clearly. There is something of this virtue in the oak of S. Vincent

of Paul. One sees more clearly than ever at its foot the infinite moral

superiority of a nature like his to the worldly ambition of the old lords

of the Landes. Famous as the latter were in their day, who thinks of them

now? Who cares for the lords of Castelnau, the Seigneurs of Juliac, or

even for the Sires of Albret, whose ancient castle at Labrit is now razed

to the ground, and, while we write, its last traces obliterated for ever?

The shepherd whistles idly among the ruins of their once strong holds,

the ploughman drives thoughtlessly over the place where they once held

proud sway, as indifferent as the beasts themselves; but there is not a

peasant in the Landes who does not cherish the memory of S. Vincent of

Paul, or a noble who does not respect his name; and thousands annually

visit the poor house where he was born and look with veneration at the

oak where he prayed.

Charity is the great means of making the poor forget the fearful

inequality of worldly riches, and its obligation reminds the wealthy they

are only part of a great brotherhood. Its exercise softens the heart and

averts the woe pronounced on the rich. S. John of God, wishing to found

a hospital at Granada, and without a ducat in the world, walked slowly

through the streets and squares with a hod on his back and two great

kettles at his side, crying with a loud voice: “Who wishes to do good to

himself? Ah! my brethren, for the love of God, do good to yourselves!”

And alms flowed in from every side. It was these appeals in the divine

name that gave him his appellation. “What is your name?” asked Don

Ramirez, Bishop of Tuy. “John,” was the reply. “Henceforth you shall be

called John of God,” said the bishop.

And so, that we may all become the sons of God, let us here, at the foot

of S. Vincent’s oak, echo the words that in life were so often on his

lips:

CARITATEM, PROPTER DEUM!

LORD CASTLEHAVEN’S MEMOIRS.[6]

In the year 1638 the Earl of Castlehaven, then a young man, made the

Grand Tour, as became a nobleman of his family in that age. Being at

Rome, whither the duty of paying his respects to the Holy Father had

carried him--for this lord was the head of one of those grand old

families which had declined to forswear its faith at the behest of Henry

or Elizabeth--he received a letter from King Charles I., requiring him to

attend the king in his expedition against the Scots, then revolted and

in arms. With that instant loyalty which was the return made by those

proscribed families to an ungrateful court from the Armada down, Lord

Castlehaven, two days after the messenger had placed the royal missive

in his hands, took post for England. Near Turin he fell in with an army

commanded by the Marquis de Leganes, Governor of Milan for the King of

Spain, who was marching to besiege the Savoy capital. But the siege was

soon raised, and Lord Castlehaven entered the town. There he found her

Royal Highness the Duchess of Savoy in great confusion, as if she had got

no rest for many nights, so much had she been occupied with the conduct

of the defence; for even the wives of this warlike and rapacious family

soon learned to defend their own by the strong hand, and could stretch it

out to grasp still more when occasion served. But as yet the ambition of

the House of Savoy stopped short of sacrilege--or stooped to it like a

hawk on short flights--nor dreamed of aggrandizing itself with the spoils

of the whole territory of the church. When Lord Castlehaven came to

take leave of the duchess, her royal highness gave him a musket-bullet,

much battered, which had come in at her window and missed her narrowly,

charging him to deliver it safely to her sister, the Queen of England--as

it proved, a present of ill omen; for of musket-balls, in a little time,

the English sister had more than enough.

Arriving in London, Lord Castlehaven followed the king to Berwick,

where he found the royal army encamped, with the Tweed before it, and

the Scotch, under Gen. Leslie, lying at some distance. A pacification

was soon effected, and both armies partially disbanded. After this the

earl passed his time “as well as he could” at home till 1640. In that

year the King of France besieged Arras, and Lord Castlehaven set out to

witness the siege. Within was a stout garrison under Owen Roe O’Neal,

commanding for the Prince Cardinal, Governor of the Low Countries. This

was the first meeting of Castlehaven with the future victor of Benburb,

with whom he was afterwards brought into closer relations in the Irish

Rebellion. The French pressed Arras close, and the confederates being

defeated, and the hope of the siege being raised grown desperate,

the town was surrendered on honorable terms. This action over, Lord

Castlehaven returned to England and sat in Parliament till the attainder

of the Earl of Strafford. When that great nobleman fell, deserted by

his wavering royal master, and the king’s friends were beginning to

turn about--they scarce knew whither--to prepare for the storm that all

men saw was coming, Lord Castlehaven went to Ireland, where he had some

estate and three married sisters. While there the Rebellion of 1641 broke

out. Although innocent of any complicity in the outbreak, his faith

made him suspected, and he was imprisoned on a slight pretext by the

lords-justices. Escaping, his first design was to get into France, and

thence to England to join the king at York, and petition for a trial by

his peers. But coming to Kilkenny, he found there the Supreme Council

of the Confederate Catholics just assembled--many of them being of his

acquaintance--and was persuaded by them to throw in his lot with theirs,

seeing, as they truly told him, that they were all persecuted on the same

score, and ruined so that they had nothing more to lose but their lives.

From that time till the peace of 1646 he was engaged in the war of the

Confederate Catholics, holding important commands in the field under the

Supreme Council. His _Memoirs_ is the history of this war.

After the peace of 1646, concluded with the Marquis of Ormond, the king’s

lord-lieutenant, but which shortly fell through, Lord Castlehaven retired

to France, and served as a volunteer under Prince Rupert at the siege of

Landrecies. Then, returning to Paris, he remained in attendance on the

Queen of England and the Prince of Wales (Charles II.) at St. Germain

till 1648. In that year he returned to Ireland with the lord-lieutenant,

the Marquis of Ormond, and served the royal cause in that kingdom

against the parliamentary forces under Ireton and Cromwell. The battle

of Worcester being lost, and Cromwell the undisputed master of the three

kingdoms, Castlehaven again followed the clouded fortunes of Charles II.

to France. There he obtained permission to join the Great Condé. In the

campaigns under that prince he had the command of eight or nine regiments

of Irish troops, making altogether a force of 5,000 men. Thus we find

the Irish refugees already consolidated into a brigade some years before

the Treaty of Limerick expatriated those soldiers whose valor is more

commonly identified with that title.

Lord Castlehaven returned to England at the Restoration. In the war

with Holland he served as a volunteer in some of the naval engagements.

In 1667, the French having invaded Flanders, he was ordered there with

2,400 men to recruit the “Old English Regiment,” of which he was made

colonel. The peace of Aix-la-Chapelle ended this war. Peace reigned in

the Low Countries till the breaking out, in 1673, of the long and bloody

contest between the Prince of Orange and the confederate Spaniards and

Imperialists on the one side, and Louis XIV. on the other. This was

the age of grand campaigns, conducted upon principles of mathematical

precision by the great captains formed in the school of M. Turenne,

before the “little Marquis of Brandenburg”[7] and the “Corsican

corporal” in turn revolutionized the art of war. Castlehaven entered

the Spanish service, and shared the checkered but generally disastrous

fortunes of the Duke of Villahermosa and the Prince of Orange (William

III.) against Condé and Luxembourg, till the peace of Nymegen put an end

to the war in 1678.

Then, after forty years’ hard service, this veteran retired from the

field, and returning to England, like another Cæsar, set about writing

his commentaries on the wars. Thus he spent his remaining years. First

he published, but without acknowledging the authorship, his _Memoirs

of the Irish Wars_. This first edition was suppressed. Then, in 1684,

appeared the second edition, containing, besides the _Memoirs_,

his “Appendix”--being an account of his Continental service--his

“Observations” on confederate armies and the conduct of war, and a

“Postscript,” which is a reply to the Earl of Anglesey. And right well

has the modern reader reason to be thankful for his lordship’s literary

spirit. His _Memoirs_ is one of the most authentic and trustworthy

accounts we have of that vexed passage of Irish history--the Rebellion

of 1641. Its blunt frankness is its greatest charm; it has the value of

an account by an actor in the scenes described; and it possesses that

merit of impartiality which comes of being written by an Englishman

who, connected with the Irish leaders by the ties of faith, family, and

property, and sympathizing fully with their efforts to obtain redress

for flagrant wrongs was yet not blind to their mistakes and indefensible

actions.

Castlehaven, neglected for more than a century, has received more

justice at the hands of later historians. He is frequently referred to by

Lingard, and his work will be found an admirable commentary on Carte’s

_Life of Ormond_. There is a notice of him in Horace Walpole’s _Catalogue

of Royal and Noble Authors_ (vol. iii.)

“If this lord,” says Walpole, “who led a very martial life, had not

taken the pains to record his own actions (which, however, he has done

with great frankness and ingenuity), we should know little of his

story, our historians scarce mentioning him, and even our writers of

anecdotes, as Burnet, or of tales and circumstances, as Roger North,

not giving any account of a court quarrel occasioned by his lordship’s

_Memoirs_. Anthony Wood alone has preserved this event, but has not

made it intelligible. … The earl had been much censured for his share

in the Irish Rebellion, and wrote the _Memoirs_ to explain his conduct

rather than to excuse it; for he freely confesses his faults, and imputes

them to provocations from the government of that kingdom, to whose

rashness and cruelty, conjointly with the votes and resolutions of the

English Parliament, he ascribes the massacre. There are no dates nor

method, and less style, in these _Memoirs_--defects atoned for in some

measure by a martial honesty. Soon after their publication the Earl of

Anglesey wrote to ask a copy. Lord Castlehaven sent him one, but denying

the work as his. Anglesey, who had been a commissioner in Ireland for

the Parliament, published Castlehaven’s letter, with observations and

reflections very abusive of the Duke of Ormond, which occasioned first

a printed controversy, and this a trial before the Privy Council; the

event of which was that Anglesey’s first letter was voted a scandalous

libel, and himself removed from the custody of the Privy Seal; and that

the Earl of Castlehaven’s _Memoirs_, on which he was several times

examined, and which he owned, was declared a scandalous libel on the

government--a censure that seems very little founded; there is not a word

that can authorize that sentence from the Council of Charles II. but

the imputation on the lords-justices of Charles I.; for I suppose the

Privy Council did not pique themselves on vindicating the honor of the

republican Parliament! Bishop Morley wrote _A True Account of the Whole

Proceeding between James, Duke of Ormond, and Arthur, Earl of Anglesey_.”

Immediately after the Restoration, as it is well known, an act was

passed, commonly called in that age “the Act of Oblivion,” by which all

penalties (except certain specified ones) incurred in the late troublous

and rebellious times were forgiven. So superfine would have been the net

which the law of treason would have drawn around the three kingdoms, had

its strict construction been enforced, that it was quite cut loose, a few

only of the greatest criminals and regicides being held in its meshes.

So harsh had been Cromwell’s iron rule that there were few counties of

England in which the stoutest squires, and even the most loyal, might

not have trembled had the king’s commission inquired too closely into

the legal question of connivance at the late tyrant’s rule. And in the

great cities, London especially, the tide of enthusiasm which now ran

so strongly for the king could not hide the memory of those days when

the same fierce crowds had clamored for the head of the “royal martyr.”

Prudent it was, as well as benign, therefore, for the “merry monarch”

to let time roll smoothly over past transgressions. But though the law

might grant oblivion, and even punish the revival of controversies,

the old rancor between individuals and even parties was not so easily

appeased after the first joyful outburst. Books and pamphlets by the

hundred brought charges and counter charges. But these “authors of

slander and lyes,” as Castlehaven calls them, outdid themselves in their

tragical stories of the Irish Rebellion of 1641. Nor have imitators been

wanting in this age, as rancorous and more skilful, in the production

of “fictions and invectives to traduce a whole nation.” To answer those

calumnies by “setting forth the truth of his story in a brief and plain

method” was the design of Castlehaven’s work.

Then, as now, it was the aim of the libellers of the Irish people to

make the whole nation accountable for the “massacre,” so called, of

1641, and to confound the war of the Confederate Catholics and the

later loyal resistance to Cromwell in one common denunciation with the

first sanguinary and criminal outbreak. Lord Castlehaven’s narrative

effectually disposes of this charge. In a singularly clear and candid

manner he narrates the rise and progress of the insurrection, and

shows the wide difference between the aims and motives of those who

planned the uprising of October 23, 1641, and of those who afterwards

carried on the war under the title of the Confederate Catholics of

Ireland. The former he does not hesitate to denounce as a “barbarous

and inhumane” conspiracy, but the responsibility for it he fixes in the

right quarter--the malevolent character of the Irish government and the

atrocious spirit of the English Puritan Parliament, which, abandoning all

the duties of protection, kept only one object in view--the extirpation

of the native Irish.

With the successful example of the Scotch Rebellion immediately before

them, it was a matter of little wonder to observant and impartial minds

in that age that the Irish should have seized upon the occasion of the

growing quarrel between the king and Parliament as the opportune moment

for the redress of their grievances. For in the year 1640, two years

after the pacification of Berwick, the Scotch Rebellion, primarily

instigated by the same cause as the Irish--religious differences--broke

out with greater violence than ever. The Scots’ army invaded England,

defeated the king’s troops at Newburn, and took Newcastle. Then,

driven to extremity by those Scotch rebels, as mercenary as they

were fanatical,[8] and his strength paralyzed by the growing English

sedition, Charles I. called together “that unfortunate Parliament” which,

proceeding from one violence to another, first destroyed its master,

and then was in turn destroyed by its own servant. Far from voting the

Scotch army rebels and traitors, the Parliament at once styled them “dear

brethren” and voted them £300,000 for their kindness. Mr. Gervase Holles

was expelled from the House for saying in the course of debate “that the

best way of paying them was by arms to expel them out of the kingdom.”

The quarrel between King and Commons grew hotter, until finally it became

evident that, notwithstanding Charles’ concessions, a violent rupture

could not be long delayed.

No fairer opportunity could be hoped for by the Irish leaders,

dissatisfied with their own condition, and spurred on by the hope of

winning as good measure of success as the Scotch. The plan to surprise

the Castle of Dublin and the other English garrisons was quickly matured;

but failing, some of the conspirators were taken and executed, and the

rest forced to retire to the woods and mountains. But the flame thus

lighted soon spread over the whole kingdom, and occasioned a war which

lasted without intermission for ten years.

The following reasons are declared by Castlehaven to have been afterwards

offered to him by the Irish as the explanation of this insurrection:

First, that, being constantly looked upon by the English government as

a conquered nation, and never treated as natural or free-born subjects,

they considered themselves entitled to regain their liberty whenever they

believed it to be in their power to do so.

Secondly, that in the North, where the insurrection broke out with the

greatest violence, six whole counties had been escheated to the crown at

one blow, on account of Tyrone’s rebellion; and although it was shown

that a large portion of the population of those counties was innocent of

complicity in that rising, nothing had ever been restored, but the whole

bestowed by James I. upon his countrymen. To us, who live at the distance

of two centuries and a half from those days of wholesale rapine, these

confiscations still seem the most gigantic instance of English wrong;

but who shall tell their maddening effect upon those who suffered from

them in person in that age--the men flying to the mountains, the women

perishing in the fields, the children crying for food they could not get?

Thirdly, the popular alarm was heightened by the reports, current during

Strafford’s government in Ireland, that the counties of Roscommon, Mayo,

Galway, and Cork, and parts of Tipperary, Limerick, and Wicklow, were to

share the fate of the Ulster counties. It hardly needs the example of our

own Revolution to prove the truth of Castlehaven’s observation upon this

project: “That experience tells us where the people’s property is like

to be invaded, neither religion nor loyalty is able to keep them within

bounds if they find themselves in a condition to make any considerable

opposition.” And this brings to his mind the story related by Livy of

those resolute ambassadors of the Privernates, who, being reduced to such

extremities that they were obliged to beg peace of the Roman Senate, yet,

being asked what peace should the Romans expect from them, who had broken

it so often, they boldly answered--which made the Senate accept their

proposals--“If a good one, it shall be faithful and lasting; but if bad,

it shall not hold very long. For think not,” said they, “that any people,

or even any man, will continue in that condition whereof they are weary

any longer than of necessity they must.”

Fourthly, it was notorious that from the moment Parliament was convened

it had urged the greatest severities against the English Roman Catholics.

The king was compelled to revive the penalties of the worst days of

Edward and Elizabeth against them. His own consort was scarce safe from

the violence of those hideous wretches who concealed the vilest crimes

under the garb of Puritan godliness. Readers even of such a common and

one-sided book as Forster’s _Life of Sir John Eliot_ will be surprised

to find the prominence and space the “Popish” resolutions and debates

occupied in the sittings of Parliament. The popular leaders divided their

time nearly equally between the persecution of the Catholics and assaults

upon the prerogative. The same severities were now threatened against the

Irish Catholics. “Both Houses,” says Castlehaven, “solicited, by several

petitions out of Ireland, to have those of that kingdom treated with the

like rigor, which, to a people so fond of their religion as the Irish,

was no small inducement to make them, while there was an opportunity

offered, to stand upon their guard.”

Fifthly, the precedent of the Scotch Rebellion, and its successful

results--pecuniarily, politically, and religiously--encouraged the

Irish so much at that time that they offered it to Owen O’Conally as

their chief motive for rising in rebellion; “which,” says he (quoted by

Castlehaven), “they engaged in to be rid of the tyrannical government

that was over them, and to imitate Scotland, who by that course had

enlarged their privileges” (O’Conally’s _Exam._, October 22, 1641;

Borlace’s _History of the Irish Rebellion_, p. 21).

To the same purpose Lord Castlehaven quotes Mr. Howell in his _Mercurius

Hibernicus_ in the year 1643; “whose words, because an impartial author

and a known Protestant, I will here transcribe in confirmation of what I

have said and for the reader’s further satisfaction”:

“Moreover,” says Mr. Howell, “they [the Irish] entered into

consideration that they had sundry grievances and grounds of

complaint, both touching their estates and consciences, which

they pretended to be far greater than those of the Scots. For

they fell to think that if the Scot was suffered to introduce

a new religion, it was reason they should not be punished in

the exercise of their old, which they glory never to have

altered; and for temporal matters, wherein the Scot had no

grievance at all to speak of, the new plantations which had

been lately afoot to be made in Connaught and other places; the

concealed lands and defective titles which were daily found

out; the new customs which were enforced; and the incapacity

they had to any preferment or office in church or state, with

other things, they considered to be grievances of a far greater

nature, and that deserved redress much more than any the Scot

had. To this end they sent over commissioners to attend this

Parliament in England with certain propositions; but they were

dismissed hence with a short and unsavory answer, which bred

worse blood in the nation than was formerly gathered. And this,

with that leading case of the Scot, may be said to be the first

incitements that made them rise.… Lastly, that army of 8,000

men which the Earl of Strafford had raised to be transported

into England for suppressing the Scot, being by the advice of

our Parliament here disbanded, the country was annoyed by some

of those straggling soldiers. Therefore the ambassadors from

Spain having propounded to have some numbers of those disbanded

soldiers for the service of their master, his majesty, by the

mature advice of his Privy Council, to occur the mischiefs

that might arise to his kingdom of Ireland from those loose

cashiered soldiers, yielded to the ambassadors’ motion. But as

they were in the height of that work (providing transports),

there was a sudden stop made of those promised troops; and this

was the last, though not the least, fatal cause of that horrid

insurrection.

“Out of these premises it is easy for any common understanding,

not transported with passion or private interest, to draw

this conclusion: That they who complied with the Scot in his

insurrection; they who dismissed the Irish commissioners with

such a short, impolitic answer; they who took off the Earl of

Strafford’s head, and afterwards delayed the despatching of the

Earl of Leicester; they who hindered those disbanded troops in

Ireland to go for Spain, may be justly said to have been the

true causes of the late insurrection of the Irish.

“Thus,” continues Castlehaven, “concludes this learned and ingenious

gentleman, who, as being then his majesty’s historiographer, was as

likely as any man to know the transactions of those times, and, as an

Englishman and a loyal Protestant, was beyond all exception of partiality

or favor of the Papists of Ireland, and therefore could have no other

reason but the love of truth and justice to give this account of the

Irish Rebellion, or make the Scotch and their wicked brethren in the

Parliament of England the main occasion of that horrid insurrection.”

As for the “massacre,” so called, that ensued, Lord Castlehaven speaks

of it with the abhorrence it deserves. But this very term “massacre” is

a misnomer plausibly affixed to the uprising by English ingenuity. In a

country such as Ireland then was--in which, though nominally conquered,

few English lived outside the walled towns--an intermittent state of

war was chronic; and therefore there was none of that unpreparedness

for attack or absence of means of defence on the part of the English

settlers which, in other well-known historical cases, has rightfully

given the name of “massacre” to a premeditated murderous attack upon

defenceless and surprised victims. To hold the English as such will be

regarded with contemptuous ridicule by every one acquainted with the

system of English and Scotch colonization in Ireland in that age. The

truth is, the cruelties on both sides were very bloody, “and though

some,” says Lord Castlehaven, “will throw all upon the Irish, yet ’tis

well known who they were that used to give orders to their parties sent

into the enemies’ quarters to spare neither man, woman, nor child.”

And as to the preposterous muster-rolls of Sir John Temple--from whom

the subsequent scribblers borrowed all their catalogues--giving _fifty

thousand (!)_ British natives as the number killed, Lord Castlehaven’s

testimony is to the effect that there was not one-tenth--or scarcely

five thousand--of that number of British natives then living in Ireland

outside of the cities and walled towns where no “massacre” was committed.

Lord Castlehaven also shows that there were not 50,000 persons to be

found even in Temple’s catalogue, although it was then a matter of common

notoriety that he repeats the same people and the same circumstances

twice or thrice, and mentions hundreds as then murdered who lived many

years afterwards. Some of Temple’s, not the Irish, victims were alive

when Castlehaven wrote.

But the true test of the character of this insurrection is to be found,

not in the exaggerated calumnies of English libellers writing after the

event, but in the testimony of the English settlers themselves when in a

position where lies would have been of no avail. We will therefore give

here, though somewhat out of the course of our narrative, an incident

related by Castlehaven to that effect.

Shortly after he had been appointed General of the Horse under Preston,

Commander-in-Chief of the Confederate Catholics in Leinster, that general

took, among other places, Birr, in King’s County. Here Castlehaven

had the good fortune, as he says, to begin his command with an act of

charity. For, going to see this garrison before it marched out, he came

into a large room where he found many people of quality, both men and

women. They no sooner saw him but, with tears in their eyes, they fell

on their knees, desiring him to save their lives. “I was astonished,”

says Castlehaven, “at their posture and petition, and, having made them

rise, asked what the matter was? They answered that from the first day of

the war there had been continued action and bloodshed between them and

their Irish neighbors, and little quarter on either side; and therefore,

understanding that I was an Englishman, begged I would take them into

my protection.” It is enough to say that Lord Castlehaven, with some

difficulty, and by personally taking command of a strong convoy, obtained

for them the protection they prayed for from the exasperated and outraged

population around them. But what we wish to point out is this: that here

are those victims of Sir John Temple’s “massacre”--not the garrison of

the fort, observe, but the English settlers driven in by the approach of

Preston’s army, after terrorizing the country for months--now, with the

fear of death before them, confessing on their knees that from the first

day of the war they had arms in their hands, and that little quarter was

given on either side!

How well the English were able to take care of themselves at this time,

and what _their_ “massacres” were like, are shown by the following

extract from a letter of Colonel the Hon. Mervin Touchett to his brother,

Lord Castlehaven. Col. Touchett is describing a raid made by Sir Arthur

Loffens, Governor of Naas, with a party of horse and dragoons, killing

such of the Irish as they met, to punish an attack upon an English party

a few days before: “But the most considerable slaughter was in a great

strength of furze, scattered on a hill, where the people of several

villages (taking the alarm) had sheltered themselves. Now, Sir Arthur,

having invested the hill, set the furze on fire on all sides, where the

people, being a considerable number, were all burned or killed, men,

women, and children. I saw the bodies and the furze still burning.”

We remember the horror-stricken denunciations of the English press some

years ago when it was stated, without much authentication, that some of

the French commanders in the Algerine campaigns had smoked some Arabs to

death in caves. But it would seem from Col. Touchett’s narrative that

the English troopers would have been able to give their French comrades

lessons in the culinary art of war some centuries ago. A grilled Irishman

is surely as savory an object for the contemplation of humanity as a

smoked Arab!

But whatever the atrocities on the English side, we will not say that

the cruelties committed by the Irish were not deserving of man’s

reprobation and God’s anger. Only this is to be observed: that whereas

the “massacres” by the Irish were confined to the rabble and Strafford’s

disbanded soldiers, those committed by the English side were shared in,

as the narratives of the day show, by the persons highest in position

and authority. They made part of the English system of government of

that day. On the other hand, the leading men of the Irish Catholic body

not only endeavored to stay those murders, but sought to induce the

government to bring the authors of them on both sides to punishment. But

in vain! On the 17th of March, 1642, Viscount Gormanstown and Sir Robert

Talbot, on behalf of the nobility and gentry of the nation, presented a

remonstrance, praying “that the murders on both sides committed should

be strictly examined, and the authors of them punished according to

the utmost severity of the law.” Which proposal, Castlehaven shrewdly

remarks, would never have been rejected by their adversaries, “but that

they were conscious of being deeper in the mire than they would have the

world believe.”

So far the “massacre” and first uprising.

Now, as to the inception of the war of the Confederate Catholics, and its

objects, Lord Castlehaven’s narrative is equally convincing and clear.

Parliament met in the Castle of Dublin, Nov. 16, 1641. The Rebellion

was laid before both Houses by the lords-justices, Sir William Parsons

and Sir John Borlace. Concurrent resolutions were adopted, without a

dissenting voice, by the two Houses, declaring their abhorrence of

the Rebellion, and pledging their lives and fortunes to suppress it.

Castlehaven had a seat in the Irish House of Lords as an Irish peer,

and being then in Ireland, as before related, took his seat at the

meeting of Parliament. Besides Castlehaven, most of the leaders of

the war that ensued were members of the Irish House of Lords. These

Catholic peers were not less earnest than the rest in their unanimous

intention to put down the Rebellion. Both Houses thereupon began to

deliberate upon the most effectual means for its suppression. “But this

way of proceeding,” says Castlehaven, “did not, it seems, square with

the lords-justices’ designs, who were often heard to say that ‘the

more were in rebellion, the more lands should be forfeit to them.’”

Therefore, in the midst of the deliberations of Parliament on the

subject, a prorogation was determined on. The lords, understanding this,

sent Castlehaven and Viscount Castelloe to join a deputation from the

commons to the lords-justices, praying them not to prorogue, at least

till the rebels--then few in number--were reduced to obedience. But the

address was slighted, and Parliament prorogued the next day, to the great

surprise of both Houses and the “general dislike,” says Castlehaven, “of

all honest and knowing men.”

The result was, as the lords-justices no doubt intended, that the

rebels were greatly encouraged, and at once began to show themselves in

quarters hitherto peaceful. The members of Parliament retired to their

country-houses in much anxiety after the prorogation. Lord Castlehaven

went to his seat at Maddingstown. There he received a letter, signed by

the Viscounts of Gormanstown and Netterville, and by the Barons of Slane,

Lowth, and Dunsany, containing an enclosure to the lords-justices which

those noblemen desired him to forward to them, and, if possible, obtain

an answer. This letter to the lords-justices, Castlehaven says, was very

humble and submissive, asking only permission to send their petitions

into England to represent their grievances to the king. The only reply

of the lords-justices was a warning to Castlehaven to receive no more

letters from them.

Meanwhile, parties were sent out from Dublin and the various garrisons

throughout the kingdom to “kill and destroy the rebels.” But those

parties took little pains to distinguish rebels from loyal subjects,

provided they were only Catholics, killing promiscuously men, women, and

children. Reprisals followed on the part of the rebels. The nobility and

gentry were between two fires. A contribution was levied upon them by the

rebels, after the manner of the Scots in the North of England in 1640.

But although to pay that contribution in England passed without reproach,

in Ireland it was denounced by the lords-justices as treason. The English

troopers insulted and openly threatened the most distinguished Irish

families as favorers of the Rebellion. “This,” says Castlehaven, “and

the sight of their tenants, the harmless country people, without respect

to age or sex, thus barbarously murdered, made the Catholic nobility and

gentry at last resolved to stand upon their guard.” Nevertheless, before

openly raising the standard of revolt against the Irish government,

which refused to protect them, they made several efforts to get their

petitions before Charles I. Sir John Read, a Scotchman, then going to

England, undertook to forward petitions to the king; but, being arrested

on suspicion at Drogheda, was taken to Dublin, and there put upon the

rack by the lords-justices to endeavor to wring from him a confession of

Charles I.’s complicity in the Rebellion. This Col. Mervin Touchett heard

from Sir John Read himself as he was brought out of the room where he was

racked. But that unfortunate monarch knew not how to choose his friends

or to be faithful to them when he found them. He referred the whole

conduct of Irish affairs to the English Parliament, thus increasing

the discontent to the last pitch by making it plain to the whole Irish

people that he abandoned the duty of protecting them, and had handed them

over to the mercy of their worst enemies--the English Parliament. That

Parliament at once passed a succession of wild votes and ordinances,

indicating their intention of stopping short at nothing less than utter

extirpation of the native race. Dec. 8, 1641, they declared they would

never give consent to any toleration of the Popish religion in Ireland.

In February following, when few of any estate were as yet engaged in

the Rebellion, they passed an act assigning two million five hundred

thousand acres of cultivated land, besides immense tracts of bogs, woods,

and mountains, to English and Scotch adventurers for a small proportion

of money on the grant. This money, the act stated, was to go to the

reduction of the rebels; but, with a fine irony of providence upon the

king’s weak compliance, every penny of it was afterwards used to raise

armies by the English rebels against him. “But the greatest discontent

of all,” says Castlehaven, “was about the lords-justices proroguing

the Parliament--the only way the nation had to express its loyalty and

prevent their being misrepresented to their sovereign, which, had it

been permitted to sit for any reasonable time, would in all likelihood,

without any great charge or trouble, have brought the rebels to justice.”

Thus all hopes of redress or safety being at an end--a villanous

government in Dublin intent only upon confiscation, a furious Parliament

in London breathing vengeance against the whole Irish race, and a king

so embroiled in his English quarrels that he could do nothing to help

his Irish subjects, even had he wished it--what was left those loyal,

gallant, and devoted men but to draw the sword for their own safety?

The Rebellion by degrees spread over the whole kingdom. “And now,”

says Castlehaven, “there’s no more looking back; for all were in arms

and full of indignation.” A council of the leading Catholic nobles,

military officers, and gentry met at Kilkenny, and formed themselves

into an association under the title of the Confederate Catholics of

Ireland. Four generals were appointed for the respective provinces of the

kingdom--Preston for Leinster, Barry for Munster, Owen Roe O’Neale for

Ulster, and Burke for Connaught. Thus war was declared.

When the Rebellion first broke out in the North, Lord Castlehaven

had immediately repaired to Dublin and offered his services to the

lords-justices. They were declined with the reply that “his religion

was an obstacle.” After the prorogation of Parliament, as we have seen,

he retired to his house in the country. Then, coming again to Dublin to

meet a charge of corresponding with the rebels which had been brought

against him, he was arrested by order of the lords-justices, and, after

twenty weeks of imprisonment in the sheriff’s house, was committed to the

Castle. “This startled me a little,” says Castlehaven--as it well might

do; for the state prisoner’s exit from the Castle in Dublin in those days

was usually made in the same way as from the Tower in London, namely, by

the block--“and brought into my thoughts the proceedings against the Earl

of Strafford, who, confiding in his own innocence, was voted out of his

life by an unprecedented bill of attainder.” Therefore, hearing nothing

while in prison but rejoicings at the king’s misfortunes, who at last

had been forced to take up arms by the English rebels, and knowing the

lords-justices to be of the Parliament faction, and the lord-lieutenant,

the Marquis of Ormond, being desperately sick of a fever, not without

suspicion of poison, and his petition to be sent to England, to be tried

there by his peers, being refused, he determined to make his escape,

shrewdly concluding, as he says, that “innocence was a scurvy plea in an

angry time.”

Arriving at Kilkenny, he joined the confederacy, as has been related.

From this time the war of the Confederate Catholics was carried on with

varying success until the cessation of 1646, and then until the peace of

1648, when the Confederates united, but too late, with the Marquis of

Ormond to stop the march of Cromwell.

A SWEET SINGER: ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

She sang of Love--the love whose fires

Burn with a pure and gentle flame,

No passion lights of wild desires

Red with the lurid glow of shame.

She sang of angels, and their wings

Seemed rustling through each soft refrain;

Gladness and sorrow, kindred things

She wove in many a tender strain.

She sang of Heaven and of God,

Of Bethlehem’s star and Calvary’s way,

Gethsemane--the bloody sod,

Death, darkness, resurrection-day.

She sang of Mary--Mother blest,

Her sweetest carols were of thee!

Close folded to thy loving breast

How fair her home in heaven must be!

THE COLPORTEURS OF BONN.

I was very stupid in my youth, and am still far from being sharp. I could

not master knotty questions like other boys; so this natural deficiency

had to be supplemented by some plan that would facilitate the acquisition

of knowledge. The advantage to be derived from a garrulous preceptor,

whose mind was stored with all sorts of learning without dogmatism or

hard formularies, were fully appreciated by my parents. John O’Neil was

a very old man when I was a boy, and he was just the person qualified

to impart an astonishing quantity of all sorts of facts, and perhaps

fancies. I hold him in affectionate remembrance though he be dead over

twenty-five years, and rests near the remains of his favorite hero,

O’Connell, in Glasnevin Cemetery. When he became the chief architect of

my intellectual structure, I thought him the most learned man in the

world. On account of my dulness, he adopted the method of sermonizing

to me instead of giving me unintelligible lessons to be learned out of

books. I took a great fancy to him, because I found him exceedingly

interesting, and he evinced a strong liking for me because I was docile.

We became inseparable companions, notwithstanding the great discrepancy

in our years. His tall, erect, lank figure and lantern jaw were to me the

physiological signs of profundity, firmness, and power, and his white

head was the symbol of wisdom. Our tastes--well, I had no tastes save

such as he chose to awaken in me, and hence there came to be very soon

a great similitude in our respective inclinations. I was like a ball of

wax, a sheet of paper, or any other original impressionable thing you

may name, in his hands for ten years, after which very probably I began

to harden, though I was not conscious of the process. However, the large

fund of knowledge that he imparted to me crystallized, as it were, and

became fixed in my possession as firmly as if it had been elaborately

achieved by a severe mental training. After I went to college he was

still my friend, and rejoiced in my subsequent successes, and followed me

with a jealous eye and a sort of parental anxiety in my foreign travels,

and even in death he did not forget me, for he made me the custodian of

his great heaps of literary productions, all in manuscript, embracing

sketches, diaries, notes of travel, learned fragments on scientific

and scholastic topics, essays, tales, letters, the beginnings and the

endings and the middles of books on history, politics, and polemics,

pieces of pamphlets and speeches, with a miscellaneous lot of poetry in

all measures. He was a great, good man, who never had what is called

an aim in life, but he certainly had an aim _after_ life; and yet no

one could esteem the importance of this pilgrimage more than he did. He

would frequently boast of being heterodox on that point. “You will hear,”

he would remark, “people depreciating this life as a matter of little

concern. Don’t allow their sophistry to have much weight with you. The

prevalent opinions which are flippantly spoken thereon will not stand the

test of sound Christian reasoning. That part of human existence which

finds its scene and scope of exertion in this life is filled with eternal

potentialities. You have heard it said that man wants but little here

below. Where else does he want it? Here is where he wants everything.

Then do not hesitate to ask, but be careful not to ask amiss. When the

battle is over, it will be too late to make requisitions for auxiliaries.

If you conquer, assistance will not be wanted; if you are defeated,

assistance cannot reach you. The fight cannot be renewed; the victory or

defeat will be final. This life is immense. You cannot think too much of

it, cannot estimate it too highly. A minute has almost an infinite value.

Man wants much here, and wants it all the time.” I thought his language

at that time fantastical; now I regard it as profound. From a survey

of his own aimless career, it is evident he did not reduce the good of

earthly existence of which he spoke to any sort of money value. Those

elements and forces of life to which he attached such deep significance

and importance could not have their equivalent in currency, nor in

comforts, nor in real estate, nor even in fame. My old preceptor had

spent most of his youth in travelling, and the picturesque meanderings

of the Rhine furnished subjects for many of his later recollections. I

recall now with a melancholy regret the many pleasant evenings I enjoyed

listening to his narratives of travel on that historic river, and in

imagination sat with him on the Drachenfels’ crest, looking down upon

scenes made memorable by the lives and struggles of countless heroes

and the crowds of humanity that came and went through the course of a

hundred generations--some leaving their mark, and others erasing it

again; some leaving a smile behind them on the face of the country, and

others a scar. He loved to talk about the beautiful city of Bonn, where

he had spent some years, it being the most attractive place, he said,

from Strasbourg to the sea--for learning was cheap there, and so were

victuals--the only things he found indispensable to a happy life. He

would glide into a monologue of dramatic glow and fervor in reciting how

he procured access to the extensive library of its new university, and,

crawling up a step-ladder, would perch himself on top like a Hun, who,

after a sleep of a thousand years, had resurrected himself, gathered his

bones from the plains of Chalons, and having procured a second-hand suit

of modern clothes from a Jew in Cologne, traced with eager avidity the

vicissitudes of war and empire since the days of Attila. It was there, no

doubt, he discovered the materials of this curious paper, which I found

among his literary remains. Whether he gathered the materials himself,

or merely transcribed the work of some previous writer, I am unable to

determine. Without laying any claim to critical acumen, I must confess

it appears to me to be a meritorious piece, and I picked it out, because

I thought it unique and brief, for submission to the more extensive

experience and more impartial judgment of THE CATHOLIC WORLD’S readers.

Having entire control of these productions of my friend and preceptor, I

took the liberty of substituting modern phraseology for what was antique,

and of putting the sketch in such style that the most superficial reader

will have no difficulty in running it over. Objection may be raised to

the title on the score of fitness. I did not feel authorized to change

it, believing the one chosen by the judgment of my old friend as suitable

as any I could substitute.

* * * * *

In the year 1250 the mind of man was as restless and impatient of

restraint as now, and some people in Bonn, under a quiet exterior,

nursed in their bosoms latent volcanoes of passion, and indulged the

waywardness of rebellious fancy to a degree that would have proved

calamitous to the placid flow of life and thought could instrumentality

for action have been found. There is indubitable proof that the principle

of the Reformation, which three hundred years later burst through the

environment of dogma and spread like a flood of lava over Europe,

existed actively in Bonn in the year named, and would have arrived at

mature strength if nature had not interposed an impassable barrier to

the proceeding. It is hard to rebel against nature, and it is madness

to expect success in such a revolt. Fourteen men, whose names have come

down to us, gave body and tone, and a not very clearly defined purpose,

to this untimely uprising against the inevitable in Bonn. How many others

were in sympathy or in active affiliation with them is not shown. Those

fourteen were bold spirits, who labored under the misfortune of having

come into the world three or four centuries too soon. They were great

men out of place. There is an element of rebellion in great spirits

which only finds its proper antidote in the stronger and more harmonious

principle of obedience. Obedience is the first condition of creatures.

Those fourteen grew weary of listening to the Gospel preached every

Sunday from the pulpit of S. Remigius, when they attended Mass with the

thousands of their townsmen. The Scriptures, both New and Old, were given

out in small doses, with an abundant mixture of explanation and homily

and salutary exhortation. Their appetites craved a larger supply of

Scripture, and indeed some of them were so unreasonable as to desire the

reading of the whole book, from Genesis to Revelations, at one service.

“Let us,” said Giestfacher, “have it all. No one is authorized to give a

selection from the Bible and hold back the rest. It is our feast, and we

have a right to the full enjoyment thereof.”

“Well,” said Heuck, his neighbor, to whom he addressed the remonstrance;

“go to the scrivener’s and purchase a copy and send your ass to carry

it home. Our friend Schwartz finished a fine one last week. It can be

had for sixteen hundred dollars. When you have it safe at home, employ

a reader, who will be able to mouth it all off for you in fifty hours,

allowing a few intervals for refreshment, but none for sleep.” And Heuck

laughed, or rather sneered, at Giestfacher as he walked away.

Giestfacher was a reformer, however, and was not to be put down in

that frivolous manner. He had been a student himself with the view of

entering the ministry, but, being maliciously charged with certain grave

irregularities, his prospects in that direction were seriously clouded,

and in a moment of grand though passionate self-assertion he threw up

his expectations and abandoned the idea of entering the church, but

instead took to the world. He was a reformer from his infancy, and

continually quarrelled with his family about the humdrum state of things

at home; was at enmity with the system of municipal government at Bonn;

and held very animated controversies with the physicians of the place

on the system of therapeutics then pursued, insisting strongly that all

diseases arose from bad blood, and that a vivisection with warm wine

would prove a remedy for everything. He lacked professional skill to

attempt an experiment in the medical reforms he advocated; besides, that

department would not admit of bungling with impunity. For municipal

reforms he failed in power, and the reward in fame or popular applause

that might follow successful operations in that limited sphere of action

was not deemed equivalent to the labor. But in the field of religion

there was ample room for all sorts of tentative processes without danger;

and, in addition to security, notoriety might be obtained by being

simply _outré_. He had settled upon religious reform, and his enthusiasm

nullified the cautionary suggestions of his reason, and reduced mountains

of difficulty to the insignificant magnitude of molehills; even Heuck

could be induced to adopt his views by cogent reasoning and much

persuasion. Enthusiasm is allied to madness--a splendid help, but a

dangerous guide.

Giestfacher used his tongue, and in the course of a year had made twelve

or fourteen proselytes. Those who cannot enjoy the monotony of life and

the spells of _ennui_ that attack the best-regulated temperaments, fly

to novelty for relief. The fearful prospect of an unknown and nameless

grave and an oblivious future drives many restless spirits into

experiments in morals and in politics as well as in natural philosophy,

in the vain hope of rescuing their names from the “gulf of nothingness”

that awaits mediocrity. The new reformers, zealous men and bold, met

in Giestfacher’s house on Corpus Christi in 1251, the minutes of which

meeting are still extant; and from that record I learn there were present

Stein the wheelwright, Lullman the baker, Schwartz the scrivener, Heuck

the armorer, Giestfacher the cloth merchant, Braunn, another scrivener,

Hartzwein the vintner, Blum the advocate, Werner, another scrivener,

Reudlehuber, another scrivener, Andersen, a stationer, Esch the

architect, Dusch the monk, discarded by his brethren for violations of

discipline, and Wagner the potter. Blum was appointed to take an account

of the proceedings, and Giestfacher was made president of the society.

“We are all agreed,” said Giestfacher, “that the Scriptures ought to be

given to the people. From these divine writings we learn a time shall

come when wars shall cease, and the Alemanni and the Frank and the Tartar

may eat from the same plate and drink out of the same cup in peace and

fraternity, and wear cloth caps instead of brass helmets, and plough the

fields with their spears instead of letting daylight through each other

therewith, and the shepherds shall tend their flocks with a crook and

not with a bow to keep off the enemy. How can that time come unless the

people be made acquainted with those promises? I believe we, who, like

the apostles, number fourteen, are divinely commissioned to change things

for the better, and initiate the great movements which will bring about

the millennium. Let us rise up to the dignity of our position. Let us

prove equal to the inspiration of the occasion. We are called together by

heaven for a new purpose. The time is approaching when universal light

will dispel the gloom, and peace succeed to all disturbance. Let us give

the Scriptures to the people. They are the words of God, that carry

healing on their wings. They are the dove that was sent out from the ark.

They are the pillar of light in the desert. They are the sword of Joshua,

the sling of David, the rod of Moses. Let us fourteen give them to the

people, and start out anew, like the apostles from Jerusalem, to overturn

the idols of the times and emancipate the nations. We have piled up heaps

of stones in every town and monuments of brass, and still men are not

changed. We see them still lying, warring, hoarding riches, and making

gods of their bellies--all of which is condemned by the word of God. What

will change all this? I say, let the piles of stone and the monuments of

brass slide, and give the Scriptures a chance. Let us give them to the

people, and the reign of brotherhood and peace will commence, wars shall

cease, nation will no longer rise up against nation, rebellion will erect

its horrid front no more. Men will cease hoarding riches and oppressing

the poor. There will be no more robbing rings in corporate towns, and men

in power will not blacken their character and imperil the safety of the

state by nepotism. The whole world will become pure. No scandals will

arise in the church, and there will be no blasphemy or false swearing,

and Christian brethren shall not conspire for each other’s ruin.”

“We see,” remarked Heuck, “that those who have the Scriptures are no

better than other people. They too are given to lying, hoarding riches,

warring one against another, and making gods of their bellies. How is

that?”

“Yes,” said Blum, “I know three scriveners of this town who boast of

having transcribed twenty Bibles each, and they get drunk thrice a week

and quarrel with their wives; and there’s Giebricht, the one-legged

soldier, who can repeat the Scriptures until you sleep listening to

him, says he killed nine men in battle and wounded twenty others. The

Scriptures did not make him very peaceful. The loss of a leg had a more

quieting effect on him than all his memorizing of the sacred books.”

“We did not get together,” said Werner, “to discuss that phase of the

subject. It was well understood, and thereunto agreed a month ago, that

the spread of the Scriptures was desirable; and to this end we met, that

means wise and effective may be devised whereby we can supply every one

with the word of God, that all may search therein for the correct and

approved way of salvation.”

“So be it,” said Dusch the monk.

“Hear, hear!” said Schwartz.

“Let us agree like brethren,” said Braunn.

“We are subject to one spirit,” said Hartzwein the vintner, “and all

moved by the same inspiration. Discord is unseemly. We must not dispute

on the subject of drunkenness. Let us have the mature views of Brother

Giestfacher, and his plans. The end is already clear if the means be of

approved piety and really orthodox. In addition to the Scriptures, I

would rejoice very much to see prayer more generally practised. We ought

to do nothing without prayer. Let us first of all consult the Lord. What

says Brother Blum?”

Blum rose and said it was a purely business meeting. He had no doubt

it ought to have been opened with prayer. It was an old and salutary

practice that came down from the days of the apostles, and Paul

recommended it. But as they were now in the midst of business, he thought

it would be as wise and as conformable with ancient Christian and saintly

practice to go on with their work, and rest satisfied with mental

ejaculation, as to inaugurate a formal prayer-meeting.

Esch thought differently; he held that prayer was always in season.

Reudlehuber meekly said that the Scriptures showed there was a time for

everything, whence it was plain that prayer might be out of place as well

as penitential tears on some occasions. It would not look well for a man

to rise up in the midst of a marriage feast and, beating his breast, cry

out _Mea culpa_.

“We have too many prayers in the church,” said Giestfacher, “and not

enough of Scripture; that is the trouble with us. Brethren must rise

above the weaknesses of the mere pietist. Moses was no pietist; he was a

great big, leonine character. We must be broad and liberal in our views;

not given to fault-finding nor complaining. Pray whenever you feel like

it, and drink when you have a mind to. Noah got drunk. I’d rather be

the prodigal son, and indulge in a hearty natural appetite for awhile,

than be his cautious, speculating, avaricious brother, who had not soul

enough most likely to treat his acquaintances to a pint of wine once in

his lifetime. Great men get tipsy. Great nations are bibulous. We are

not here to make war on those who drink wine and cultivate the grape, nor

are we authorized in making war on weavers because Dives was damned for

wearing fine linen. It is our mission to spread the Scriptures. The world

wants light. He is a benefactor of mankind who puts two rays where there

was only one before.”

“Let us hear your plans, Brother Giestfacher,” cried out a number of

voices simultaneously.

In response, Brother Giestfacher stated that there were no plans

necessary. All that was to be done was to circulate the Scriptures. Let

us get one hundred thousand sheets of vellum to begin with, and set a

hundred scriveners to work transcribing copies of the Bible, and then

distribute these copies among the people.

The plan was plain and simple and magnificent, Braunn thought, but there

were not ten thousand sheets of vellum in the town nor in the whole

district, and much of that would be required for civil uses; besides, the

number of sheep in the neighborhood had been so reduced by the recent war

that vellum would be scarce and costly for ten years to come.

Werner lamented the irremediable condition of the world when the free

circulation of the word of God depended on the number of sheep, and the

number of sheep was regulated by war, and war by the ambition, jealousy,

or pride of princes.

“It is painfully true,” said Heuck, “that the world stands in sad need

of reform, if souls are to be rescued from their spiritual perils only

by the means proposed in the magnificent sheep-skin scheme of Brother

Giestfacher.” It was horrible to think that the immortal part of man was

doomed to perish, to be snuffed out, as it were, in eternal darkness,

because soldiers had an unholy appetite for mutton.

Braunn said the work could be started on three or four thousand hides,

and ere they were used up a new supply might arrive from some unexpected

quarter.

Esch said that they ought to have faith; the Hand that fed the patriarch

in the desert would provide vellum if he was prayerfully besought for

assistance. _He_ would be willing to commence on one sheet, feeling

convinced there would be more than enough in the end.

Blum did not take altogether so sanguine a view of things as Brother

Esch. He was especially dubious about that vellum supply; not that he

questioned the power of Providence at all, but it struck him that it

would be just as well and as easy for the society to prayerfully ask for

an ample supply of ready-made Bibles as to expect a miracle in prepared

sheep-skin; and he was still further persuaded that if the books were

absolutely necessary to one’s salvation, they would be miraculously

given. But he did not put the movement on that ground. It is very easy

for men, and particularly idiotic men, to convince themselves that God

will answer all their whims and caprices by the performance of a miracle.

We are going upon the theory that the work is good, just as it is good to

feed the hungry and clothe the naked. We expect to find favor in heaven

because we endeavor to do a work of charity according to our honest

impression.

“How many persons,” inquired Heuck, “do you propose to supply with

complete copies of the Scriptures?”

“Every one in the district,” replied Giestfacher.

“Brother Dusch,” continued Heuck, “how many heads of families are there

in the district? Your abbot had the census taken a few month’s ago, while

you were yet in grace and favor at the monastery.”

Brother Dusch said he heard there were twenty-two thousand from the

Drachenfels to within six miles of Cologne, but all of them could not

read.

“We will send out,” said Giestfacher enthusiastically, “an army of

colporteurs, who will distribute and read at the same time.”

“I perceive,” said Blum, “that this discussion will never stop. New

avenues of thought and new mountains of objection are coming to view

at every advance in the debate. Let us do something first, and talk

afterwards. To supply twenty-two thousand persons with expensive volumes

will require considerably more than mere resolves and enthusiasm. I

propose that we buy up all the vellum in the city to-day, and that we

all go security for the payment. I propose also that we employ Brothers

Braunn, Schwartz, Werner, and Reudlehuber to commence transcribing, and

that we all go security for their pay. Unless we begin somewhere, we can

never have anything done. What says Brother Giestfacher?”

Giestfacher said it did not become men of action, reformers who proposed

to turn over the world and inaugurate a new era and a new life and a

new law, to stop at trifles or to consider petty difficulties. The

design that had been developed at that meeting contemplated a sweeping

change. Instead of having a few books, here and there, at every church,

cathedral, monastery, and market-place, learnedly and laboriously

expounded by saints of a thousand austerities and of penitential garb,

every house would be supplied, and there should be no more destitution in

the land. The prophecies and the gospels and the mysteries of revelation

would be on the lips of sucking babes, and the people who stood at the

street-corners and at the marts of trade, the tiller of the soil, the

pedler, the sailor, the old soldier, and the liberated prisoner, together

with the man who sold fish and the woman who sold buttermilk, would

stand up and preach the Gospel and display a mission, schoolboys would

discuss the contents of that book freely, and even the inmates of lunatic

asylums would expound it with luminous aptitude and startling fancy. The

proposition of Brother Blum met his entire approval. He would pledge

everything he had, and risk even life itself, to start the new principle,

so that the world might bask in sunshine and not in shadow. It was about

time that men had their intellects brightened up some. Even in the days

of the apostles those pious men did not do their whole duty. They labored

with much assiduity and conscientiousness, but they neglected to adopt

measures looking to the spread of the Scriptures. He had no doubt but

they fell a long way short of their mission, and were now enduring the

pangs of a peck of purgatorial coal for their remissness. There were

good men who perhaps found heaven without interesting themselves in the

multiplication of copies of the Bible. They were not called to that work;

but what was to be thought of those who had the call, the power, the

skill, and yet neglected to spread the word. He believed SS. Gregory

Nazianzen, Athanasius, Jerome, Chrysostom, Augustine, and others of those

early doctors of the church, had a fearful account to render for having

neglected the Scriptures. S. Paul, too, was not free from censure. It was

true he wrote a few things, but he took no thought of multiplying copies

of his epistles.

“How many copies,” inquired Heuck, “do you think S. Paul ought to have

written of his letters before you would consider him blameless?”

“He ought,” said Giestfacher, “to have written all the time instead of

making tents. ‘How many copies’ is a professional question which I will

leave the scriveners to answer. I may remark that it would evidently be

unprofitable for us to enter on a minute and detailed discussion on that

point here. It is our duty to supplement the shortcomings of those early

workers in the field, and finish what they failed to accomplish. They

were bound to give the new principle a fair start. The plan suggested was

the best, simplest, and clearest, and he hoped every one of the brethren

would give it a hearty and cordial support.”

The principle of communism, or the right of communities to govern

themselves in certain affairs and to carry on free trade with certain

other communities, had been granted the previous century, and Bonn

was one of the towns that enjoyed the privilege; but the people still

respected religion and did no trafficking on holydays. Giestfacher could

not therefore purchase the vellum on Corpus Christi, but had to wait till

next day, at which time he could not conveniently find the other members

of the new Bible society, and, fearing that news of their project would

get abroad and raise the price of the article he wanted, he hastened to

the various places where it was kept for sale, and bought all of it up in

the course of two hours, paying his own money in part and giving his bond

for the balance. The parchment was delivered to the four scriveners, who

gathered their families about them, and all the assistants (journeymen)

that could be found in the town, and proceeded with the transcribing of

the Bible. At the next meeting each scrivener reported that he had about

half a book ready, that the work was going rapidly and smoothly forward,

and that the scribes were enthusiastic at the prospect of brisk business

and good pay. The report was deemed very encouraging. It went to show

that the society could have four Bibles every two weeks, or about one

hundred a year, and that in the course of two hundred and twenty years

every head of a family in the district could be provided with a Bible of

his own. The scriveners stated, moreover, that they had neglected their

profane business, for which they could have got cash, to proceed in the

sacred work, and as there were several people depending on them for means

of living, a little money would be absolutely necessary with the grace of

God.

Giestfacher also stated that he spent all the money he had in part

payment for the parchment, and pledged his property for the balance. His

business was somewhat crippled already in consequence of the outlay,

and he expected to have part of the burden assumed by every one of the

society.

Werner said he had fifteen transcribers working for him, and each one

agreed to let one-third of the market value of his work remain in the

hands of the society as a subscription to the good work, but the other

two-thirds would have to be paid weekly, as they could not live without

means. They were all poor, and depending solely on their skill in

transcribing for a living.

The debate was long, earnest, eloquent, and more or less pious.

Blum made a motion that the bishop of the diocese and the Pope be made

honorary members of the society. Giestfacher opposed this with eloquent

acrimony, saying it was a movement outside of all sorts of church

patronage; that it was designed to supersede churches and preaching; for

when every man had the Bible he would be a church unto himself, and would

not need any more teaching. He also had a resolution adopted pledging

each and every member to constitute himself a colporteur of the Bible,

and to read and peddle it in sun and rain; and it was finally settled

that a subscription should be taken up; that each member of the society

be constituted a collector, and proceed at once to every man who loved

the Lord and gloried in the Gospel to get his contribution.

At the next meeting the brethren were all present except Dusch, who was

reported as an absconder with the funds he had collected, and was said to

be at that moment in Cologne, drunk perhaps. Four complete Bibles were

presented as the result of two weeks’ hard labor and pious effort and the

aggregate production of forty-five writers. The financial reports on the

whole were favorable; and the scriveners were provided with sufficient

means and encouragement to begin another set of four Bibles. Brother

Giestfacher was partially secured in his venture for the parchment,

while it was said that the article had doubled in price during the past

fortnight, and very little of it could be got from Cologne, as there was

a scarcity of it there also, coupled with an extraordinary demand. It

was also stated that the monks at the monastery had to erase the works

of Virgil in order to find material for making a copy of the homilies

of S. John Chrysostom which was wanted for the Bishop of Metz. In like

manner, it was decided to erase the histories of Labanius and Zozirnus,

as being cheaper than procuring original parchment on which to transcribe

a fine Greek copy of the whole Bible, to take the place of one destroyed

by the late war. The heavy purchase that Brother Giestfacher had made

created a panic in the vellum market that was already felt in the heart

of Burgundy. The scriveners’ business had also experienced a revulsion.

People of the world who wanted testamentary and legal documents, deeds,

contracts, and the like properly engrossed, were offering fabulous

sums to have the work done, as most of the professionals of that class

were now engaged by the society, and had no time to do any other sort

of writing. A debate sprung up as to the proper disposition to be made

of the four Bibles on hand, and also as to the manner of beginning and

conducting the distribution. In view of the demand for the written word,

and of the scarcity of copies and the high price of parchment, it was

suggested by Heuck to sell them, and divide the proceeds among the poor

and the cripples left after the late war. Five hundred dollars each could

be readily got for the books, he said, and it was extremely doubtful

whether those who would get them as gifts from the society would resist

the temptation of selling them to the first purchaser that came along.

In addition to this heavy reason in favor of his line of policy, Heuck

suggested the possibility of trouble arising when they should come to

grapple with the huge difficulties of actual distribution; to give one of

those volumes, he said, would be like giving an estate and making a man

wealthy for life.

Giestfacher said it would be impracticable to make any private

distribution among the destitute for some time. The guilds of coopers,

tailors, shoemakers, armorers, fullers, tanners, masons, artificers,

and others should be first supplied; and in addition to the Bible kept

chained in the market-place for all who wished to read, he would have one

placed at the town-pump and one at the town-house, so that the thirsty

might also drink the waters of life, and those who were seeking justice

at the court might ascertain the law of God before going in.

Blum said another collection would have to be raised to erect a shed over

the Bibles that were proposed to be placed at the town-pump and at the

town-house and to pay for suitable chains and clasps to secure them from

the depredations of the pilfering.

Esch was of opinion that another subscription could not be successfully

taken up until their work had produced manifest fruit for good. The

people have much faith, but when they find salt mixed with their drink

instead of honey, credulity is turned into disgust. A Bible chained to

the town-pump will be a sad realization of their extravagant hopes.

Every man who subscribed five dollars expects to get a book worth five

hundred, an illuminated Bible fit for a cathedral church. He warned them

that they were getting into a labyrinth, and that they would have to

resort to prayer yet to carry them through in safety. Werner thought it

would be wisest to pursue a quiescent policy for some time, and to forego

the indulgence of their anxious desire for palpable results until they

should be in a condition to make an impression. He advocated the wisdom

of delay. They also serve, he said, who only stand and wait, and it might

prove an unwise proceeding to come out with their public exhibition just

then. In a few months, when thirty or forty Bibles would be on hand, a

larger number than could be found in any library in the world, they might

hope, by the show of so much labor, to create enthusiasm.

“But still,” urged Heuck, “you will have the difficulty to contend

with--who is to get them?”

“There will,” remarked Blum, “be a greater difficulty to contend with

about that time: the settlement of obligations for parchment and the pay

of the scriveners who are employed in transcribing. Our means at present,

even if we pay the scriveners but one-third their wages, will not suffice

to bring out twenty volumes. So we are just in this difficulty: in order

to do something, we must have means, and in order to get means, we must

do something. It is a sort of vicious circle projected from logic into

finance. It will take the keen-edged genius of Brother Giestfacher to cut

this knot.”

“The work,” said Giestfacher, “in which we are engaged is of such merit

that it will stand of itself. I have no fears of ultimate triumph. If

you all fail, God and I will carry it on. Heaven is in it. I am in it.

It must succeed. I am a little oldish, I confess, but there is twenty

years of work in me still. I feel my foot sufficiently sure to tread the

perilous path of this adventure to the goal.”

“Let us,” interposed Schwartz, “stop this profitless debate, and give

a cheer to Brother Giestfacher. He is the blood and the bone of this

movement. We are in with him. We are all in the same boat. If we have

discovered a pusillanimous simpleton among us, it is not too late to cast

him out. I feel my gorge and my strength rise together, and I swear to

you by S. Remigius, brethren, that I am prepared to sink or swim, and

whoever attempts to scuttle the ship shall himself perish first.”

Two or three other brethren, feeling the peculiar inspiration of the

moment, rose up and, stamping their feet on the floor, proclaimed their

adherence to the principles of the society, and vowed to see it through

to the end.

This meeting then adjourned.

There is no minute of any subsequent meeting to be found among the

manuscripts that I have consulted, but I discovered a statement made by

Heuck, dated six months later, who, being called before the municipal

authorities to testify what he knew about certain transactions of a

number of men that had banded themselves together secretly for the

purpose of creating a panic in the vellum market, and of disturbing

the business of the scriveners, said he was one of fourteen citizens

interested in the promulgation of the Gospel free to the poor. That,

after five or six meetings, he left the society in company with two

others; that two of the members became obnoxious, and were expelled--the

one, Dusch, for embezzling money collected for Scripture-writing and

Scripture-diffusing purposes, the other, Werner, for having retained

one of their volumes, and disposed of it to the lord of Drachenfels

for four hundred dollars; that they did not pursue and prosecute these

delinquents for fear of bringing reproach on the project; and then he

went on to state: “I left the society voluntarily and in disgust. We had

fourteen Bibles on hand, but could not agree about their distribution.

They were too valuable to give away for nothing, and it was discovered

that they were all written in Latin, and not in the vernacular, and they

would prove of as little value to the great mass of people for whom

they were originally designed as if they had been written in Hebrew.

In addition to this I found, for I understand the language perfectly,

that no two of them were alike, and, in conjunction with scrivener

Schwartz, I minutely examined one taken at random from the pile, and

compared it with the volume at the Cathedral. We found fifteen hundred

discrepancies. In some places whole sentences were left out. In others,

words were made to express a different sense from the original. In

others, letters were omitted or put in redundantly, in such a way as to

change the meaning; and the grammatical structure was villanously bad.

Seeing that the volumes were of no use as a representation of the word

of God, and being conscientiously convinced that the books contained

poison for the people instead of medicine, I made a motion in meeting

to have them all burned. Schwartz opposed it on the ground that they

were innoxious anyhow, there being none of the common people capable

of understanding the language in which they were written, and, though

they were a failure as Bibles, the vellum might be again used; and as

the scriveners were not paid for their labor, they had a claim upon the

volumes. The scriveners got the books, to which, in my opinion, they had

no just claim, for the villanous, bad work they did on them deserved

censure and not pay. I have heard since that some of those scriveners

made wealth by selling the books to Englishmen for genuine and carefully

prepared transcripts from authorized texts. The president and founder of

the society, Giestfacher, is now in jail for debt, he having failed to

meet his obligations for the vellum he purchased when he took it into

his head to enlighten mankind--more especially that portion of it that

dwells on the Rhine adjacent to the city of Bonn--by distributing corrupt

copies of Latin Bibles to poor people who are not well able to read their

own language. The ‘good work’ still occupies the brains and energies of

three or four enthusiasts, who have already arrived at the conclusion

that the apostles were in league with hell to keep the people ignorant,

because they did not give every man a copy of the Bible. The founder sent

me a letter two days ago, in which he complains of being deserted by his

companions in his extremity. His creditors have seized on all his goods,

and there is a considerable sum yet unpaid. He blames the Pope and the

bishop in unmeasured terms for this; says it is a conspiracy to keep the

Bible from the people. He sees no prospect of being released unless the

members of the society come to his speedy relief. The principles, he

says, for which he suffers will yet triumph. The time will come when

Bibles will be multiplied by some cheap and easy process. Until then,

the common run of humanity must be satisfied to be damned, drawing what

little consolation they may from the expectation that their descendants

a few centuries hence will enjoy the slim privilege of reading Bibles

prepared with as little regard to accuracy as these were. I am sorry to

see such a noble intellect as Giestfacher undoubtedly possesses show

signs of aberration. The entire failure of his project was more than

he could bear. He had centred his hopes upon it. He indulged dreams of

fame and greatness arising out of the triumph of his idea. Esch has

become an atheist. He says the Christian’s God would not have given

a book to be the guide and dependence of man for salvation, and yet

allow nature, an inferior creation, to interpose insuperable barriers

to its promulgation. Every time a sheep-skin is destroyed, says Esch,

a community is damned. The dearness and scarcity of parchment keep the

world in ignorance. Braunn says the world cannot be saved except by a

special revelation to every individual, for there is hardly a copy of the

Bible without errors, so that whether every human creature got one or

not, they would be still unsafe. One of the common herd must learn Latin

and Greek and Hebrew well, and then spend a lifetime tracing up, through

all its changes, transcriptions, and corruptions of idiom, one chapter,

or at most one book, and die before he be fully assured of the soundness

of one text, a paragraph, a line, a word. In fact, says Braunn, there

can be no certainty about anything. Language may have had altogether a

different meaning twelve hundred years ago to what it has now. Braunn

and Schwartz and myself wanted to have a committee of five of our number

appointed to revise and correct the text of each book that was produced

by comparing it with such Greek and Hebrew copies as were represented of

sound and correct authority; but Giestfacher laughed at us, saying we

knew nothing of Greek or Hebrew; that we would have to hire some monks

to do the job for us, which would be going back again to the very places

and principles and practices against which we had revolted and protested.

Moreover, continued Giestfacher, we cannot tell whether the oldest, most

original copies that can be found are true in every particular. How can

we know from any sort of mere human testimony that this copy or that is

in accordance with what the prophets and apostles wrote. The whole Bible

may be wrong as far as our _knowledge_, as such, is able to testify. We

are reduced to _faith_ in this connection and must rest on that alone.

“I thought, and so did Schwartz, that the faith of Giestfacher must be

peculiar when it could accept copies as good enough and true enough after

we had discovered hundreds of palpable and grievous errors in them. A

book of romance would do a person of Giestfacher’s temper as well as the

Bible--faith being capable of making up for all deficiencies. I saw that

an extravagance of credulity, called faith, on the part of Giestfacher,

led to monomania; and a predominance of irrational reason on the part of

Esch had led to utter negation. I did not covet either condition, and I

concluded to remain safe at anchor where I had been before, rather than

longer follow those adventurers in a wild career after a fancied good--a

mere phantom of their own creation. I lost twenty-five dollars by the

temporary madness. That cannot be recalled. I rejoice that I lost no

more, and I am grateful that the hallucination which lasted nearly a year

has passed away without any permanent injury.”

The remainder of Heuck’s statement had partially faded from the parchment

by time and dampness, and could not be accurately made out. Sufficient

was left visible, however, to show that he expressed a desire to be held

excusable for whatever injuries to souls might result from the grave

errors that existed in the Bibles disseminated by the cupidity of the

scriveners with the guilty knowledge of such errors.

I interested myself in rescuing from oblivion such parts of the record

of those curious mediæval transactions as served to show to the people

of later times what extraordinary mental and religious activity existed

in those ages, when it was foolishly and stupidly thought there were but

henchmen and slaves on the one side, and bloody mailed despots on the

other. The arrogance of more favored epochs has characterized those days

by the epithet of “dark.” Pride is apt to be blind. The characterization

is unjust. All the lights of science could not come in one blaze. The

people of those days looked back upon a period anterior to their own as

“dark,” and those looked still further backward upon greater obscurity,

as they thought. The universal boastfulness of man accounts for this

increasing obscurity as we reach back into antiquity. Philosophers and

poets and men of learning, thinking themselves, and wishing to have other

people think them, above personal egotism, adopted the method of praising

their age, and thus indirectly eulogizing, themselves; and as they could

not compare their times with the future of which they knew nothing, they

naturally fell into the unfilial crime of drawing disparaging comparisons

with their fathers. There is an inclination, too, in the imperfection

of human nature to belittle what is remote and magnify what is near at

hand. Even now, men as enthusiastic and conscientious and religious as

Heuck and Giestfacher and Schwartz find themselves surrounded by the same

difficulties, and as deeply at a loss to advance a valid reason for their

revolt and their protest.

EARLY PERSECUTIONS OF THE CHRISTIANS.

In one of his bold Apologies[9] the great African writer Tertullian said

to the rulers of the Roman Empire that “it was one and the same thing for

the truth [of Christianity] to be announced to the world, and for the

world to hate and persecute it.” This persecution of the church began

on the very spot that was her birth-place; for soon after the ascension

of our Lord the wicked Jews tried by every means to crush her. “From

the days of the apostles,” wrote Tertullian in the IIId century, “the

synagogue has been a source of persecutions.” At first the church was

attacked by words only; but these were soon replaced by weapons, when

Stephen was stoned, the apostles were thrown into prison and scourged,

and all the East had risen in commotion against the Christians. The

Gentiles soon followed the example of the Jews, and those persecutions

which bore an official character throughout the Roman Empire, and lasted

for three centuries, are commonly called the Ten General Persecutions.

Besides these, there were partial persecutions at all times in some part

or other of the empire. Nero, whose name is synonymous with cruelty, was

the first emperor to begin a general persecution of the Christians; and

Tertullian made a strong point in his favor when he cried out to the

people (_Apol. v._), saying, “That our troubles began at such a source,

we glory; for whoever has studied his nature knows well that nothing

but what is good and great was ever condemned by Nero.” This persecution

began in the year 64, and lasted four years. Its pretext was the burning

of Rome, the work of the emperor himself, who ambitiously desired, when

he would have rebuilt the city and made it still more grand, to call

it by his own name; but the plan not succeeding, he tried to avert the

odium of the deed from his own person, and accused the Christians. Their

extermination was decreed. The pagan historian Tacitus has mentioned,

in his _Annals_ (xv. 44), some of the principal torments inflicted on

the Christians. He says that they were covered with the skins of wild

beasts and torn to pieces by savage hounds, were crucified, were burned

alive, and that some, being coated with resinous substances, were put up

in the imperial garden at night to serve as human torches. The _Roman

Martyrology_ makes a special commemoration, on the 24th of June, of these

martyrs for having all been disciples of the apostles and the firstlings

of the Christian flock which the church in Rome presented to the Lord.

In this persecution S. Peter was crucified with his head downwards; S.

Paul was beheaded; and among the other more illustrious victims we find

S. Mark the Evangelist, S. Thecla, the first martyr of her sex, SS.

Gervase and Protase at Milan, S. Vitalis at Ravenna, and S. Polycetus at

Saragossa in Spain. The number of the slain, and the hitherto unheard-of

cruelties practised upon them, moved to pity many of the heathen, and

the sight of so much fortitude for a principle of religion was the

means, through divine grace, of many conversions. After this, as after

every succeeding persecution, the great truth spoken by Tertullian was

exemplified: that the blood of the martyrs was the seed of Christians.

By a law of the empire, which was not revoked until nearly three hundred

years afterwards, under Constantine, the profession of the Christian

religion was made a capital offence. This law, it is true, was not

enforced at all times, especially under benign or indifferent rulers; but

it hung continually suspended over the heads of the Christians like a

sword of Damocles.

The second persecution was that of Domitian, from 94 to 96. Tertullian

calls him “a portion of Nero by his cruelty.” At first he only imposed

heavy fines upon the wealthy Christians; but, thirsting for blood, he

soon published more cruel edicts against them. Among his noblest victims

were his cousin-german, Flavius Clemens, a man of consular dignity; John

the Evangelist, who was thrown into a caldron of boiling oil (from which,

however, he miraculously escaped unhurt); Andrew the Apostle, Dionysius

the Areopagite, and Onesimus, S. Paul’s convert. Hegesippus, quoted by

Eusebius in his _Ecclesiastical History_, has recorded a very interesting

fact about the children of Jude, surnamed Thaddeus in the Gospel,

telling us that, having confessed the faith under this reign, they were

always honored in the church of Jerusalem, not alone as martyrs, but as

relatives of Jesus Christ according to the flesh.

The third persecution was Trajan’s, from 97 to 116. In answer to a

letter from his friend Pliny the Younger, who had command in Asia Minor,

the emperor ordered that the Christians were not to be sought out, but

that, if accused, and they remained obstinate in their faith, they

were to be put to death. Under an appearance of mercy a large field

was opened for the cruelty and exactions of Roman officials, which

they were not slow to work. A single circumstance attests the severity

of the persecution. This was that the Tiberian governor of Palestine

wrote to the emperor complaining of the odious duty imposed upon him,

since the Christians were forthcoming in greater numbers than he could,

without tiring, have executed. The persecution was particularly severe

in the East. Simeon, bishop of Jerusalem, Ignatius of Antioch, and the

virgin Domitilla, who was related to three emperors, are among the more

illustrious martyrs of the period.

Next came the persecution of Hadrian, lasting from 118 to about 129. We

have the authority of S. Jerome for saying that it was very violent.

This emperor was a coward and, perhaps as a consequence, intensely

superstitious. One of his particular grievances against the Christians

was that they professed a religion in which he had no share. Under him

perished, with countless others, Pope Alexander I. and his priests,

Eventius and Theodulus; Eustace, a celebrated general, with his wife and

little children; Symphorosa and her seven sons; Zoe, with her husband and

two children.

The fifth was the persecution of Marcus Aurelius. Although he was by

nature well inclined, he was certainly the author of much innocent

bloodshed, which may be in part ascribed to the powerful influence

of the so-called philosophers whose company and tone he affected. The

persecution raged most severely among the Gauls; and elsewhere we find

the illustrious names of Justin the great Apologist, Polycarp, bishop of

Smyrna, and Felicitas and her seven children.

Followed the persecution of Septimius Severus, which lasted from 200

to 211, and was so extremely violent that many Christians believed

Antichrist had come. It reaped from the church such distinguished

persons as Pope Victor at Rome; Leonidas, father of the great Origen, at

Alexandria; Irenæus and companions at Lyons; Perpetua and Felicitas in

Mauritania. Egypt was particularly rich in holy martyrs.

After this one came the persecution of Maximinus, from 235 to 237. It was

in the beginning more especially directed against the sacred ministers

of the church. Several popes were put to death; and among the inferior

clergy we find the deacon Ambrose, who was the bosom friend of Origen and

one of his principal assistants in his work on the Holy Scriptures.

The persecution of Decius lasted from 249 to 251. The Christians, in

spite of all repressive measures, had steadily increased in numbers; but

this emperor thought to do what his predecessors had failed in, and was

hardly seated on the throne before he published most cruel edicts against

them. Among the more celebrated names of this persecution are those

of Popes Fabian and Cornelius; Saturninus, first bishop of Toulouse;

Babylas, bishop of Antioch; the famous Christopher in Lycia, about whom

there is a beautiful legend; and the noble virgin Agatha in Sicily. The

great scholar Origen was put to the torture during this persecution, but

escaped death. Like Maximinus, this emperor singled out the heads of

the various local churches, the most active and learned ministers, the

highest of both sexes in the social scale, aiming less at the death than

the apostasy of Christians, hoping in this way to destroy the faith;

whence S. Cyprian laments in one of his epistles that the Christians

suffer atrocious torments without the final consolation of martyrdom.

One effect of this persecution was of immense benefit to the church in

the East; for S. Paul, surnamed First Hermit, took refuge from the storm

in Upper Egypt, where he peopled by his example the region around Thebes

with those holy anchorites since called the Fathers of the Desert.

The ninth persecution was that of Valerian, who, although at first

favorable to the Christians, became one of their greatest opposers at

the instigation of their sworn enemy, Marcian. At this date we find upon

the list of martyrs the eminent names of Popes Stephen and Sixtus II.,

Lawrence the Roman deacon, and Cyprian, the great convert and bishop of

Carthage.

The persecution of Diocletian was the last and the bloodiest of all. It

raged from 303 to 310. Maximian, the emperor’s colleague, had already

put to death many Christians, and among others, on the 22d of September,

286, Maurice and his Theban legion, before the persecution became

general throughout the Roman Empire. It began in this form at Nicomedia

on occasion of a fire that consumed a part of the imperial palace, and

which was maliciously ascribed to the Christians; and it is remarkable

that the two extreme persecutions of the early church should both have

begun with a false charge of incendiarism. Diocletian used to sit upon

his throne at Nicomedia, watching the death-pangs of his Christian

subjects who were being burned, not singly, but in great crowds. Many

officers and servants of his household perished, and, to distinguish

them from the rest, they were dropped into the sea with large stones

fastened about their necks. A special object of the persecutors was to

destroy the churches and tombs of earlier martyrs, to seize the vessels

used in the Holy Sacrifice, and to burn the liturgical books and the

Holy Scriptures. The _Roman Martyrology_ makes a particular mention on

the 2d of January of those who suffered death rather than deliver up

these books to the tyrant. Although innumerable copies of the Scriptures

perished, not a few were saved, and new copies multiplied either by favor

of the less stringent executors of the law, or because the privilege

was bought by the faithful at a great price. Some years ago the German

Biblical critic Tischendorf discovered on Mount Sinai a Greek codex of

extraordinary antiquity and only two removes from an original of Origen.

It is connected with one of the celebrated martyrs of this persecution,

and bears upon what we have just said of the Sacred Scriptures. In this

codex, at the end of the Book of Esther, there is a note attesting that

the copy was collated with a very ancient manuscript that had itself

been corrected by the hand of the blessed martyr Pamphilus, priest

of Cæsarea in Palestine, while in prison, assisted by Antoninus, his

fellow-prisoner, who read for him from a copy of the Hexapla of Origen,

which had been revised by that author himself. The touching spectacle of

these two men, both of whom gave their blood for the faith, occupied,

in the midst of the inconveniences, pain, and weariness of captivity,

in transcribing good copies of the Bible, is one of the many instances,

discovered in every age, showing the care that the church has had to

multiply and guard from error the holy written Word of God.

Among the petty sources of annoyance during this persecution, was the

difficulty of procuring food, drink, or raiment that had not been offered

to idols; for the pagan priests had set up statues of their divinities

in all the market-places, hostelries, and shops, and at the private and

public fountains. They used also to go around city and country sprinkling

with superstitious lustral water the gardens, vineyards, orchards, and

fields, so as to put the Christians to the greatest straits to obtain

anything that had not been polluted in this manner. We learn from the

Acts of S. Theodotus, a Christian tradesman of Ancyra, the obstacles he

had to surmount at this time to procure pure bread and wine to be used

by the priests in the Mass. We can appreciate the intense severity of

this persecution in many ways; but one of the most singular proofs of

it is that pagans in Spain inscribed upon a marble monument, erected in

Diocletian’s honor, _that he had abolished the very name of Christian_.

This emperor had also the rare but unenviable privilege of giving his

name to a new chronological period, called by the pagans, in compliment

to his bloody zeal for their rites, the Era of Diocletian; but the

Christians called it the Era of the Martyrs. It began on the 29th of

August, 284, and was long in use in Egypt and Abyssinia. Some of the more

renowned victims of this persecution are Sebastian, an imperial officer;

Agnes, a Roman virgin; Lucy, a virgin of Syracuse, and the Forty Martyrs

of Sebaste.

It may be interesting to note briefly the chief causes of so much cruel

bloodshed, even under princes of undoubted moderation in the general

government of affairs, as were Trajan, Marcus Aurelius, Antoninus the

Pious, and a few others.

The most continual, if not the deepest, source of persecution were the

passions of the populace. Calumny of the subtlest and most popular kind,

and pressed at all times with patient effort, had so inflamed the minds

of the brutal lower classes that only a word or a sign was required to

set them upon the Christians. These were called disloyal to the empire,

unfriendly to the princes, of a foreign religion, people who refused to

fall into the ways of the majority, and enemies of the human race. From

the remains of ancient histories, from the Acts of martyrs, from pagan

inscriptions, and from other sources, more than fifty-seven different

opprobrious qualifications, applied to the Christians as a body, have

been counted up. But when particular calumnies became any way stale, the

Christians could always be accused as the cause of every calamity that

befell the state; so that, in the words of Tertullian (_Apol. xl._), “If

the Tiber exceeded its limits, if the Nile did not rise to irrigate the

fields, if the rain failed to fall, if the earth quaked, if famine or

pestilence scourged the land, at once the cry was raised, Christians to

the lions!”

The next most constant source of trouble was the pernicious influence of

the Philosophers--a set of men who pretended to be seekers after wisdom,

and distinguished themselves from the vulgar by a certain style of dress.

Puffed up as they were with their own knowledge, nothing irritated

their pride so much as that men of the despised Christian class should

presume to dispute their doctrines and teach that profane philosophy

was naught, since man could not be made perfect by human wisdom, but

only by the testimony of Christ who was crucified. Among the Christians,

too, a special order of men whom we call Apologists, and among whom we

count Justin, Tertullian, Tatian, Arnobius, Minutius Felix, Origen,

Aristides, Quadratus, Athenagoras, and Miltiades the chief, exposed in

their eloquent writings the vanity, contradictions, and vices of their

opponents, succeeding sometimes in silencing false accusations, and even

in arresting the course of persecution. Their apologies and memorials

form one of the most instructive branches of early Christian literature,

and are a considerable compensation for the loss of so many Acts of

martyrs and other venerable documents destroyed by the pagans or which

have otherwise perished.

The third great cause of persecution was found (to use a comparatively

modern word) in the Erastianism of the Roman Empire. The emperor was, by

right of the purple, high-pontiff, and no religion was recognized that

did not profess its existence and authority dependent upon the state.

Naturally, a religion whose followers would reply to every iniquitous

command, “We ought to obey God rather than men,” could expect no mercy,

but only continual war.

Sometimes the Christians were put to death in the same manner as the

common malefactors, such as by decapitation, crucifixion, or scourging;

sometimes in the manner reserved for particular classes of criminals, as

being hurled down a precipice, drowned, devoured by wild beasts, left to

starve. But sometimes, also, the exquisite cruelty of the persecutors

delighted to feed upon the sufferings of its victims, and make dying as

long and painful as possible. Thus, there are innumerable examples of

Christians being flayed alive, the skin being neatly cut off in long

strips, and pepper or vinegar rubbed into the raw flesh; or slowly

crushed between two large stones; or having molten lead poured down the

throat. Some Christians were tied to stakes in the ground and gored to

death by wild bulls, or thinly smeared with honey and exposed under a

broiling sun to the insects which would be attracted; some were tied to

the tails of vicious horses and dragged to pieces some were sewed up

in sacks with vipers, scorpions, or other venomous things, and thrown

into the water; some had their members violently torn from the trunk of

the body; some were tortured by fire in ways almost unknown to the most

savage Indians of America; some were slowly scourged to death with whips

made of several bronze chainlets, at the extremity of each of which was

a jagged bullet; while jerking out of the teeth in slow succession;

cutting off the nose, ears, lips, and breasts; tearing of the flesh with

hot pincers; sticking sharp sticks up under the finger-nails; being held

suspended, head downward, over a smoking fire; stretching upon a rack,

and breaking upon the wheel, were some only of the commonest tortures

that preceded the final death-stroke by sword or lance. Many instruments

used in tormenting the martyrs have been found at different times, and

are now carefully preserved in collections of Christian antiquities;

and from these, from early-written descriptions, and from the rude

representations on the tombs of martyrs in the Catacombs, it is known

positively that over one hundred different modes of torture were used

upon the Christians.

From the earliest period particular pains were taken by the pastors of

the church to have the remains of the martyrs collected and some account

of their sufferings consigned to letters; and Pope S. Clement, a disciple

of the Apostle Peter, instituted a college of notaries, one for each

of the seven ecclesiastical districts into which he had divided Rome,

with the special charge of collecting with diligence all the information

possible about the martyrs. They were not to pass over even the minutest

circumstances of their confession of faith and death. This attendance on

the last moments of the martyrs was often accompanied by great personal

risk, or at least a heavy expense in the way of buying the good-will of

venal officers; but it was a thing of the utmost importance, in view

of the church’s doctrine concerning the veneration and invocation of

saints, that nothing should be left undone which prudence would suggest

to leave it beyond a doubt that the martyrs had confessed the _true_

faith, and had suffered death _for_ the faith. The pagans soon discovered

the value that was set upon such documents, and very many of them were

seized and destroyed. The fact that the Act of the martyrs were objects

of careful search is so well attested--as is also the other fact, that

an immense number perished--that it is a wonder and a grace of divine

Providence how any, however few comparatively, have come down to us. It

has been calculated that at least five million Christians--men, women,

and children--were put to death for the faith during the first three

centuries of the church.

The French historian Ampère has very justly remarked that amidst the

moral decay of the Roman Empire, when all else was lust and despotism,

the Christians alone saved the dignity of human nature; and the Spaniard

Balmes, when treating of the progress of individuality under the

influence of Catholicity (_European Civilization_, ch. xxiii.), remarks

that it was the martyrs who first gave the great example of proclaiming

that “the individual should cease to acknowledge power when power exacts

from him what he believes to be contrary to his conscience.” The patience

of the martyrs rebuked the sensualism of the pagans; and their fearless

assertions that matters of conscience are beyond the jurisdiction of any

civil ruler proved them to be the best friends of human liberty; while

their constancy and number during three hundred years of persecution,

that only ceased with their triumph, is one of the solid arguments to

prove that the Catholic Church has a divine origin, and a sustaining

divinity within her.

“A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchang’d,

Fed on the lawns, and in the forest rang’d;

Without unspotted, innocent within,

She fear’d no danger, for she knew no sin:

Yet had she oft been chas’d with horns and hounds,

And Scythian shafts, and many wingèd wounds

Aim’d at her heart; was often forc’d to fly,

And doom’d to death, tho’ fated not to die.”

--DRYDEN.

THE UNREMEMBERED MOTHER.

Unknown, beloved, thou whose shadow lies

Across the sunny threshold of my years;

Whom memory with never-resting eyes

Seeks thro’ the past, but cannot find for tears;

How bitter is the thought that I, thy child,

Remember not the touch, the look, the tone,

Which made my young life thrill--that I alone

Forget the face that o’er my cradle smil’d!

And yet I know that if a sudden light

Reveal’d thy living likeness, I should find

That my poor heart hath pictur’d thee aright.

So I will wait, nor think the lot unkind

That hides thee from me, till I know by sight

The perfect face thro’ love on earth divin’d.

DURATION.

Time and duration are usually considered synonymous, as no duration is

perceived by us, except the duration of movement, or of such things as

are subject to movement; and such duration is time. But, rigorously

speaking, time and duration are not synonymous; for they are to one

another in the same relation as place and space. As no place is possible

without real absolute space, so no time is possible without real absolute

duration; and as place consists of intervals in space, so time consists

of intervals in duration. Yet there may be duration independently of

time, just as there may be space independent of places; and for this

reason the nature of duration must be determined apart from the nature

of time. In treating of this subject we shall have to answer a series of

questions altogether similar to those which we have answered in treating

of space and place. Hence we shall follow the same order and method in

our present treatise which we have followed in our articles on space,

with this difference, however: that, to avoid useless repetitions, we

will omit the development of some of those reasonings which the reader

himself can easily transfer from space to duration.

Duration is commonly defined as “the permanence of a being in its

actuality”--_Permanentia rei in esse_. The duration of a being which

perseveres in existence without any intrinsic change is called “standing

duration”--_Duratio stans_. The duration of a being which is actually

subject to intrinsic mutations is called “flowing duration”--_Duratio

fluens_.

Flowing duration evidently implies succession, and succession involves

time; for succession is a relation between something which follows

and something which precedes. On the other hand, time also involves

succession; whence it would seem that neither time nor succession can be

defined apart from one another, the definition of the latter presupposing

that of the former, and that of the former presupposing the notion of

the latter. Although we need not be anxious about this point (for time

and succession really involve one another, and therefore may well be

included under the same definition), we must observe that the notion

of succession, though ordinarily applied to duration, extends to other

things also whenever they follow one another in a certain order. Thus

the crust of the earth is formed by a succession of strata, the Alps by

a succession of mountains, the streets of the city by a succession of

houses, etc. Hence the notion of succession is more general than the

notion of time, and consequently there must be some means of defining it

independently of the consideration of time.

Balmes explains succession, without mentioning time, in the following

manner: “There are things which exclude one another from the same

subject, and there are other things which do not exclude one another from

the same subject. The existence of those things which exclude one another

implies succession. Take a line _ABC_. A body placed in _A_ cannot pass

over to the place _B_ without ceasing to be in _A_, because the situation

_B_ excludes the situation _A_, and in a similar manner the situation

_C_ excludes the situation _B_. If, then, notwithstanding this mutual

exclusion, the three places are really occupied by the same body, there

is succession. This shows that succession is really nothing else than

_the existence of such things as exclude one another_. Hence succession

implies the existence of the thing that excludes, and the non-existence

of the things that are excluded. All variations involve some such

exclusion; hence all variations involve succession.… To perceive the

existence of things which exclude one another is to perceive succession

and time; to measure it is to measure time.” Thus far Balmes.[10]

But, if the _flowing_ duration can be easily conceived as the existence

of such things as exclude one another, the case is very different with

regard to _standing_ duration. For, since we measure all duration by time

or by successive intervals, we can scarcely conceive that there may be

duration without succession. Even the word “permanence” which we employ

in the definition of duration, and which seems to exclude all notion of

change, is always associated in our thought with succession and time.

The difficulty we experience in forming a concept of standing duration

is as great at least as that which we find in conceiving absolute space

without formal extension and parts. In fact, formal extension is to

absolute space what formal succession is to absolute standing duration.

To get over this difficulty we shall have to show that there is a

duration altogether independent of contingent changes, as there is a

space altogether independent of existing bodies, and that the succession

which we observe in the duration of created things is not to be found in

the fundamental reason of its existence, as our imagination suggests, but

only in the changes themselves which we witness in created things.

The following questions are to be answered: Is there any standing

duration? and if so, is it an objective reality, or a mere negation of

movement? Is standing duration anything created? What sort of reality

is it? Is it modified by the existence of creatures? What is a term of

duration? What is relative duration? What is an interval of duration, and

how is it measured? These questions are all parallel to those which we

have answered in our first and second articles on space, and they admit

of a similar solution.

_First question._--“Is there any duration absolutely standing?”

Certainly. For if there is a being whose entity remains always the same

without any intrinsic change, its duration will be absolutely standing.

But there is such a being. For there is, as we have proved, an infinite

reality absolutely immovable and unchangeable--that is, absolute space.

Its permanence is therefore altogether exempt from succession; and

consequently its duration is absolutely standing.

Again: As there is no movement in space without immovable space, so there

is no flowing in duration without standing duration. For as a thing

cannot change its ubication in space unless there be a field for real

ubications between the initial and the final term of the movement, so a

thing cannot change its mode of being (the _when_) in duration, unless

there be a field for real modes of being between the initial and the

final term of its duration. Now, this real field, owing to the fact that

it is, in both cases, prerequired for the possibility of the respective

changes, is something necessarily anterior to, and independent of, any of

such changes. Therefore, as the field of all local movements is anterior

to all movements and excludes movement from itself, so also the field of

all successive durations is anterior to all successivity and therefore

excludes succession.

Although these two arguments suffice to establish our conclusion, what we

have to say concerning the next question will furnish additional evidence

in its support.

_Second question._--“Is standing duration an objective reality or a mere

abstract conception?” We answer that standing duration is an objective

reality as much as absolute space. For, as movement cannot extend in

space, if space is nothing real, so movement cannot extend in duration,

if the field of its extension is nothing real. But we have just seen that

the field through which the duration of movement extends is standing

duration. Therefore standing duration is an objective reality.

Secondly, a mere nothing, or a mere fiction, cannot be the foundation of

real relations. But standing duration is the foundation of all intervals

of real succession, which are real relations. Therefore standing duration

is not a fiction, but an objective reality. The major of this argument

is well known. The minor is proved thus: In all real relations the terms

must communicate with each other through one and the same reality; and

therefore the foundation of a real relation must reach by one and the

same reality the terms related. But the terms of successive duration

are _before_ and _after_. Therefore the foundation of their relation

must reach both _before_ and _after_ with one and the same reality,

and therefore it has neither _before_ nor _after_ in itself. Had it

_before_ and _after_ in itself, its _after_ would not be its _before_;

and thus the reality by which it would reach the terms of succession

would not be the same. It is therefore manifest that the foundation of

all real intervals of succession is a reality whose duration ranges above

succession.

This proof may be presented more concisely as follows: Succession is a

relation between two terms, as _past_ and _present_. Its foundation must

therefore reach all the past as it reaches the present. But what reaches

the past as well as the present, is always present; for if it were

past, it would be no more, and thus it could not reach the past and the

present. Therefore the foundation of succession has no past, but only an

invariable present. Therefore there is a real standing duration, a real

field, over which successive duration extends.

Thirdly, in all intervals of succession the _before_ is connected

with the _after_ through real duration. But this real duration has

in itself neither _before_ nor _after_. For if it had _before_ and

_after_, it would fall under the very genus of relation of which it is

the foundation; which is evidently impossible, because it would then be

the foundation of its own entity. It is therefore plain that the real

connection between the _before_ and the _after_ is made by a reality

which transcends all _before_ and all _after_, and which is nothing else

than absolute standing duration.

Fourthly, if standing duration were not an objective reality, but a mere

fiction or a mere negation of movement, there would be no real length

of duration. For the terms of successive duration are indivisible,

and consequently they cannot give rise to any continuous quantity of

duration, unless something lies between them which affords a real ground

for continuous extension. That the terms of successive duration are

indivisible is evident, because the same term cannot be before itself nor

after itself, but is wholly confined to an indivisible instant. Now, that

according to which an interval of successive duration can be extended

from one of these terms to another, is nothing but absolute and standing

duration. For, if it were flowing, it would pass away with the passing

terms, and thus it would not lie between them, as is necessary in order

to supply a ground for the extension of the interval intercepted. In the

same manner, therefore, as there cannot be distance between two ubicated

points without real absolute space, there cannot be an interval between

two terms in succession without real absolute duration.

A fifth proof of the same truth may be drawn from the reality of the

past. Historical facts are real facts, although they are all past. There

really was a man called Solomon, who really reigned in Jerusalem; there

really was a philosopher called Plato, whose sublime doctrines deserved

for him the surname of Divine; there really was a man called Attila,

surnamed the Scourge of God. These men existed in different intervals

of duration, and they are no more; but their past existence and their

distinct duration constitute three distinct facts, which are _real facts_

even to the present day, and such will remain for ever. Now, how can

we admit that what has wholly ceased to exist in successive duration

is still a real and indelible fact, unless we admit that there is an

absolute duration which is, even now, as truly united with the past as it

is with the present, and to which the past is not past, but perpetually

present? If there is no such duration, then all the past must have been

obliterated and buried in absolute nothingness; for if the succession of

past things extended upon itself alone, without any distinct ground upon

which its flowing could be registered, none of past things could have

left behind a real mark of their existence.

Against this conclusion some will object that the relation between

_before_ and _after_ may be explained by a mere negation of simultaneous

existence. But the objection is futile. For the intervals of successive

duration can be greater or less, whilst no negation can be greater or

less; which shows that the negation of simultaneous existence must not be

confounded with the intervals of succession.

The following objection is more plausible. The duration of movement

suffices to fill up the whole interval of succession and to measure its

extent; and therefore the reality which connects the _before_ with the

_after_ is movement itself, not standing duration. To this we answer

that the duration of movement is essentially successive and relative;

and therefore it requires a real foundation in something standing and

absolute. In fact, although every movement formally extends and measures

its own duration, nevertheless it does not extend it upon itself, but

upon a field extrinsic to itself; and this field is permanently the

same. It is plain that the beginning and the end of movement cannot be

connected in mutual relation through movement alone, because movement is

always _in fieri_, and when it passes through one term of its duration

it loses the actuality it had in the preceding term; so that, when it

reaches its last term, it has nothing left of what it possessed in its

initial term or in any other subsequent term. This suffices to show that,

although the duration of the movement fills up the whole interval, yet,

owing to its very successivity, it cannot be assumed as the ground of the

relation intervening between its successive terms.

_Third question._--“Is absolute and standing duration a created or

an uncreated reality?” This question is easily answered; for, in the

first place, standing duration is the duration of a being altogether

unchangeable; and nothing unchangeable is created. Hence standing

duration is an uncreated reality. On the other hand, all that is created

is changeable and constantly subject to movement; hence all created (that

is, contingent) duration implies succession. Therefore standing duration

is not to be found among created realities. Lastly, standing duration,

as involving in itself all conceivable past and all possible future,

is infinite, and, as forming the ground of all contingent actualities,

is nothing less than the formal possibility of infinite terms of real

successive duration. But such a possibility can be found in God alone.

Therefore the reality of standing duration is in God alone; and we need

not add that it must be uncreated.

_Fourth question._--“What reality, then, is absolute standing duration?”

We answer that this duration is the infinite virtuality or extrinsic

terminability of God’s eternity. For nowhere but in God’s eternity can

we find the reason of the possibility of infinite terms and intervals of

duration. Of course, God’s eternity, considered absolutely _ad intra_,

is nothing else than the immobility of God’s existence; but its virtual

comprehension of all possible terms of successive duration constitutes

the absolute duration of God’s existence, inasmuch as the word “duration”

expresses a virtual extent corresponding to all possible contingent

duration; for God’s duration, though formally simultaneous, virtually

extends beyond all imaginable terms and intervals of contingent duration.

Hence standing duration is the duration of God’s eternity, the first and

fundamental ground of flowing duration, the infinite range through which

the duration of changeable things extend. In other words, the infinite

virtuality of God’s eternity, as equivalent to an infinite length of

time, is _duration_; and as excluding from itself all intrinsic change,

is _standing_ duration. This virtuality of God’s eternity is really

nothing else than its extrinsic terminability; for eternity is conceived

to correspond to all possible differences of time only inasmuch as it can

be compared with the contingent terms by which it can be extrinsically

terminated.

Secondly, if nothing had been created, there would have been no extrinsic

terms capable of extending successive duration; but, since God would

have remained in his eternity, there would have remained the reality in

which all extrinsic terms of duration have their virtual being; and

thus there would have remained, eminently and without formal succession,

in God himself the duration of all the beings possible outside of God.

For he would certainly not have ceased to exist in all the instants of

duration in which creatures have existed; the only change would have

been this: that those instants, owing to a total absence of creatures,

would have lacked their formal denomination of _instants_, and their

formal successivity. Hence, if nothing had been created, there would have

remained infinite real duration without succession, simply because the

virtuality of God’s eternity would have remained in all its perfection.

It is therefore this virtuality that formally constitutes standing

duration.

From this the reader will easily understand that in the concept of

standing duration two notions are involved, viz.: that of _eternity_,

as expressing the standing, and that of its _virtuality_, as connoting

virtual extent. In fact, God’s eternity, absolutely considered, is

simply the actuality of God’s substance, and, as such, does not connote

duration; for God’s substance is not said _to endure_, but simply

_to be_. The formal reason of duration is derived from the extrinsic

terminability of God’s eternity; for the word “duration” conveys the idea

of continuation, and continuation implies succession. Hence it is on

account of its extrinsic terminability to successive terms of duration

that God’s eternity is conceived as equivalent to infinite succession;

for what virtually contains in itself all possible terms and intervals of

succession virtually contains in itself all succession, and can co exist,

without intrinsic change, with all the changes of contingent duration.

Balmes, after defining succession as the existence of such things as

exclude one another, very properly remarks: “If there were a being which

neither excluded any other being nor were excluded by any of them,

that being would co-exist with all beings. Now, one such being exists,

viz.: God, and God alone. Hence theologians do but express a great and

profound truth when they say (though not all, perhaps, fully understand

what they say) that God is present to all times; that to him there is no

succession, no _before_ or _after_; that to him everything is present, is

_Now_.”[11]

We conclude that standing duration is infinite, all-simultaneous,

independent of all contingent things, indivisible, immovable, formally

simple and unextended, but equivalent to infinite intervals of successive

duration, and virtually extending through infinite lengths. This duration

is absolute.

_Fifth question._--“Does the creation of a contingent being in absolute

duration cause any intrinsic change in standing duration?” The answer

is not doubtful; for we have already seen that standing duration is

incapable of intrinsic modifications. Nevertheless, it will not be

superfluous to remark, for the better understanding of this answer, that

the “when” (the _quando_) of a contingent being has the same relation

to the virtuality of God’s eternity as has its “where” (the _ubi_) to

the virtuality of God’s immensity. For, as the “where” of every possible

creature is virtually precontained in absolute space, so is the “when”

of all creatures virtually precontained in absolute duration. Hence the

creation of any number of contingent beings in duration implies nothing

but the _extrinsic_ termination of absolute duration, which accordingly

remains altogether unaffected by the existence in it of any number of

extrinsic terms. The “when” of a contingent being, as contained in

absolute duration, is virtual; it does not become formal except in the

contingent being itself--that is, by extrinsic termination. Thus the

subject of the contingent “when” is not the virtuality of God’s eternity

any more than the subject of the contingent “where” is the virtuality of

God’s immensity.

This shows that the formal “when” of a contingent being is a mere

relativity, or a _respectus_. The formal reason, or the foundation,

of this relativity is the reality through which the contingent being

communicates with absolute standing duration, viz.: the real instant

(_quando_) which is common to both, although not in the same manner;

for it is _virtual_ in standing duration, whilst it is _formal_ in the

extrinsic term. Hence a contingent being, inasmuch as it has existence in

standing duration, is nothing but a term related by its “when” to divine

eternity as existing in a more perfect manner in the same “when.” But,

since the contingent “when” of the creature exclusively belongs to the

creature itself, God’s standing duration receives nothing from it except

a relative extrinsic denomination.

The relation resulting from the existence of a created term in standing

duration consists in this: that the created term by its formal “when”

really imitates the eminent mode of being of God himself in the same

“when.” This relation is called _simultaneousness_.

Simultaneousness is often confounded with presence and with

co-existence. But these three notions, rigorously speaking, differ from

one another. _Presence_ refers to terms in space; _simultaneousness_ to

terms in duration; _co-existence_ to terms both present and simultaneous.

Thus presence and simultaneousness are the constituents of co-existence.

Presence is to be considered as the material constituent, because it

depends on the “where,” which belongs to the thing on account of its

matter or potency; simultaneousness must be considered as the formal

constituent, because it depends on the “when,” which belongs to the thing

on account of its act or of its resulting actuality.

Before we proceed further, we must yet remark that in the same manner as

the infinite virtuality of divine immensity receives distinct extrinsic

denominations from the contingent terms existing in space, and is thus

said to imply _distinct virtualities_, so also the infinite virtuality

of God’s eternity can be said to imply distinct virtualities, owing to

the distinct denominations it receives from distinct terms of contingent

duration. It is for this reason that we can speak of virtualities of

eternity in the plural. Thus when we point out the first instant of any

movement as distinct from any following instant, we consider the flowing

of the contingent “when” from _before_ to _after_ as a passage from one

to another virtuality of standing duration. These virtualities, however,

are not distinct as to their absolute beings, but only as to their

extrinsic termination and denomination; and therefore they are really but

one infinite virtuality. As all that we have said of the virtualities

of absolute space in one of our past articles equally applies to the

virtualities of absolute duration, we need not dwell here any longer on

this point.

_Sixth question._--“In what does the ‘when’ of a contingent being

precisely consist?” From the preceding considerations it is evident

that the “when” of a contingent being may be understood in two manners,

viz., either _objectively_ or _subjectively_. Objectively considered,

the “when” is nothing else than _a simple and indivisible term in

duration_ formally marked out in it by the actuality of the contingent

being. We say _a simple and indivisible term_, because the actuality

of the contingent being by which it is determined involves neither

past nor future, neither _before_ nor _after_, but only its present

existence, which, as such, is confined to an indivisible _Now_. Hence

we do not agree with those philosophers who confound the _quando_ with

the _tempus_--that is, the “when” with the extent of flowing duration.

We admit with these philosophers that the “when” of contingent things

extends through movement from _before_ to _after_, and draws, so to say,

a continuous line in duration; but we must remind them that the _before_

and the _after_ are distinct modes of being in duration, and that every

term of duration designable between them is a distinct “when” independent

of every other “when,” either preceding or following; which shows that

the _tempus_ implies an uninterrupted series of distinct “whens,” and

therefore cannot be considered as synonymous with _quando_.

If the “when” is considered subjectively--that is, as an appurtenance of

the subject of which it is predicated--it may be defined as _the mode of

being of a contingent thing in duration_. This mode consists of a mere

relativity; for it results from the extrinsic termination of absolute

duration, as already explained. Hence the “when” is not _received_ in

the subject of which it is predicated, and does not _inhere_ in it, but,

like all other relativities and connotations, simply connects it with its

correlative, and intervenes or lies between the one and the other.

But, although it consists of a mere relativity, the “when” still admits

of being divided into _absolute_ and _relative_, according as it is

conceived absolutely as something real in nature, or compared with

some other “when”; for, as we have already explained when treating of

ubications, relative entities may be considered both as to what they are

in themselves, and as to what they are to one another.

If the “when” is considered simply as a termination of standing duration,

without regard for anything else, it is called _absolute_, and is defined

as _the mode of being of a thing in absolute duration_. This absolute

“when” is an _essential mode_ of the contingent being no less than its

dependence from the first cause, and is altogether immutable so long

as the contingent being exists; for, on the one hand, the contingent

being cannot exist but within the domain of divine eternity, and, on the

other, it cannot have different modes of being with regard to it, as the

standing duration of eternity is all uniform in its infinite virtual

extension, and the contingent being, however much we may try to vary its

place in duration, must always be in the very middle of eternity. Hence

the absolute “when” is altogether unchangeable.

If the “when” of a contingent being is compared with that of another

contingent being in order to ascertain their mutual relation, then the

“when” is called _relative_, and, as such, it may be defined as _the mode

of terminating a relation in duration_. This “when” is changeable, not

in its intrinsic entity, but in its relative formality; and it is only

under this formality that the “when” (_quando_) can be ranked among the

predicamental accidents; for this changeable formality is the only thing

in it which bears the stamp of an accidental entity.

The _before_ and the _after_ of the same contingent being are considered

as two distinct relative terms, because the being to which they refer,

when existing in the _after_, excludes the _before_; though the absolute

“when” of one and the same being is one term only. But of this we shall

treat more fully in the sequel.

_Seventh question._--“What is relative duration?” Here we meet again the

same difficulty which we have encountered in explaining relative space;

for in the same manner as relations in space are usually confounded

with space itself, so are the intervals in duration confounded with the

duration which is the ground of their extension. But, as the reasonings

by which we have established the precise notion of relative space can be

easily brought to bear on the present subject by the reader himself, we

think we must confine ourselves to a brief and clear statement of the

conclusions drawn from those reasonings, as applied to duration.

Relative duration is _the duration through which any movement extends_;

that is, the duration through which the “when” of anything in movement

glides from _before_ to _after_, and by which the _before_ and the

_after_ are linked in mutual relation. Now, the duration through which

movement extends is not exactly the duration of the movement itself, but

the ground upon which the movement extends its own duration; because

movement has nothing actual but a flowing instant, and therefore it has

no duration within itself except by reference to an extrinsic ground

through which it successively extends. This ground, as we have already

shown, is standing duration. And therefore relative duration is nothing

else than _standing duration as extrinsically terminated by distinct

terms_, or, what amounts to the same terminated by one term which, owing

to any kind of movement, acquires distinct and opposite formalities. This

conclusion is based on the principle that the foundation of all relations

between _before_ and _after_ must be something absolute, having in itself

neither _before_ nor _after_, and therefore absolutely standing. This

principle is obviously true. The popular notion, on the contrary, that

relative duration is the duration of movement, is based on the assumption

that movement itself engenders duration--which assumption is false;

for we cannot even conceive movement without presupposing the absolute

duration upon which the movement has to trace the line of its flowing

existence.

Thus relative duration is called relative, not because it is itself

related, but because it is the ground through which the extrinsic

terms are related. It is actively, not passively, relative; it is the

_ratio_, not the _rationatum_, the foundation, not the result, of the

relativities. In other terms, relative duration is absolute as to its

entity, and relative as to the extrinsic denomination derived from the

relations of which it is the formal reason. Duration, as absolute, may

be styled “the region of all possible _whens_,” just as absolute space is

styled “the region of all possible ubications”; and, as relative, it may

be styled “the region of all possible succession,” just as relative space

is styled “the region of all local movements.” Absolute standing duration

and absolute space are the ground of the _here_ and _now_ as statical

terms. Relative standing duration and relative space are the ground of

the _here_ and _now_ as gliding--that is, as dynamically considered.

_Eighth question._--“What is an interval of duration?” It is a relation

existing between two opposite terms of succession--that is, between

_before_ and _after_. An interval of duration is commonly considered as a

continuous extension; yet it is primarily a simple relation by which the

extension of the flowing from _before_ to _after_ is formally determined.

Nevertheless, since the “when” cannot acquire the opposite formalities,

_before_ and _after_, without continuous movement, all interval of

duration implies movement, and therefore may be considered also as a

continuous quantity. Under this last aspect, the interval of duration is

nothing else than the duration of the movement from _before_ to _after_.

We have already noticed that the duration of movement, or the interval

of duration, is not to be confounded with the duration through which the

movement extends. But as, in the popular language, the one as well as the

other is termed “relative duration,” we would suggest that the duration

through which the movement extends might be called _fundamental_ relative

duration, whilst the relation which constitutes an interval between

_before_ and _after_ might be called _resultant_ relative duration.

The philosophical necessity of this distinction is obvious, first,

because the _standing_ duration, through which movement extends, must not

be confounded with the _flowing_ duration of movement; secondly, because

the relation and its foundation are not the same thing, and, as we have

explained at length when treating of relative space, to confound the one

with the other leads to Pantheism. Intervals of relation are not _parts_

of absolute duration, though they are so conceived by many, but they are

mere relations, as we have stated. Absolute duration is all standing,

it has no parts, and it cannot be divided into parts. What is called an

interval _of_ duration should rather be called an interval _in_ duration;

for it is not a portion of standing duration, but an extrinsic result;

it is not a length of absolute duration, but the length of the movement

extending through that duration; it is not a divisible extension, but the

ground on which movement acquires its divisible extension from _before_

to _after_. In the smallest conceivable interval of duration there is

God, with all his eternity. To affirm that intervals of duration are

distinct durations would be to cut God’s eternity to pieces by giving it

a distinct being in really distinct intervals. Hence it is necessary to

concede that, whilst the intervals are distinct, the duration on which

they have their foundation is one and the same. The only duration which

can be safely confounded with those intervals is the flowing duration of

the movement by which they are measured. This is the duration which can

be considered as a continuous quantity divisible into parts; and this is

the duration which we should style “_resultant_ relative duration,” to

avoid all danger of error or equivocation.

The objections which can be made against this manner of viewing things do

not much differ from those which we have solved in our second article on

space; and therefore we do not think it necessary to make a new answer

to them. The reader himself will be able to see what the objections are,

and how they can be solved, by simply substituting the words “eternity,”

“duration,” etc., for the words “immensity,” “space,” etc., in the

article referred to.

Yet a special objection can be made against the preceding doctrine about

the duration of movement, independently of those which regard relations

in space. It may be presented under this form. “The foundation of the

relation between _before_ and _after_ is nothing else than movement

itself. It is therefore unnecessary and unphilosophical to trace the

duration of movement to the virtuality of God’s eternity as its extrinsic

foundation.” The antecedent of this argument may be proved thus: “That

thing is the foundation of the relation which gives to its terms their

relative being--that is, in our case, their opposite formalities,

_before_ and _after_. But movement alone gives to the _when_ these

opposite formalities. Therefore movement alone is the foundation of

successive duration.”

We answer that the antecedent of the first argument is absolutely false.

As to the syllogism which comes next, we concede the major, but we deny

the minor. For it is plain that movement cannot give to the absolute

_when_ the relative formalities _before_ and _after_, except by flowing

through absolute duration, without which it is impossible for the

movement to have its successive duration. And surely, if the movement has

no duration but that which it borrows from the absolute duration through

which it extends, the foundation of its duration from _before_ to _after_

can be nothing else than the same absolute duration through which the

movement acquires its _before_ and _after_. Now, this absolute duration

is the virtuality of God’s eternity, as we have proved. It is therefore

both philosophical and necessary to trace the duration of movement to

the virtuality of God’s eternity, as its extrinsic foundation. That

movement is also necessary to constitute the relation between _before_

and _after_, we fully admit; for there cannot be _before_ and _after_

without movement. But it does not follow from this that movement is

the _foundation_ of the relation; it merely follows that movement is

a _condition_ necessary to give to the absolute _when_ two distinct

actualities, according to which it may be compared with itself on the

ground of standing duration. For, as every relation demands two opposite

terms, the same absolute _when_ must acquire two opposite formalities,

that it may be related to itself.

The only other objection which may perhaps be made against our

conclusions is the following: The foundation of a real relation is that

reality through which the terms related communicate with one another.

Now, evidently, the _before_ and the _after_, which are the terms of

the relation in question, communicate with one another through the same

absolute _when_; for they are the same absolute _when_ under two opposite

formalities. Hence it follows that the foundation of the relation

between _before_ and _after_ is nothing else than the absolute _when_ of

a moving being.

To this we answer that the foundation of the relation is not all reality

through which the terms related communicate with one another, but only

that reality by the common termination of which they become formally

related to one another. Hence, since the _before_ and the _after_ do

not receive their relative formalities from the absolute _when_, it

is idle to pretend that the absolute _when_ is the foundation of the

interval of duration. The _before_ and the _after_ communicate with the

same absolute _when_ not as a formal, but as a material, cause of their

existence--that is, inasmuch as the same _when_ is the subject, not the

reason, of both formalities. The only relation to which the absolute

_when_ can give a foundation is one of identity with itself in all the

extent of its flowing duration. But such a relation presupposes, instead

of constituting, an interval in duration. And therefore it is manifest

that the absolute _when_ is not the foundation of the relation between

_before_ and _after_.

Having thus answered the questions proposed, and given the solution of

the few difficulties objected, we must now say a few words about the

_division_ and _measurement_ of relative duration, whether fundamental or

resultant.

Fundamental or standing duration is divided into _real_ and _imaginary_.

This division cannot regard the entity of standing duration, which is

unquestionably real, as we have proved. It regards the reality or the

unreality of the extrinsic terms conceived as having a relation in

duration. The true notion of real, contrasted with imaginary, duration,

is the following: Standing duration is called _real_ when it is _really_

relative, viz., when it is extrinsically terminated by real terms

between which it founds a real relation; on the contrary, it is called

_imaginary_ when the extrinsic terms do not exist in nature, but only in

our imagination; for, in such a case, standing duration is not really

terminated and does not found real relations, but both the terminations

and the relations are simply a figment of our imagination. Thus standing

duration, as containing none but imaginary relations, may justly be

called “imaginary,” though in an absolute sense it is intrinsically real.

Accordingly, the _indefinite_ duration which we imagine when we carry

our thought beyond the creation of the world, and which is also called

“imaginary,” is not absolute but relative duration, and is not imaginary

in itself, but only as to its denomination of relative, because, in the

absence of all real terms, there can be none but imaginary relations.

It is therefore unphilosophical to confound imaginary and indefinite

duration with absolute and infinite duration. This latter is not an

object of imagination, but of the intellect alone. Imagination cannot

conceive duration, except in connection with some movement from _before_

to _after_; hence absolute and infinite duration, which has no _before_

and no _after_, is altogether beyond the reach of imagination. Indeed,

our intellectual conception of infinite standing duration is always

accompanied in our minds by a representation of indefinite time; but

this depends, as we have stated in speaking of space, on the well-known

connection of our imaginative and intellectual operations, inasmuch

as our imagination strives to follow the intellect, and to represent

after its own manner what the intellect conceives in a totally different

manner. It was by confounding the objective notion of duration with our

subjective manner of imagining it that Kant came to the conclusion that

duration was nothing but a subjective form or a subjective condition,

under which all intuitions are possible in us. This conclusion is

evidently false; but its refutation, to be successful, must be based on

the objectivity of absolute standing duration, without which, as we have

shown, there can be no field for real and objective succession.

Resultant relative duration--that is, an interval of flowing

duration--admits of the same division into _real_ and _imaginary_. It

is real when a real continuous flowing connects the _before_ with the

_after_; in all other suppositions it will be imaginary. It may be

remarked that the “real continuous flowing” may be either intrinsic or

extrinsic. Thus, if God had created nothing but a simple angel, there

would have been no other flowing duration than a continuous succession

of intellectual operations connecting the _before_ with the _after_ in

the angel himself, and thus his duration would have been measured by a

series of intrinsic changes. It is evident that in this case one absolute

_when_ suffices to extend the interval of duration; for by its gliding

from _before_ to _after_ it acquires opposite formalities through which

it can be relatively opposed to itself as the subject and the term of

the relation. If, on the contrary, we consider the interval of duration

between two distinct beings--say Cæsar and Napoleon--then the real

continuous flowing by which such an interval is measured is extrinsic to

the terms compared; for the _when_ of Cæsar is distinct from, and does

not reach, that of Napoleon; which shows that their respective _whens_

have no intrinsic connection, and that the succession comprised between

those _whens_ must have consisted of a series of changes extrinsic to

the terms compared. It may seem difficult to conceive how an interval of

continuous succession can result between two terms of which the one does

not attain to the other; for, as a line in space must be drawn by the

movement of a single point, so it seems that a length in duration must be

extended by the flowing of a single _when_ from _before_ to _after_. The

truth is that the interval between the _whens_ of two distinct beings is

not obtained by comparing the _when_ of the one with that of the other,

but by resorting to the _when_ of some other being which has extended its

continuous succession from the one to the other. Thus, when Cæsar died,

the earth was revolving on its axis, and it continued to revolve without

interruption up to the existence of Napoleon, thus extending the duration

of its movement from a _when_ corresponding to Cæsar’s death to a _when_

corresponding to Napoleon’s birth; and this duration, wholly extrinsic to

Cæsar and Napoleon, measures the interval between them.

As all intervals of duration extend from _before_ to _after_, there

can be no interval between co-existent beings, as is evident. In the

same manner as two beings whose ubications coincide cannot be distant

in space, so two beings whose _whens_ are simultaneous cannot form an

interval of duration.

All real intervals of duration regard the past; for in the past alone

can we find a real _before_ and a real _after_. The present gives no

interval, as we have just stated, but only simultaneousness. The future

is real only potentially--that is, it will be real, but it is not yet.

What has never been, and never will be, is merely imaginary. To this

last class belong all the intervals of duration corresponding to those

conditional events which did not happen, owing to the non-fulfilment of

the conditions on which their reality depended.

As to the measurement of flowing duration a few words will suffice. The

_when_ considered absolutely is incapable of measuring an interval of

duration, for the reason that the _when_ is unextended, and therefore

unproportionate to the mensuration of a continuous interval; for the

measure must be of the same kind with the thing to be measured. Just

as a continuous line cannot be made up of unextended points, so cannot

a continuous interval be made up of indivisible instants; hence, as a

line is divisible only into smaller and smaller lines, by which it can

be measured, so also an interval of duration is divisible only into

smaller and smaller intervals, and is measured by the same. These smaller

intervals, being continuous, are themselves divisible and mensurable by

other intervals of less duration, and these other intervals are again

divisible and mensurable; so that, from the nature of the thing, it is

impossible to reach an absolute measure of duration, and we must rest

satisfied with a relative one, just as in the case of a line and of any

other continuous quantity. The smallest unit or measure of duration

commonly used is the second, or sixtieth part of a minute.

But, since continuous quantities are divisible _in infinitum_, it may be

asked, what prevents us from considering a finite interval of duration

as containing an infinite multitude of infinitesimal units of duration?

If nothing prevents us, then in the infinitesimal unit we shall have

the true and absolute measure of duration. We answer that nothing

prevents such a conception; but the mensuration of a finite interval by

infinitesimal units would never supply us the means of determining the

relative lengths of two intervals of duration. For, if every interval is

a sum of infinite terms, and is so represented, how can we decide which

of those intervals is the greater, since we cannot count the infinite?

Mathematicians, in all dynamical questions, express the conditions of the

movement in terms of infinitesimal quantities, and consider every actual

instant which connects the _before_ with the _after_ as an infinitesimal

interval of duration in the same manner as they consider every shifting

ubication as an infinitesimal interval of space. But when they pass from

infinitesimal to finite quantities by integration between determinate

limits, they do not express the finite intervals in infinitesimal terms,

but in terms of a finite unit, viz., a second of time; and this shows

that, even in high mathematics, the infinitesimal is not taken as the

measure of the finite.

Since infinitesimals are considered as evanescent quantities, the

question may be asked whether they are still conceivable as quantities.

We have no intention of discussing here the philosophical grounds of

infinitesimal calculus, as we may have hereafter a better opportunity

of examining such an interesting subject; but, so far as infinitesimals

of duration are concerned, we answer that they are still quantities,

though they bear no comparison with finite duration. What mathematicians

call an infinitesimal of time is nothing else rigorously than the

flowing of an actual “when” from _before_ to _after_. The “when” as

such is no quantity, but its flowing is. However narrow the compass

within which it may be reduced, the flowing implies a relation between

_before_ and _after_; hence every instant of successive duration,

inasmuch as it actually links its immediate _before_ with its immediate

_after_, partakes of the nature of successive duration, and therefore

of continuous quantity. Nor does it matter that infinitesimals are

called _evanescent_ quantities. They indeed vanish, as compared with

finite quantities; but the very fact of their vanishing proves that they

are still something when they are in the act of vanishing. Sir Isaac

Newton, after saying in his _Principia_ that he intends to reduce the

demonstration of a series of propositions to the first and last sums and

ratios of nascent and evanescent quantities, propounds and solves this

very difficulty as follows: “Perhaps it may be objected that there is no

ultimate proportion of evanescent quantities; because the proportion,

before the quantities have vanished, is not the ultimate, and, when they

are vanished, is none. But by the same argument it may be alleged that

a body arriving at a certain place, and there stopping, has no ultimate

velocity; because the velocity, before the body comes to the place, is

not its ultimate velocity; when it has arrived, is none. But the answer

is easy; for by the ultimate velocity is meant that with which the body

is moved, neither _before_ it arrives at its last place and the motion

ceases, nor _after_, but at the _very instant_ it arrives; that is,

the velocity with which the body arrives at its last place, and with

which the motion ceases. And in like manner, by the ultimate ratio of

evanescent quantities is to be understood the ratio of the quantities,

not before they vanish, not afterwards, but with which they vanish. In

like manner, the first ratio of nascent quantities is that with which

they begin to be.” From this answer, which is so clear and so deep, it

is manifest that infinitesimals are real quantities. Whence we infer

that every instant of duration which actually flows from _before_ to

_after_ marks out a real infinitesimal interval of duration that might

serve as a unit of measure for the mensuration of all finite intervals

of succession, were it not that we cannot reckon up to infinity.

Nevertheless, it does not follow that an infinitesimal duration is an

absolute unit of duration; for it is still continuous, even in its

infinite smallness; and accordingly it is still divisible and mensurable

by other units of a lower standard. Thus it is clear that the measurement

of flowing duration, and indeed of all other continuous quantity, cannot

be made except by some arbitrary and conventional unit.

THE STARS.

As I gaze in silent wonder

On the countless stars of night,

Looking down in mystic stillness

With their soft and magic light

Seem they from my eyes retreating

With their vast and bright array,

Till they into endless distance

Almost seem to fade away.

And my thoughts are carried with them

To their far-off realms of light;

Yet they seem retreating ever,

Ever into endless night.

Whither leads that silent army,

With its noiseless tread and slow?

And those glittering bands, who are they?

Thus my thoughts essay to know.

But my heart the secret telleth

That to thee, my God, they guide;

That they are thy gleaming watchmen,

Guarding round thy palace wide.

Then, when shall those gates be opened

To receive my yearning soul,

Where its home shall be for ever,

While the countless ages roll?

Thou alone, O God! canst know it:

Till then doth my spirit pine.

Father! keep thy child from falling,

Till for ever I am thine.

WILLIAM TELL AND ALTORF.

Brunnen, the “fort of Schwytz,” standing at that angle of the lake of

Lucerne where it turns abruptly towards the very heart of the Alps,

has always been a central halting-place for travellers; but since the

erection of its large hotel the attraction has greatly increased. We

found the Waldstätterhof full to overflowing, and rejoiced that, as

usual, we had wisely ordered our rooms beforehand. Our surprise was

great, as we threaded the mazes of the _table-d’hôte_ room, to see Herr

H---- come forward and greet us cordially. We expected, it is true,

to meet him here, but not until the eve of the feast at Einsiedeln,

whither he had promised to accompany us. An unforeseen event, however,

had brought him up the lake sooner, and he therefore came on to Brunnen,

in the hope of finding us. A few minutes sufficed to make him quit his

place at the centre table and join us at a small one, where supper had

been prepared for our party, and allow us to begin a description of our

wanderings since we parted from him on the quay at Lucerne. Yes, “begin”

is the proper word; for before long the harmony was marred by George,

who, with his usual impetuosity, and in spite of Caroline’s warning

frowns and Anna’s and my appealing looks, betrayed our disappointment at

having missed the Hermitage at Ranft, and the reproaches we had heaped on

Herr H----’s head for having mismanaged the programme in that particular.

The cheery little man, whose eyes had just begun to glisten with

delight, grew troubled.

“I am _so_ sorry!” he exclaimed. “But the ladies were not so enthusiastic

about Blessed Nicholas when I saw them. And as for you, Mr. George, I

never could have dreamt you would have cared for the Hermit.”

“Oh! but _he_ is a real historical character, you see, about whom there

can be no doubt--very unlike your sun-god, your mythical hero, William

Tell!” replied George.

“Take care! take care! young gentleman,” said Herr H----, laughing.

“Remember you are now in Tell’s territory, and he may make you rue the

consequences of deriding him! Don’t imagine, either, that your modern

historical critics have left even Blessed Nicholas alone! Oh! dear, no.”

“But he is vouched for by documents,” retorted George.“No one can doubt

them.”

“Your critics of this age would turn and twist and doubt anything,” said

Herr H----. “They cannot deny his existence nor the main features of his

life; yet some have gone so far as to pretend to doubt the most authentic

fact in it--his presence at the Diet of Stanz--saying that _probably_ he

never went there, but only wrote a letter to the deputies. So much for

their criticism and researches! After that specimen you need not wonder

that I have no respect for them. But I am in an unusually patriotic

mood to-day; for I have just come from a meeting at Beckenried, on

the opposite shore, in Unterwalden. It was that which brought me here

before my appointment with you. It was a meeting of one of our Catholic

societies in these cantons, which assembled to protest against the

revision of the constitution contemplated next spring. Before separating

it was suggested that they should call a larger one at the Rütli, to

evoke the memories of the past and conform themselves to the pattern of

our forefathers.”

“Why do you so much object to a revision?” inquired Mr. C----. “Surely

reform must sometimes be necessary.”

“Sometimes, of course, but not at present, my dear sir. ‘Revision’

nowadays simply means radicalism and the suppression of our religion and

our religious rights and privileges. It is a word which, for that reason

alone, is at all times distasteful to these cantons. Moreover, it savors

too much of French ideas and doctrines, thoroughly antagonistic to all

our principles and feelings. Everything French is loathed in these parts,

especially in Unterwalden, in spite of--or I should perhaps rather say in

consequence of--all they suffered from that nation in 1798.”

“I can understand that,” said Mr. C----, “with the memory of the massacre

in the church at Stanz always in their minds.”

“Well, yes; but that was only one act in the tragedy. The desolation they

caused in that part of the country was fearful. Above all, their total

want of religion at that period can never be forgotten.”

“As for myself,” remarked Mr. C----, “though not a Catholic, I confess

that I should much rather rely on the upright instincts of this pious

population than on the crooked teachings of our modern philosophers. I

have always noticed in every great political crisis that the instincts of

the pure and simple-minded have something of an inspiration about them;

they go straight to the true principles where a Macchiavelli is often at

fault.” Herr H---- completely agreed with him, and the conversation soon

became a deep and serious discussion on the tendencies of modern politics

in general, so that it was late that evening before our party separated.

The first sound that fell upon my ear next morning was the splashing of

a steamer hard by. It had been so dark upon our arrival the night before

that we had not altogether realized the close proximity of the hotel to

the lake, and it was an unexpected pleasure to find my balcony almost

directly over the water, like the stern gallery of a ship of war. A

small steamer certainly was approaching from the upper end of the lake,

with a time-honored old diligence in the bows and a few travellers,

tired-looking and dust-stained, scattered on the deck, very unlike the

brilliant throngs that pass to and fro during the late hours of the

day. But this early morning performance was one of real business, and

the magical words “Post” and “St. Gothard,” which stood out in large

letters on the yellow panels of the diligence, told at once of more than

mere pleasure-seeking. What joy or grief, happiness or despair, might

not this old-fashioned vehicle be at this moment conveying to unknown

thousands! It was an abrupt transition, too, to be thus brought from

pastoral Sarnen and Sachslen into immediate contact with the mighty Alps.

Of their grandeur, however, nothing could be seen; for, without rain

or wind, a thick cloud lay low upon the lake, more like a large flat

ceiling than aught else. Yet, for us, it had its own peculiar interest,

being nothing more nor less than the great, heavy, soft mass which we

had noticed hanging over the lake every morning when looking down from

Kaltbad, whilst we, revelling in sunshine and brightness above, were

pitying the poor inhabitants along the shore beneath. There was a kind

of superiority, therefore, in knowing what it meant, and in feeling

confident that it would not last long. And, as we expected, it did clear

away whilst we sat at our little breakfast-table in the window, revealing

in all its magnificence the glorious view from this point up the Bay of

Uri, which we have elsewhere described. Huge mountains seemed to rise

vertically up out of the green waters; verdant patches were dotted here

and there on their rugged sides; and, overtopping all, shone the glacier

of the Urirothstock, more dazzlingly white and transparent than we had

ever yet beheld it.

“Now, ladies!” exclaimed Herr H----, “I hope you have your Schiller

ready; for the Rütli is yonder, though you will see it better by and by.”

“Why, I thought you disapproved of Schiller,” retorted the irrepressibly

argumentative George.

“To a certain degree, no doubt,” replied Herr H----. “But nothing can

be finer than his _William Tell_ as a whole. My quarrel with it is that

the real William Tell would have fared much better were it not for this

play, and especially for the opera. They have both made the subject so

common--so _banale_, as the French say--that the world has grown tired

of it, and for this reason alone is predisposed to reject our hero.

Besides, the real history of the Revolution is so fine that I prefer it

in its simplicity. Schiller is certainly true to its spirit, but details

are frequently different. For instance, the taking of the Castle of the

Rossberg, which you passed on the lake of Alpnach: Schiller has converted

that into a most sensational scene, whereas the true story is far more

characteristic. That was the place where a young girl admitted her

betrothed and his twelve Confederate friends by a rope-ladder at night,

which enabled them to seize the castle and imprison the garrison “without

shedding a drop of blood or injuring the property of the Habsburgs,” in

exact conformity with their oath on the Rütli. You will often read of

the loves of Jägeli and Ameli in Swiss poetry. They are great favorites,

and, in my opinion, far more beautiful than the fictitious romance

of Rudenz and Bertha. And so in many other cases. But every one does

not object to Schiller as I do; for in 1859, when his centenary was

celebrated in Germany, the Swiss held a festival here on the Rütli,

and subsequently erected a tablet on that large natural pyramidal rock

you see at the corner opposite. It is called the Wytenstein, and you

can read the large gilt words with a glass. It is laconic enough, too;

see: ‘To Frederick Schiller--The Singer of Tell--The Urcantone.’ The

original cantons! Miss Caroline! let me congratulate you on being at last

in the ‘Urschweiz’--the cradle of Switzerland,” continued Herr H----,

as we sauntered out on the quay, pointing at the same time to some bad

frescos of Swen and Suiter on a warehouse close by. Stauffacher, Fürst,

and Van der Halden also figured on the walls--the presiding geniuses

of this region. “Brunnen is in no way to be despised, I assure you,

ladies; you are treading on venerated soil. This is the very spot that

witnessed the foundation of the Confederacy, where the oath was taken

by the representatives of Uri, Schwytz, and Unterwalden the day after

the battle of Morgarten. They swore ‘to die, each for all and all for

each’--the oath which made Switzerland renowned, and gave the name of

‘Ridsgenossen,’ or ‘oath-participators,’ to its inhabitants. The document

is still kept in the archives at Schwytz, with another dated August 1,

1291. Aloys von Reding raised his standard against the French here in

1798; and he was quite right in beginning his resistance to them at

Brunnen. It is full of memories to us Swiss, and is a most central point,

as you may see, between all these cantons. The increase in the hotels

tells what a favorite region it also is with tourists.”

On this point Mr. and Mrs. C----’s astonishment was unbounded. They

had passed a fortnight at Brunnen in 1861, at a small inn with scanty

accommodation, now replaced by the large and comfortable Waldstätterhof,

situated in one of the most lovely spots imaginable, at the angle of

the lake, one side fronting the Bay of Uri and the other looking up

towards Mount Pilatus. The _pension_ of Seelisberg existed on the heights

opposite even then--only, however, as a small house, instead of the

present extensive establishment, with its pretty woods and walks; but

Axenstein and the second large hotel now building near it, with the

splendid road leading up to them, had not been thought of. The only

communication by land between Schwytz and Fluelen, in those days, was

a mule-path along the hills, precipitous and dangerous in many parts.

The now famed Axenstrasse was not undertaken until 1862; and is said to

have been suggested by the French war in Italy. With the old Swiss dread

of the French still at heart, the Federal government took alarm at that

first military undertaking on the part of Napoleon III., and, seeing

the evil of having no communication between these cantons in case of

attack, at once took the matter seriously in hand. This great engineering

achievement was opened to the public in 1868. It looked most inviting

to-day, and we quickly decided to make use of it by driving along it to

Fluelen, and thence to Altorf, returning in the evening by the steamer.

Some were anxious to visit the Rütli; but Mr. and Mrs. C---- had been

there before, and knew that it was more than an hour’s expedition

by boat, so that the two excursions on the same day would be quite

impossible; consequently, we chose the longer one.

It was just ten o’clock when we started; Mrs. C----, Caroline, Herr

H----, and myself in one carriage, with George on the box, the others

following us in a second vehicle. We had not proceeded far when Herr

H---- made us halt to look at the Rütli, on the shore right opposite. We

distinctly saw that it was a small meadow, formed by earth fallen from

above on a ledge of rock under the precipitous heights of Seelisberg,

and now enclosed by some fine chestnut and walnut trees. Truly, it was

a spot fitted for the famous scene. So unapproachable is it, except by

water, that even that most enterprising race--Swiss hotel-keepers--have

hitherto failed to destroy it. Some years ago, however, it narrowly

escaped this fate; for Herr Müller, of Seelisberg, is said to have been

on the point of building a _pension_ on the great meadow. But no sooner

did this become known than a national subscription was at once raised,

the government purchased it, and now it has become inalienable national

property for ever.

“You may well be proud of your country, Herr H----,” exclaimed Mr.

C---- from the other carriage. “I always look on that tiny spot with

deep reverence as the true cradle of freedom. Look at it well, George!

It witnessed that wonderful oath by which these mountaineers bound

themselves ‘to be faithful to each other, just and merciful to their

oppressors’--the only known example of men--and these men peasants,

too--binding themselves, in the excitement of revolt, not to take revenge

on their oppressors.”

“Quite sublime!” ejaculated George.

“Well, it has borne good fruit,” returned Herr H---- in gleeful tones;

“for here we are still free! Except on the one occasion of the French in

’98, no foreign troops have ever invaded this part of Switzerland since

those days. Yes, there are three springs at the Rütli, supposed to have

jutted forth where the three heroes stood; but I do not pledge my word

for that,” he answered smilingly to Caroline, “nor for the legend which

says that their spirits sleep in the rocky vale under Seelisberg, ready

to come forth and lead the people in moments of danger.”

“I hope their slumbers may never be disturbed,” she replied; “but I wish

some one would prevent these cattle from frightening the horses,” as a

large drove swept past our carriages, making our steeds nervous. Splendid

animals they were, with beautiful heads, straight backs, light limbs, and

of a grayish mouse color.

“All of the celebrated Schwytz breed,” said Herr H----. “This part of

the country is renowned for its cattle. Each of these probably cost from

five to six hundred francs. The Italians take great advantage of this new

road, and come in numbers to buy them at this season, when the cattle

are returning from the mountains. These are going across the St. Gothard

to Lombardy. Those of Einsiedeln are still considered the best. Do you

remember, Miss Caroline, that the first mention of German authority in

this land was occasioned by a dispute between the shepherds of Schwytz

and the abbots of Einsiedeln about their pasturage--the emperor having

given a grant of land to the abbey, while the Schwytzers had never heard

of his existence even, and refused to obey his majesty’s orders?”

“Ah! what historical animals: that quite reconciles me to them,” she

answered, as we drove on again amongst a group that seemed very uneasy

under their new masters, whose sweet language George averred had no power

over them.

Who can describe the exquisite beauty of our drive?--winding in and

out, sometimes through a tunnel; at others along the edge of the high

precipice from which a low parapet alone separated us; at another passing

through the village of Sisikon, which years ago suffered severely from a

fragment of rock fallen from the Frohnalp above. Time flew rapidly, and

one hour and a half had glided by, without our perceiving it, when we

drew up before the beautiful little inn of “Tell’s Platte.”

“But there is no Platform here,” cried George. “We are hundreds of feet

above the lake. The critics are right, Herr H----, decidedly right! I

knew it from the beginning. How can you deny it?”

“Wait, my young friend! Don’t be so impatient. Just come into the inn

first--I should like you to see the lovely view from it; and then we can

look for the Platform.” Saying which, he led us upstairs, on through the

_salon_ to its balcony on the first floor. This is one of the smaller

inns of that olden type which boast the enthusiastic attachment of

regular customers, and display with pride that old institution--the

“strangers’ book”--which has completely vanished from the monster hotels.

It lay open on the table as we passed, and every one instinctively

stopped to examine it.

“The dear old books!” exclaimed Mrs. C----. “How they used to amuse me in

Switzerland! I have missed them so much this time. Their running fire of

notes, their polyglot verses--a sort of album and scrap-book combined,

full, too, of praise or abuse of the last hotel, as the humor might be.”

“Yes,” said Mr. C----, “I shall never forget the preface to one--an

imprecation on whoever might be tempted to let his pen go beyond bounds.

I learned it by rote:

“May the mountain spirits disturb his slumbers;

May his limbs be weary, and his feet sore;

May the innkeepers give him tough mutton and

Sour wine, and charge him for it as though he were

Lord Sir John, M.P.!”

“How very amusing!--a perfect gem in its way,” cried Anna. “Lord Sir

John, M.P., must have been the model of large-pursed Britons in his

time.” Here, however, everything seemed to be _couleur de rose_. The

book’s only fault was its monotony of praise. Two sisters keep the hotel,

and “nowhere,” said its devoted friends, “could one find better fare,

better attendance, and greater happiness than at Tell’s Platform.” The

testimony of a young couple confessedly on their bridal tour had no

weight. We know how, at that moment, a barren rock transforms itself into

a paradise for them; but three maiden ladies had passed six weeks of

unalloyed enjoyment here once upon a time, and had returned often since;

English clergymen and their families found no words of praise too strong;

while German students and professors indulged in rhapsodical language not

to be equalled out of fatherland.

Duchesses, princesses, and Lords Sir John, M.P., were alone wanting

amongst the present guests. “But they come,” said Herr H----, “by the

mid-day steamers, dine and rest here awhile, and return in the evenings

to the larger hotels in other places.”

And standing on the balcony of the _salon_, facing all the grand

mountains, with the green lake beneath, it truly seemed a spot made for

brides and bridegrooms, for love and friendship. So absorbed were we in

admiration of the enchanting view that we did not at first notice two

little maidens sitting at the far end. They were pretty children, of nine

and thirteen, daughters of an English family stopping here, and their

countenances brightened as they heard our exclamation of delight; for

Tell’s Platte was to them a paradise. Like true Britons, however, they

said nothing until George and Caroline commenced disputing about the

scenery. Comment then was irresistible. “No,” said the youngest, “that

is the Isenthal,” pointing to a valley beneath the hills opposite; “and

that the Urirothstock, with its glacier above, and the Gütschen. Those

straight walls of rock below are the Teufel’s-Münster.”

“Don’t you remember where Schiller says:

‘The blast, rebounding from the Devil’s Minster,

Has driven them back on the great Axenberg’?

That is it, and this here is the Axenberg,” said Emily, the elder girl.

“But I see no Platform here,” remarked George with mischief in his eye,

as he quickly detected the young girl’s faith in the hero.

“It would be impossible to see it,” she rejoined, “as it is three hundred

feet below this house.”

“But we can show you the way, if you will come,” continued the younger

child, taking George’s hand, who, partly from surprise and partly

amusement, allowed himself to be led like a lamb across the road and

through the garden to the pathway winding down the cliff, followed by us,

under guidance of the elder sister, Emily.

“Yes,” the children answered, “they had spent the last two years in

France and Germany.” And certainly they spoke both languages like

natives. Emily was even translating _William Tell_ into English blank

verse. “Heigho!” sighed Mr. C----, “for this precocious age.” But the

lake of the Forest Cantons was dearer to them than all else. They had

climbed one thousand feet up the side of the Frohnalpstock that very

morning with their father; knew every peak and valley, far and near,

with all their legends and histories; even the _ranz des vaches_ and

the differences between them--the shepherds’ calls to the cows and the

goats. Annie, our smaller friend, entertained George with all their

varieties, as she tripped daintily along, like a little fairy, with

her tiny alpenstock. Very different was she from continental children,

who rarely, if ever, take interest in either pastoral or literary

matters. She knew the way to the platform well; for did she not go up

and down it many times a day? A difficult descent it was, too--almost

perpendicular--notwithstanding the well-kept pathway; but not dangerous

until we reached the bottom, when each one in turn had to jump on to a

jutting piece of rock, in order to get round the corner into the chapel.

Most truly it stands on a small ledge, with no inch of room for aught but

the small building raised over it. The water close up to the shore is

said to be eight hundred feet deep, and it made one shudder to hear Herr

H----’s story of an artist who a few years ago fell into the lake while

sketching on the cliffs above. Poor man! forgetful of the precipice, he

had thoughtlessly stepped back a few steps to look at his painting, fell

over, and was never seen again. His easel and painting alone remained to

give pathetic warning to other rash spirits.

The chapel, open on the side next the water, is covered with faded

frescos of Tell’s history, which our little friends quaintly described;

and it contains, besides, an altar and a small pulpit. Here Mass is said

once a year on the Friday after the Ascension, when all the people of

the neighborhood come hither, and from their boats, grouped outside,

hear Mass and the sermon preached to them from the railing in front.

This was the feast which my Weggis guide so much desired to see. It is

unique in every particular, and Herr H---- was eloquent on the beauty and

impressiveness of the scene, at which he had once been present, and which

it was easy to understand amidst these magnificent surroundings. Nor is

it a common gathering of peasants, but a solemn celebration, to which the

authorities of Uri come in state with the standard of Uri--the renowned

Uri ox--floating at the bows. As may be supposed, the sermon is always

national, touching on all those points of faith, honor, and dignity which

constitute true patriotism. Mr. C---- had Murray’s guide-book in his

hand, and would not allow us to say another word until he read aloud Sir

James Macintosh’s remarks on this portion of the lake, which there occur

as follows:

“The combination of what is grandest in nature with whatever is

pure and sublime in human conduct affected me in this passage

(along the lake) more powerfully than any scene which I had

ever seen. Perhaps neither Greece nor Rome would have had such

power over me. They are dead. The present inhabitants are a

new race, who regard with little or no feeling the memorials

of former ages. This is, perhaps, the only place on the globe

where deeds of pure virtue, ancient enough to be venerable,

are consecrated by the religion of the people, and continue

to command interest and reverence. No local superstition so

beautiful and so moral anywhere exists. The inhabitants of

Thermopylæ or Marathon know no more of these famous spots than

that they are so many square feet of earth. England is too

extensive a country to make Runnymede an object of national

affection. In countries of industry and wealth the stream of

events sweeps away these old remembrances. The solitude of

the Alps is a sanctuary destined for the monuments of ancient

virtue; Grütli and Tell’s chapel are as much reverenced by

the Alpine peasants as Mecca by a devout Mussulman; and the

deputies of the three ancient cantons met, so late as the year

1715, to renew their allegiance and their oaths of eternal

union.”

“All very well,” said George, “if there really had been a Tell; but

this seems to me a body without a soul. Why, this very chapel is in the

Italian style, and never could have been founded by the one hundred and

twenty contemporaries who are said to have known Tell and to have been

present at its consecration.”

“I never heard that any one insisted on this being the original

building,” said Herr H----. “It is probably an improvement on it;

but it was not the fashion in those times--for people were not then

incredulous--to put up tablets recording changes and renovations,

as nowadays at Kaltbad and Klösterle, for instance. But speaking

dispassionately, Mr. George, it seems to me quite impossible that the

introduction of any legend from Denmark or elsewhere could have taken

such strong hold of a people like these mountaineers without some

solid foundation, especially here, where every inhabitant is known to

the other, and the same families have lived on in the same spots for

centuries. Why is it not just as likely that the same sort of event

should have occurred in more than one place? And as to its not being

mentioned in the local documents, that is not conclusive either; for we

all know how careless in these respects were the men of the middle ages,

above all in a rude mountain canton of this kind. Transmission by word of

mouth and by religious celebrations is much more in character with those

times. I go heart and hand with your own Buckle, who places so much

reliance on local traditions. The main argument used against the truth

of the story is, you know, that it was first related in detail by an old

chronicler called Ægidius Tschudi, a couple of hundred years after the

event. But I see nothing singular in that; for most probably he merely

committed to writing, with all the freshness of simplicity, the story

which, for the previous two hundred years, had been in the hearts and

on the lips of the peasants of this region. No invention of any writer

could have founded chapels or have become ingrained in the hearts of the

locality itself in the manner this story has done. It was never doubted

until the end of the last century, when a Prof. Freudenberger, of Bern,

wrote a pamphlet entitled _William Tell: a Danish Fable_.”

“Yes,” broke in little Emily, latest translator of Schiller, and who had

been listening attentively to our discussion, “and the people of the

forest cantons were so indignant that the authorities of Uri had the

pamphlet burned by the common hangman, and then they solemnly proclaimed

its author an outlaw.”

“I told you, Mr. George, that you were on dangerous ground here,” said

Herr H----, laughing.

“I must make him kiss this earth before he leaves,” said Mrs. C----, “as

I read lately of a mother making her little son do when passing here

early in this century, regarding it as a spot sacred to liberty. She

little thought a sceptic like you would so soon follow.”

“Well! I am _almost_ converted,” he answered, smiling, “but I wish Miss

Emily would tell us the story of Tell’s jumping on shore here,” trying to

draw out the enthusiastic little prodigy.

“Oh! don’t you remember that magnificent passage in Schiller where,

after the scene of shooting at the apple, Gessler asked Tell why he put

the second arrow into his quiver, and then, promising to spare his life

if he revealed its object, evades his promise the instant he hears that

it was destined to kill him if Tell had struck his son instead of the

apple? He then ordered him to be bound and taken on board his vessel at

Fluelen. The boat had no sooner left Fluelen than one of those sudden

storms sprang up so common hereabouts. There was one two days ago. Annie

and I tried to come down here, but it was impossible--the wind and waves

were so high we could not venture, so we sat on the pathway and read out

Schiller. Oh! he is a great genius. He never was in Switzerland. Yes!

just fancy that; and yet he describes everything to perfection. Well!

Tell was as good a pilot as a marksman, and Gessler, in his fright, again

promised to take off his fetters if he would steer the vessel safely. He

did, but steered them straight towards this ledge of rock, sprang out

upon it, climbed up the cliff, and, rushing through the country, arrived

at the Hohle-Gasse near Küssnacht before the tyrant had reached it.”

“Schiller decidedly has his merit, it must be confessed, when he can get

such ardent admirers as these pretty children,” said Herr H---- when we

bade farewell to our dear little friends.

“Yes,” answered the incorrigible George from the box seat, “poetry,

poetry!--an excellent mode of transmitting traditions, making them

indelible on young minds; but I am so far converted, Herr H----,”

continued he, laughing, “that I am sorry the doubts were ever raised

about the Tell history. It is in wonderful keeping with the place and

people, and it will be a great pity if _they_ give it up. ‘Se non è vero,

è ben trovato,’[12] at least.”

Hence onwards to Fluelen is the finest portion of the Axenstrasse, and

the opening views of the valley of the Reuss and the Bristenstock,

through the arches of the galleries or tunnels, every minute increased

in beauty. Several of us got out the better to enjoy them, sending the

carriages on ahead. The Schwytz cattle had quite escaped our memories,

when suddenly a bell sounded round a sharp angle of the road and a large

drove instantly followed.

A panic seized us ladies. The cliff rose vertically on the inner side,

without allowing us the possibility of a clamber, and in our fright,

before the gentlemen could prevent us, we leaped over a low railing,

which there served as a parapet, on to a ledge of rock, a few yards

square, rising straight up from the lake hundreds of feet below. All

recollection of their historical interest vanished from our minds; for,

as the cattle danced along, they looked as scared and wild as ourselves,

and it was not until they had passed without noticing us, and that their

dark-eyed masters had spoken some soft Italian words to us, that we fully

realized the extent of our imprudence. Had any one of these animals

jumped up over the railing, as we afterwards heard they have sometimes

done, who can say what might not have happened? Fortunately, no harm

ensued beyond a flutter of nerves, which betrayed itself by Anna’s

turning round to a set of handsome goats that soon followed the cattle,

crying out to them in her own peculiar German: “Nix kommen! nix kommen!”

Fluelen has nothing to show beyond the picturesqueness of a village

situated in such scenery and a collection of lumbering diligences and

countless carriages, awaiting the hourly arrival of the steamers from

Lucerne. The knell of these old diligences, however, has tolled, for the

St. Gothard Railway tunnel has been commenced near Arnsty, and though

it may require years to finish it, its “opening day” will surely come.

Half an hour’s drive up the lovely valley brought us to Altorf, at the

foot of the Grünwald, which, in accord with its name, is clothed with a

virgin forest, now called the “Bann forest,” because so useful is it in

protecting the town from avalanches and landslips that the Uri government

never permits it to be touched. Altorf, like so many of the capitals in

these forest cantons, has a small population, 2,700 inhabitants only,

but it has many good houses, for it was burnt down in 1799 and rebuilt

in a better manner. Tell’s story forms its chief interest, and certainly

did so in our eyes. We rushed at once to the square, where one fountain

is said to mark the spot where Tell took aim, and another that upon

which his boy stood. Tradition says that the latter one replaced the

lime-tree against which the son leant, portions of which existed until

1567. A paltry plaster statue of the hero is in the same square, but the

most remarkable relic of antiquity is an old tower close by, which Herr

H---- assured us is proved by documents to have been built before 1307,

the date of Tell’s history. Had the young friends we left at “Tell’s

Platform” accompanied us hither, Emily might have quoted Schiller to

us at length. But George, having recently bought a Tauchnitz edition

of Freeman’s _Growth of the English Constitution_, which opens with a

fine description of the annual elections of this canton, he earnestly

pleaded a prolongation of our drive to the spot where this takes place,

three miles further inland. Accordingly, after ordering dinner to be

ready on our return at a hotel which was filled with Tell pictures, and

an excellent one of the festival at the Platform, we left the town and

proceeded up the valley. Soon we crossed a stream, the same, Herr H----

told us, in which Tell is said to have been drowned while endeavoring to

save a child who had fallen into it. He also pointed out to us Bürglen,

his home, and an old tower believed to have been his house, attached to

which there is now a small ivy-clad chapel. It stands at the opening

of the Schächen valley, celebrated to this day for its fine race of

men--likewise corresponding in this respect with the old tradition.

But more modern interest attaches to this valley, for it was along its

craggy sides and precipices that Suwarow’s army made its way across the

Kinzig-Kulm to the Muotta. The whole of this region was the scene of

fearful fighting--first between the French and the Austrians, who were

assisted by the natives of Uri, in 1799, and then, a month later, between

the Russians coming up from Lombardy and the French.

“That was the age of real fighting,” said Herr H----, “hand-to-hand

fighting, without _mitrailleuses_ or long ranges. But the misery it

brought this quarter was not recovered from for years after. Altorf

was burnt down at that time, and everything laid waste. The memory of

the trouble lingers about here even yet. What wonder! Certainly, in

all Europe no more difficult fighting ground could have been found. In

the end, the French General Lecourbe was all but cut off, for he had

destroyed every boat on the lake; in those days a most serious matter,

as neither steamers nor Axenstrasse existed. When he therefore wished to

pursue the Russians, who by going up this Schächen valley intended to

join their own corps, supposed to be at Zürich, he too was obliged to

make a bold manœuvre. And then it was that he led his army by torchlight

along the dangerous mule-path on the Axenberg! Sad and dreadful times

they were for these poor cantons.”

Herr H---- showed us Attinghausen, the birth-place of Walter Fürst, and

the ruins of a castle near, which is the locality of a fine scene in

Schiller, but the last owner of which died in 1357, and is known to have

been buried in his helmet and spurs. Shortly after, about three miles

from Altorf, we reached the noted field, and George, opening Freeman,

read us the following passage aloud:

“Year by year, on certain spots among the dales and the

mountain-sides of Switzerland, the traveller who is daring

enough to wander out of beaten tracks and to make his journey

at unusual seasons, may look on a sight such as no other corner

of the earth can any longer set before him. He may there gaze

and feel, what none can feel but those who have seen with their

own eyes, what none can feel in its fulness more than once in a

lifetime--the thrill of looking for the first time face to face

on freedom in its purest and most ancient form. He is there in

a land where the oldest institutions of our race--institutions

which may be traced up to the earliest times of which history

or legend gives us any glimmering--still live on in their

primeval freshness. He is in a land where an immemorial

freedom, a freedom only less eternal than the rocks that guard

it, puts to shame the boasted antiquity of kingly dynasties,

which, by its side, seem but as innovations of yesterday.

There, year by year, on some bright morning of the springtide,

the sovereign people, not entrusting its rights to a few of

its own number, but discharging them itself in the majesty of

its corporate person, meets, in the open market-place or in

the green meadow at the mountain’s foot, to frame the laws

to which it yields obedience as its own work, to choose the

rulers whom it can afford to greet with reverence as drawing

their commission from itself. Such a sight there are but few

Englishmen who have seen; to be among these few I reckon among

the highest privileges of my life. Let me ask you to follow me

in spirit to the very home and birth-place of freedom, to the

land where we need not myth and fable to add aught to the fresh

and gladdening feeling with which we for the first time tread

the soil and drink in the air of the immemorial democracy of

Uri. It is one of the opening days of May; it is the morning

of Sunday; for men there deem that the better the day the

better the deed; they deem that the Creator cannot be more

truly honored than in using in his fear and in his presence the

highest of the gifts which he has bestowed on man. But deem not

that, because the day of Christian worship is chosen for the

great yearly assembly of a Christian commonwealth, the more

directly sacred duties of the day are forgotten. Before we,

in our luxurious island, have lifted ourselves from our beds,

the men of the mountains, Catholics and Protestants alike,

have already paid the morning’s worship in God’s temple. They

have heard the Mass of the priest or they have listened to the

sermon of the pastor, before some of us have awakened to the

fact that the morn of the holy day has come. And when I saw

men thronging the crowded church, or kneeling, for want of

space within, on the bare ground beside the open door, when I

saw them marching thence to do the highest duties of men and

citizens, I could hardly forbear thinking of the saying of

Holy Writ, that ‘where the spirit of the Lord is, there is

liberty.’ From the market-place of Altorf, the little capital

of the canton, the procession makes its way to the place of

meeting at Bözlingen. First marches the little army of the

canton, an army whose weapons never can be used save to drive

back an invader from their land. Over their heads floats the

banner, the bull’s-head of Uri, the ensign which led men to

victory on the fields of Sempach and Morgarten. And before

them all, on the shoulders of men clad in a garb of ages past,

are borne the famous horns, the spoils of the wild bull of

ancient days, the very horns whose blast struck such dread into

the fearless heart of Charles of Burgundy. Then, with their

lictors before them, come the magistrates of the commonwealth

on horseback, the chief-magistrate, the Landamman, with his

sword by his side. The people follow the chiefs whom they have

chosen to the place of meeting, a circle in a green meadow,

with a pine forest rising above their heads, and a mighty spur

of the mountain range facing them on the other side of the

valley. The multitude of freemen take their seats around the

chief ruler of the commonwealth, whose term of office comes

that day to an end. The assembly opens; a short space is given

to prayer--silent prayer offered up by each man in the temple

of God’s own rearing. Then comes the business of the day. If

changes in the law are demanded, they are then laid before the

vote of the assembly, in which each citizen of full age has an

equal vote and an equal right of speech. The yearly magistrates

have now discharged all their duties; their term of office is

at an end; the trust that has been placed in their hands falls

back into the hands of those by whom it was given--into the

hands of the sovereign people. The chief of the commonwealth,

now such no longer, leaves his seat of office, and takes his

place as a simple citizen in the ranks of his fellows. It

rests with the free-will of the assembly to call him back to

his chair of office, or to set another there in his stead.

Men who have neither looked into the history of the past, nor

yet troubled themselves to learn what happens year by year

in their own age, are fond of declaiming against the caprice

and ingratitude of the people, and of telling us that under a

democratic government neither men nor measures can remain for

an hour unchanged. The witness alike of the present and of the

past is an answer to baseless theories like these. The spirit

which made democratic Athens year by year bestow her highest

offices on the patrician Pericles and the reactionary Phocion,

still lives in the democracies of Switzerland, alike in the

Landesgemeinde of Uri and in the Federal Assembly at Bern.

The ministers of kings, whether despotic or constitutional,

may vainly envy the sure tenure of office which falls to

the lot of those who are chosen to rule by the voice of the

people. Alike in the whole confederation and in the single

canton, re-election is the rule; the rejection of the outgoing

magistrate is the rare exception. The Landamman of Uri, whom

his countrymen have raised to the seat of honor, and who has

done nothing to lose their confidence, need not fear that when

he has gone to the place of meeting in the pomp of office, his

place in the march homeward will be transferred to another

against his will.”

The grand forms of the Windgälle, the Bristenstock, and the other

mighty mountains, surrounded us as we stood in deep silence on this

high green meadow, profoundly impressed by this eloquent tribute to a

devout and liberty-loving people, all the more remarkable as coming from

a Protestant writer. There was little to add to it, for Herr H----’s

experience could only confirm it in every point. Dinner had to be got

through rapidly on our return to Altorf, as we wished to catch the

steamer leaving Fluelen at five o’clock. Like all these vessels, it

touched at the landing-place beside Tell’s Platform, whence our young

friends of the morning, who had been watching for our return, waved us a

greeting. Thence we sat on deck, tracing Lecourbe’s mule-path march of

torch-light memory along the Axenberg precipices, and finally reached

the Waldstätterhof at Brunnen in time to see the sun sink behind Mont

Pilatus, and leave the varied outlines clearly defined against a deep-red

sky.

S. PHILIP’S HOME.[13]

O Mary, Mother Mary! our tears are flowing fast,

For mighty Rome, S. Philip’s home, is desolate and waste:

There are wild beasts in her palaces, far fiercer and more bold

Than those that licked the martyrs’ feet in heathen days of old.

O Mary, Mother Mary! that dear city was thine own,

And brightly once a thousand lamps before thine altars shone;

At the corners of the streets thy Child’s sweet face and thine

Charmed evil out of many hearts and darkness out of mine.

By Peter’s cross and Paul’s sharp sword, dear Mother Mary, pray!

By the dungeon deep where thy S. Luke in weary durance lay;

And by the church thou know’st so well, beside the Latin Gate,

For love of John, dear Mother, stay the hapless city’s fate.

For the exiled Pontiffs sake, our Father and our Lord,

O Mother! bid the angel sheathe his keen avenging sword;

For the Vicar of thy Son, poor exile though he be,

Is busied with thy honor _now_ by that sweet southern sea.

Oh! by the joy thou hadst in Rome, when every street and square

Burned with the fire of holy love that Philip kindled there,

And by that throbbing heart of his, which thou didst keep at Rome,

Let not the spoiler waste dear Father Philip’s Home!

Oh! by the dread basilicas, the pilgrim’s gates to heaven,

By all the shrines and relics God to Christian Rome hath given,

By the countless Ave Marias that have rung from out its towers,

By Peter’s threshold, Mother! save this pilgrim land of ours.

By all the words of peace and power that from S. Peter’s chair

Have stilled the angry world so oft, this glorious city spare!

By the lowliness of Him whose gentle-hearted sway

A thousand lands are blessing now, dear Mother Mary, pray.

By the pageants bright, whose golden light hath flashed through

street and square,

And by the long processions that have borne thy Jesus there;

By the glories of the saints; by the honors that were thine;

By all the worship God hath got from many a blazing shrine;

By all heroic deeds of saints that Rome hath ever seen;

By all the times her multitudes have crowned thee for their queen;

By all the glory God hath gained from out that wondrous place,

O Mary, Mother Mary! pray thy strongest prayer for grace.

O Mary, Mother Mary! thou wilt pray for Philip’s Home,

Thou wilt turn the heart of him who turned S. Peter back to Rome.

Oh! thou wilt pray thy prayer, and the battle will be won,

And the Saviour’s sinless Mother save the city of her Son.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

THE TROUBLES OF OUR CATHOLIC FOREFATHERS, RELATED BY

THEMSELVES. Second Series. Edited by John Morris, S. J.

London: Burns & Oates. 1875. (New York: Sold by The Catholic

Publication Society.)

Whilst our ears are deafened and our feelings shocked by the calumnies

and lying vituperation heaped upon all that is most worthy of love

and veneration upon earth by the Satanic societies which the Popes

have smitten with repeated excommunications, it is consoling to be

supplied--by limners, too, who are themselves no mean exemplars of the

noble development which the Church can give to virtue when it follows

her counsels--with lifelike portraits of Christian athletes in times

gone by. We do not know how soon our courage, patience, and charity may

be put to a similar test. Multitudes of our fellow-Catholics are already

subjected to every suffering but the martyrdom of death; and this seed of

the Church our enemies, more wily than the sanguinary heretics of the age

of Elizabeth, seem to be unwilling to sow. But they will not long be able

to restrain their passion. The word of persecution has gone forth; and so

bitter is the hatred of the very name of Christ, that before very long

nothing but the blood of Christians will satiate its instincts.

The persecution of the Church in England in the time of Elizabeth

resembled the persecution which is now raging against it, in the

political complexion given to it. But there were far stronger grounds for

it then than now. The superior claims of Mary to the throne, her virtues,

and her surpassing beauty, were a just subject of jealousy and uneasiness

to Elizabeth, and she might very naturally suppose that her Catholic

subjects were not likely to regard with any fondness the usurpation of an

illegitimate daughter of her apostate and tyrannical father.

In the present persecutions there is no political pretext, but one is

made under cover of which to extirpate from among mankind the religion

and very name of Christ.

This volume is the second of a series which promises to supply us with a

whole gallery of Christian heroes, which we of this age of worldliness,

cowardice, and self-seeking will do well to study attentively. As is

often the case, it is to the untiring zeal of the Society of Jesus we

owe so interesting as well as edifying a work. Father Morris, formerly

Secretary to Cardinal Wiseman, but who joined the Society after the death

of that eminent prelate, is its author, and he appears to us to have

executed his task with rare judgment. By allowing his characters to speak

in great part for themselves, the biographies and relations he presents

us with have a dramatic interest which is greatly increased by the quaint

and nervous style of the time in which they express themselves. We feel,

too, that it is the very innermost soul and mind of the individual that

is being revealed to us; and certainly in most of them the revelation

is so beautiful that we should possibly have ascribed something of

this to the partiality of a panegyrist, or to his descriptive skill,

if the picture had been sketched by the pen of any other biographer

than themselves. It is, indeed, the mean opinion they evidently have

of themselves, and the naïve and modest manner in which they relate

incidents evoking heroic virtue, their absolute unconsciousness of aught

more than the most ordinary qualities, which fascinate us. It bears

an impress of genuineness impossible to any description by the most

impartial of historians. They express a beauty which could no more be

communicated in any other way than can the odor of the flower or the

music of the streams be conveyed by any touch, how ever magic, of the

painter.

The present volume of the series contains the “Life of Father William

Weston, S.J.,” and “The Fall of Anthony Tyrrell,” by Father Persons; for

“our wish is,” says Father Morris, “to learn not only what was done by

the strong and brave, but also by the weak and cowardly.”

We are much struck in this history with the resemblance between those

times and the present in the unsparing calumny of which the purest and

the holiest men were made the victims.

For confirmation of these remarks, we refer the reader to the book

itself. But we cannot refrain from quoting, in spite of its length, the

following incident related by Father Weston. It is a remarkable example

of the salutary effect of the Sacrament of Penance:

“For there lay in a certain heretical house a Catholic who, with the

consent of his keeper, had come to London for the completion of some

urgent business. He had been committed to a prison in the country, a

good way out of London. He was seized, however, and overpowered by a

long sickness which brought him near to death. The woman who nursed

him, being a Catholic, had diligently searched the whole city through

to find a priest, but in vain. She then sent word to me of the peril of

that person, and entreated me, if it could be contrived, to come to his

assistance, as he was almost giving up the ghost. I went to him when the

little piece of gold obtained for me the liberty to do so. I explained

that I was a priest, for I was dressed like a layman, and that I had come

to hear his confession. ‘If that is the reason why you have come, it

is in vain,’ he said; ‘the time for it is passed away.’ I said to him:

‘What! are you not a Catholic? If you are, you know what you have to do.

This hour, which seems to be your last, has been given you that by making

a good and sincere confession you may, while there is time, wash away

the stains of your past life, whatever they are.’ He answered: ‘I tell

you that you have come too late: that time has gone by. The judgment is

decided; the sentence has been pronounced; I am condemned, and given up

to the enemy. I cannot hope for pardon.’ ‘That is false,’ I answered,

‘and it is a most fearful error to imagine that a man still in life can

assert that he is already deprived of God’s goodness and abandoned by

his grace, in such a way that even when he desires and implores mercy it

should be denied him. Since your faith teaches you that God is infinitely

merciful, you are to believe with all certitude that there is no bond

so straitly fastened but the grace of God can unloose it, no obstacle

but grace has power to surmount it.’ ‘But do you not see,’ he asked me,

‘how full of evil spirits this place is where we are? There is no corner

or crevice in the walls where there are not more than a thousand of the

most dark and frightful demons, who, with their fierce faces, horrid

looks, and atrocious words threaten perpetually that they are just going

to carry me into the abyss of misery. Why, even my very body and entrails

are filled with these hateful guests, who are lacerating my body and

torturing my soul with such dreadful cruelty and anguish that it seems

as if I were not so much on the point merely of going there, as that

I am already devoted and made over to the flames and agonies of hell.

Wherefore, it is clear that God has abandoned me for ever, and has cast

me away from all hope of pardon.’

“When I had listened in trembling to all these things, and to much more

of a similar kind, and saw at the same time that death was coming fast

upon him, and that he would not admit of any advice or persuasion, I

began to think within myself, in silence and anxiety, what would be

the wisest course to choose. There entered into my mind, through the

inspiration, doubtless, of God, the following most useful plan and

method of dealing with him: ‘Well, then,’ I said, ‘if you are going to

be lost, I do not require a confession from you; nevertheless, recollect

yourself just for a moment, and, with a quiet mind, answer me, in a few

words, either yes or no to the questions that I put to you; I ask for

nothing else, and put upon you no other burden.’ Then I began to question

him, and to follow the order of the Commandments. First, whether he had

denied his faith. ‘See,’ I said, ‘do not worry yourself; say just those

simple words, yes or no.’ As soon as he had finished either affirming or

denying anything, I proceeded through four or five Commandments--whether

he had killed any one, stolen anything, etc. When he had answered with

tolerable calmness, I said to him, ‘What are the devils doing now? What

do you feel or suffer from them?’ He replied: ‘They are quieter with

me; they do not seem to be so furious as they were before.’ ‘Lift up

your soul to God,’ I said, ‘and let us go on to the rest.’ In the same

fashion and order I continued to question him about other things. Then

I enquired again, saying, ‘How is it now?’ He replied; ‘Within I am not

tormented. The devils stand at a distance; they throw stones; they make

dreadful faces at me, and threaten me horribly. I do not think that I

shall escape.’ Going forward as before, I allured and encouraged the man

by degrees, till every moment he became more reasonable, and at last made

an entire confession of all his sins, after which I gave him absolution,

and asked him what he was suffering from his cruel and harassing enemies.

‘Nothing,’ he said; ‘they have all vanished. There is not a trace of

them, thanks be to God.’ Then I went away, after strengthening him by

a few words, and encouraging him beforehand against temptations which

might return. I promised, at the same time, that I would be with him

on the morrow, and meant to bring the most Sacred Body of Christ with

me, and warned him to prepare himself diligently for the receiving of

so excellent a banquet. The whole following night he passed without

molestation from the enemy, and on the next day he received with great

tranquillity of mind the most Holy Sacrament, after which, at an interval

of a few hours without disturbance, he breathed forth his soul, and

quietly gave it up to God. Before he died, I asked the man what cause

had driven him into such desperation of mind. He answered me thus: ‘I

was detained in prison many years for the Catholic faith. Nevertheless,

I did not cease to sin, and to conceal my sins from my confessor, being

persuaded by the devil that pardon must be sought for from God, rather

by penances and severity of life, than by confession. Hence I either

neglected my confessions altogether, or else made insincere ones; and so

I fell into that melancholy of mind and that state of tribulation which

has been my punishment.’”

LIGHT LEADING UNTO LIGHT: A Series of Sonnets and Poems. By

John Charles Earle, B.A. London: Burns & Oates. 1875.

Mr. Earle has undoubtedly a facility in writing sonnets; and a good

sonnet has been well called “a whole poem in itself.” It is also, we

think, peculiarly suitable for didactic poetry. The present sonnets are

in advance, we consider, of those we first saw from Mr. Earle’s pen. But

we still observe faults, both of diction and of verse, which he should

have learnt to avoid. His model seems to be Wordsworth--the greatest

sonneteer in our language; but, like him, he has too much of the prosaic

and the artificial.

We wish we could bestow unqualified praise upon the ideas throughout

these sonnets. And were there nothing for criticism but what may be

called poetic subtleties--such as the German notion of an “ether body,”

developed during life, and hatched at death, for our intermediate

state of being--we should have no quarrel with Mr. Earle. But when we

meet two sonnets (XLVIII. and XLIX.) headed “Matter Non-Existent,” and

“Matter Non-Substantial,” we have a philosophical error serious in its

consequences, and are not surprised to find the two following sonnets

teach Pantheism. In Sonnet XLVIII. the author’s excellent intention is to

refute materialism:

“‘Thought is,’ you say, ‘a function of the brain,

And matter all that we can ever know;

…

“‘From it we came; to it at last we go,

And all beyond it is a phantom vain,’ etc.

…

“I answer: ‘Matter is _a form of mind_,

_So far as it is aught_. It has no base,

Save in the self-existent.’”

Sonnet L. is headed, “As the Soul in the Body, so is God in the

Universe.” Surely, this is the old “Anima Mundi” theory! Then, in Sonnet

LI., the poet says of nature, and addressing God:

“She cannot live detached from thee. Her heart

Is beating with thy pulse. _I cannot tell_

_How far she is or is not of thee part_;

How far in her thou dost or dost not dwell;

That _thou her only base and substance art_,

This--this at least--I know and feel full well.”

Now, of course, Mr. Earle is unconscious that this is rank Pantheism.

He has a way of explaining it to himself which makes it sound perfectly

orthodox. But we do call such a blunder inexcusable in a Catholic writer

of Mr. Earle’s pretensions. The title of his volume, “Light leading unto

Light,” has little to do with the contents, as far as we can see; and,

certainly, there are passages which would more fitly be headed “Darkness

leading unto Darkness.”

We are sorry to have had to make these strictures. The great bulk of the

sonnets, together with the remaining poems, are very pleasant reading,

and cannot fail to do good.

FIRST ANNUAL REPORT OF THE REV. THEODORE NOETHEN, FIRST

CATHOLIC CHAPLAIN OF THE ALBANY PENITENTIARY, TO THE

INSPECTORS. April 6, 1875. Albany: J. Munsell. 1875.

THIRTEEN SERMONS PREACHED IN THE ALBANY COUNTY PENITENTIARY. By

the Rev. Theodore Noethen. Published under the auspices of the

Society of S. Vincent de Paul. Albany: Van Benthuysen Printing

House. 1875.

We are glad to see Father Noethen’s familiar hand thus charitably and

characteristically engaged. These are the first documents of the kind

we have observed under the improving state of things in this country,

in which the priest of the Church is seen occupied in one of his most

important duties--reclaiming the erring; and in doing this the means

which he employs will doubtless be found more efficacious than any the

state has at its command. Did the state fully appreciate its highest

interest as well as duty, it would afford the Church every facility,

not only in reclaiming such of her children as have fallen into the

temptations by which they are surrounded, but also in the use of those

preventive measures involved in parish schools, which would save

multitudes from penitentiaries and houses of correction. Our over-zealous

Protestant friends throw every obstacle in the way of the adequate moral

and religious training of the class most exposed to the temptations

arising from poverty and lack of employment, and then blame the Church

for the result. We heartily welcome these signs of a better time coming.

AN EXPOSITION OF THE EPISTLES OF S. PAUL AND OF THE CATHOLIC

EPISTLES; consisting of an Introduction to each Epistle, an

Analysis of each Chapter, a Paraphrase of the Sacred Text,

and a Commentary, embracing Notes, Critical, Explanatory, and

Dogmatical, interspersed with Moral Reflections. By the Rt.

Rev. John MacEvilly, D.D., Bishop of Galway. Third edition,

enlarged. Dublin: W. B. Kelly. 1875. (New York: Sold by The

Catholic Publication Society.)

After quoting this full, descriptive title-page, it will suffice to say

that the notes which form the commentary have in the present edition

been considerably enlarged. The work was originally published under the

approbation of the Holy Father, the late Cardinals Barnabo and Wiseman,

and the present venerable Archbishop of Tuam.

BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS RECEIVED.

From Scribner, Armstrong & Co., New York: Personal

Reminiscences. By O’Keefe, Kelly, and Taylor. Edited by R. H.

Stoddard (Bric-à-Brac Series, No. VIII)

From the Author: An Address on Woman’s Work in the Church

before the Presbytery of New Albany. By Geo. C. Heckman, D.D.

Paper, 8vo, pp. 28.

From Wm. Dennis, G.W.S.: Journal of Proceedings of the Ninth

Annual Session of the Grand Lodge of Nova Scotia. Paper, 8vo,

pp. 73.

From the Author: The Battle of Life: An Address. By D. S. Troy,

Montgomery, Alabama. Paper, 8vo, pp. 14.

From Ginn Brothers, Boston: Latin Composition: An Elementary

Guide to Writing in Latin. Part I.--Constructions. By J. H.

Allen and J. B. Greenough. 12mo, pp. vi., 117.

THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XXII., No. 128.--NOVEMBER, 1875.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by Rev. I. T.

HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.

FREEMASONRY.[14]

The saints have all, whilst yet in the flesh, foretastes of heavenly

bliss. But in these the closing days of time all the elect have a

presentiment of coming judgment. And that presentiment is strong in

proportion to their faith; stronger still in proportion to their charity.

Let our readers be assured at the outset. We are not about to imitate the

irreverence of the Scotch Presbyterian minister who, some few years ago,

pretended that he had discovered in the prophetic visions of S. John the

year in which will come to pass that event of stupendous awfulness, of

which He, before whom all mankind will then be judged, said: “Of that day

or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but the

Father only.”

One fearful catastrophe, however, to befall mankind before the general

judgment is insisted on so often and with such solemn emphasis by the

Holy Spirit that the love of God seems to be, as it were, trembling

for his redeemed creature, and longing to reveal to him more than is

consistent with his own designs in the trial of his faith. For it must

be remembered that faith is a merit, and the absolutely indispensable

condition of our receiving the benefits of the divine atonement. Although

the gift of God, it is the part we ourselves, by co-operating with the

gift, contribute towards our own salvation. And what we are required

to believe is so beautiful and ennobling to the moral sense, and so

satisfying to the reason, that, supported as it is by the historical

evidence of the divinity of Christ and of his church, no one can refuse

to believe but those who deliberately choose darkness rather than light,

sin rather than virtue, Satan rather than God.

Yet so formidable was to be that last trial of the faith of Christians,

so crucial that conclusive test of their charity, which was to “deceive,

if it were possible, even the very elect,”[15] that the Spirit of Love,

yearning for the safety of his regenerate ones, and compassionating the

weakness of human nature, revealed its marks and signs in the fullest

and most circumstantial detail; so that, warned of the danger, and

recognizing it when it arrived, they might pass through it unhurt, whilst

those who succumbed to it might be without excuse before the divine

justice. It is the yearning of the heart of Christ towards his children,

whom he foresees will fail by thousands in that decisive trial, which

prompts the ejaculation that sounds almost like a lament over his own

inability to put any pressure on their free-will: “When the Son of man

cometh, will he find faith on the earth?” It is his anxiety, as it were,

about the fate of his elect amidst the seductions of that appalling

apostasy, which urged him, after he had indicated the signs that would

accompany it, to be on the perpetual, sleepless lookout for them. “Be

ever on the alert. Lo! I have foretold you all.”[16]

“Be ever on the alert, watch and pray. For you do not know when the time

may be.”[17]

“Watch, then, lest when he (the head of the family) shall have come on a

sudden, you be found sleeping.”[18]

“Moreover, what I say to you I _say to all_: Watch!”[19]

Throughout all the ages that have elapsed since those words of solemn

import fell from the lips of Jesus Christ it has been the plain duty

of all Christians--nay, of all to whose knowledge they were brought--to

narrowly scrutinize events, to keep their attention fixed upon them,

watching for the signs he foretold, lest they should appear unheeded,

and they be seduced from the faith; or be the cause, through their

indifference, of others being carried away in the great misleading.

But who now can be insensible to the predicted portents? So notorious

are they, and so exactly do they answer to the description of them

handed down to us from the beginning, that they rudely arouse us from

sleep; that they force our attention, however indifferent to them we may

be, however dull our faith or cold our charity. And when we see a vast

organization advancing its forces in one united movement throughout the

entire globe in an avowed attack, as insidious as it is formidable, upon

altars, thrones, social order, Christianity, Christ, and God himself,

where is the heart that can be insensible to the touching evidence of

loving solicitude which urged Him whom surging multitudes of his false

creatures were deliberately to reject in favor of a fouler being than

Barabbas, to iterate so often the warning admonition, “Be ever on the

watch”?

To study, therefore, the signs of the times, cannot be without profit to

all, but especially to us who have but scant respect for the spirit of

the age, who are not sufficiently enlightened by it to look upon Christ

as nothing more than a remarkable man, the sublime morality he taught and

set an example of as a nuisance, and his church as the enemy of mankind,

to be extirpated from their midst, because it forbids their enjoying the

illumination of the dagger-guarded secrets of the craft of Freemasonry.

To fix the date of the _Dies iræ_ is completely out of our power. It is

irreverent, if not blasphemous, to attempt it. It is of the counsels

of God that it should come with the swiftness of “lightning” and the

unexpectedness of “a thief in the night”; and that expressly that we

may be ever on the watch. But the signs of its approach are given to us

in order to help those who do not abandon “watching” in indifference,

to escape the great delusion--the imposition of Antichrist--which is to

immediately precede it. It is these signs we propose to study in the

following pages.

The predictions of Christ himself on this subject are far more obscure

than those subsequently given to us by his apostles. But this has always

been God’s way of revelation to his creature. To Moses alone, in the

mount, he revealed the moral law and that wondrous theocratic polity

which remained even after the perversity of his people had given it a

monarchical form; and Moses communicated it to the people. To the people

Christ spoke in parables, “and without a parable spake he not unto them.

But when he was alone with them, he explained all to his disciples.”[20]

“To you,” he said, “it is given to have known the mystery of the kingdom

of God; but to those without everything is a parable.”[21] The apostles

themselves, who were to declare the revelation, in order to increase

the merit of their faith, were not fully illuminated before the coming

down of the Holy Spirit. “You do not know this parable?” he said; “and

how are you going to understand all parables?”[22] To their utterances,

therefore, it is we shall confine ourselves, as shedding as much light

as it has seemed good to the Holy Ghost to disclose to us upon the

profounder and more oracular predictions of God himself in the flesh.

Besides SS. Peter, Paul, and John, S. Jude is the only other apostle, we

believe, who has bequeathed to the church predictions of the terrible

apostasy of Antichrist which is to consummate the trial of the faith of

the saints under the very shadow of the coming judgment. We will take

them in the order in which they occur. The first is in a letter of S.

Paul to the church at Thessalonica, where, exhorting them not to “be

terrified as if the day of the Lord were at hand,” he assures them that

it will not come “before there shall have first happened an apostasy, and

the man of sin shall have been revealed, the son of perdition--he who

opposes himself to, and raises himself above, all that is called God, or

that is held in honor, so that he may sit in the temple of God, showing

himself as if he were God.… And you know what now is hindering his

being revealed in his own time. For the mystery of iniquity is already

working; only so that he who is now keeping it in check will keep it in

check until he be moved out of its way. And then will the lawless one be

revealed, whom the Lord Jesus will slay with the breath of his mouth,

and destroy with the illumination of his coming; whose coming is after

the manner of working of Satan, with all strength and symbols, and lying

absurdities, and in every enticement of iniquity in those who perish;

for the reason that they did not receive the love of the truth that they

might be saved. So God will send them the working of error, that they

may believe falsehood; that all may be judged who have not believed the

truth, but have consented to iniquity.”[23]

In a letter to Timothy, Bishop of Ephesus, S. Paul writes: “Now, the

Spirit says expressly that, in the last times, some shall apostatize

from the faith, giving heed to spirits of error and to doctrines of

demons, speaking falsehood in hypocrisy, and having their own conscience

seared.”[24]

In a second letter to the same bishop he writes: “Know this, moreover:

that in the last days there will be a pressure of perilous times; men

will be self-lovers, covetous, lifted up, proud, blasphemous, disobedient

to parents, ungrateful, malicious, without affection, discontented,

calumniators, incontinent, hard, unamiable, traitors, froward, fearful,

and lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God, having indeed a form of

piety, but denying its power.”[25] S. Peter writes that “there will come

in the last days mockers in deception, walking according to their own

lusts.”[26]

S. Jude describes them as “mockers, walking in impieties according to

their own desires. These are they who separate themselves--animals, not

having the Spirit.”[27]

It would seem from the expressions of S. John-who of all the apostles

appears to have had most pre-eminently the gift of prophecy--as well as

from the manner in which the last days of Jerusalem and the last days

of the world appear to be mingled together in the fore-announcement

of Christ, that powerful manifestations of Antichrist were to precede

both events; although the apostasy was to be far more extensive and

destructive before the latter. “Little children,” writes the favorite

apostle, “it is the last time; and as you have heard that Antichrist

comes, so now many have become Antichrists; whence we know that it is the

last time.… He is Antichrist who denies the Father and the Son.”[28]

“Every spirit who abolishes Jesus is not of God. And he is Antichrist

about whom we have heard that he is coming, and is even now in the

world.”[29]

We believe that these are the only passages wherein the Holy Ghost has

vouchsafed to give us distinct and definite information as to the marks

and evidences by which we are to know that there is amongst us that

Antichrist whose disastrous although short-lived triumph is to precede

by only a short space the end of time and the eternal enfranchisement of

good from evil.

The prophetic utterances on this subject in the revelations of S. John

are veiled in such exceedingly obscure imagery that we do not propose to

attempt any investigation of their meaning in this article. It is our

object to influence the minds of such Protestants as believe in God the

Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and of Catholics whose faith is so dull

and whose charity is so cold that they can listen to the blasphemies of

Antichrist without emotion.

We may remark here, however, that if we succeed in supplying solid

reasons for believing that Antichrist is already amongst us, and that

his dismal career of desolating victory has already begun, the duty of

studying those utterances of the Holy Ghost, so darkly veiled that the

faith of those who stand firm may have more merit in the trial of that

great tribulation, will have assumed a position of importance impossible

to be overrated. That they are to be understood, the Holy Ghost himself

implies. He intimates that their meaning is accessible to the spiritually

minded, and would even seem to make dulness of apprehension of it a

reproach, a lack of spiritual discernment. “If any one has the ear, let

him hear,”[30] he writes. And again: “This is wisdom. Let him who has

understanding reckon the number of the beast.”[31]

It is not necessary to the object we have in view that we should identify

“the beast” of the Apocalypse, seven-headed and having ten horns crowned

with diadems, with Antichrist. The question we propose to answer is

simply, “Are there under our eyes at this moment evidences of a present

Antichrist, or of his being close at hand?” In other words, “Is what is

called ‘the spirit of the age’ the spirit of Antichrist?”

For us, that we may be on our guard against his wiles, and armed to the

teeth to fight against him to the death, it is comparatively unimportant

whether we decide him to be actually amongst us or only just about to

appear. His marks and characteristics, his badges or decorations--these

are all we require.

If the Antichrist of the prophecies is a single, separate impersonation

of the demoniac attributes described by the Holy Ghost--if, in short, he

is an individual man, then he has not yet been revealed. In that case,

our identification of Antichrist will only have exposed that temper and

spirit with which “the red dragon”--“the devil”--“Satan”--“the ancient

serpent”--has possessed such vast multitudes of the human race throughout

the entire globe as to afford ground for calling it “the spirit of the

age,” and which is to culminate in some terrible personal embodiment--a

typical personage, as men speak. But if the prophecies do not designate

an individual man, but only the impersonation of a multitude of

individuals organized into a unity and animated with the same spirit,

then we think we shall be able to point the finger of horror and loathing

at the very Antichrist at present amongst us, and in the midst of

victory, as decisively and as clearly as the prophet of penance pointed

the finger of adoring love towards the Lamb of God.

We incline, and strongly, to the latter view. We must withhold our

reasons, partly because, as we have said, our object is equally subserved

by either view; but more because to do so would leave us too little space

for treating the main subject. We will content ourselves with stating

that those reasons are founded on the internal evidence supplied by the

several predictions; and also on our aversion to admit the possibility of

a more depraved _individual_ impersonation of evil than that unhappy man

whom God in human flesh pronounced a devil!

Whether, however, Antichrist be or not an individual man, one thing is

certain: that if we can point out an immense army of men, co-extensive

with the globe, highly organized, animated with the same spirit, and

acting with as much unity of purpose as if their movements were directed

by one head, who exhibit precisely those marks and characteristics

described in the predictions of Antichrist, we may expect even on the

supposition that they are to have a visible head, an individual leader,

who has yet to make his appearance; and that they are his hosts, who have

already achieved a great part of his victories.

What is first noticeable is that the stigma which is to be deeply branded

on the front of the Antichristian manifestation which is to precede the

close of time is “_Apostasy_”.

The day of the Lord will not come, “nisi venerit discessio primum;

Spiritus dicit quia in novissimis temporibus quidam a fide discedunt.”

There can be no need of dwelling on this. It is sufficiently obvious

that the great apostasy inaugurated by Luther was the first outbreak of

Antichristian victory. The success of that movement assured the spirit

of error of a career of victory. He was lurking in the fold, watching

for his opportunity, and snatching away stray souls, as S. John tells

us, in the time of the apostles. For a millennium and a half has he

been preparing his manifestation. He inspired Julian, he inspired the

Arians, he inspired all the heresies against which the definitions

of the faith were decreed. But when he had seduced men away from the

church, whole nations at a time, “dominationem contemnentes” (2 S. Peter

ii. 10), and captivated them to the irrational opinion that there is

no higher authority for the obligatory dogmas of the Christian Church

than the conviction of every individual, _solvere Jesum_, and then God,

was merely a matter of time. What human passion had begun human reason

would complete. The life of faith could not be annihilated at a blow.

It has taken three centuries for the sap of charity to wither away in

the cut-off branches. But sooner or later the green wood could not but

become dry; and reason, void of charity, would be forced to acknowledge

that if the Bible has no definite meaning other than what appears to be

its meaning to every individual, practically it has no definite meaning

at all; that God cannot have revealed any truth at all, if we have no

means of ascertaining what it is beyond our own private opinions; that

a book the text of which admits of as many interpretations as there are

sects cannot, without an authoritative living expositor, reveal truths

which it is necessary to believe in order to escape eternal punishment.

The claim of the Catholic Church to this authority having been pronounced

an usurpation, the progress, although slow, was sure and easy towards

pronouncing Christianity itself an usurpation. God himself cannot survive

Christianity. And we have now literally “progressed” to so triumphant

a manifestation of Antichrist that the work of persecution of God’s

Church has set in with a vengeance, and men hear on all sides of them the

existence of God denied without horror, even without surprise.

The first mark of a present Antichrist we propose to signalize is that

distinctly assigned to him by S. Paul--ὁ ἄνομος. This epithet is but

feebly rendered by the Latin _ille iniquus_, or the English “that wicked

one.” “The lawless one” better conveys the force of the Greek. For the

root νόμος includes in its meaning not only enacted law of all kinds, but

whatever has become, as it were, a law by custom; or a law of nature, as

it were, by the universal observance of mankind.

The first marked sequel of the apostasy, the first outbreak of success

of Antichrist in the political order, was the first French Revolution,

during which a harlot was placed for worship upon the altar of Notre Dame.

That fearful outbreak may have sat for its portrait to S. Peter in

the following description of the members of the Antichrist of the

“last times”: “Who walk after the flesh in the lust of concupiscence,

and despise authority; … irrational beasts, following only their own

brute impulses, made only to be caught and slain; … having eyes full

of adultery and of ceaseless sin; … speaking proud things of vanity,

enticing, through the desires of the luxury of the flesh, those who by

degrees go away from the truth, who become habituated to error; promising

them liberty, whereas they themselves are the slaves of corruption” (2

Pet. ii. 10, 12, 14, 18, 19).

That saturnalia of lawlessness, which Freemason writers have ever since

dared to approve, was the work of the “craft” of Freemasonry, to whose

organization and plan of action does indeed, in an especial sense,

apply S. Paul’s designation of τὸ μυστήριον τῆς ανομίας “the mystery

of lawlessness.” Mirabeau, Sieyès, Grégoire, Robespierre, Condorcet,

Fauchet, Guillotine, Bonneville, Volney, “Philippe Egalité,” etc., had

all been initiated into the higher grades.

Louis Blanc, himself a Freemason, writes thus: “It is necessary to

conduct the reader to the opening of the subterranean mine laid at that

time beneath thrones and altars by revolutionists, differing greatly,

both in their theory and their practice, from the Encyclopedists. An

association had been formed of men of every land, every religion, and

every class, bound together by mysterious signs agreed upon amongst

themselves, pledged by a solemn oath to observe inviolable secrecy as to

the existence of this hidden bond, and tested by proofs of a terrible

description.… Thus we find Freemasonry to have been widely diffused

immediately before the outbreak of the Revolution. Spreading over the

whole face of Europe, it poisoned the thinking minds of Germany, and

secretly stirred up rebellion in France, showing itself everywhere in the

light of an association resting upon principles diametrically opposed

to those which govern civil society.… The ordinances of Freemasonry did

indeed make great outward display of obedience to law, of respect to the

outward forms and usages of profane society, and of reverence towards

rulers; at their banquets the Masons did indeed drink the health of kings

in the days of monarchy, and of presidents in the time of republics,

such prudent circumspection being indispensable on the part of an

association which threatened the existence of the very governments under

whose eyes it was compelled to work, and whose suspicion it had already

aroused. This, nevertheless, did not suffice to counteract the radically

revolutionary influence continually exercised by the craft, even while it

professed nothing but peaceful intentions.”[32]

In the work from which the above and the greater part of our materials in

this article are borrowed, we read as follows: “It was precisely these

revolutionary designs of the secret society which induced its Provincial

Grand Master, the Prussian Minister Count von Haugwitz, to leave it. In

the memorial presented by him to the Congress of Monarchs at Verona,

in 1830, he bids the rulers of Europe to be on their guard against the

hydra. ‘I feel at this moment firmly persuaded,’ writes the ex-grand

master, ‘that the French Revolution, which had its first commencement

in 1788, and broke out soon after, attended with all the horrors of

regicide, existed heaven knows how long before, having been planned,

and having had the way prepared for it, by associations and secret

oaths.’”[33]

And the following:

“After the events of February, 1848, the ‘craft’ sang songs of triumph

at the open success of its secret endeavors. A Belgian brother, Van der

Heym, spoke thus: ‘On the day following the revolution of February a

whole nation rose as one man, overturned the throne, and wrote over the

frontal of the royal palace the words Liberty, Fraternity, Equality, all

the citizens having adopted as their own this fundamental principle of

Freemasonry. The combatants had not to battle long before the victory

over their oppressors was gained--that freedom won which for centuries

had formed the theme of Masonic discourses. We, the apostles of

fraternity, aid the foundation-stone of the Republic.’”[34]

And another master of the Freemasons, one Peigné, said about the same

time: “In our glorious Revolution of 1792 the Lodge of the Nine Sisters

gave to the world such men as Garat, Brissot, Bailly, Camille Desmoulins,

Condorcet, Champfort, Petion; the Lodge of the Iron Mouth gave to it

Fauchet, Goupil de Prefeln, Sieyès; the Lodge of Candor, Custine, the two

Lameths, and Lafayette.”

The horrors of that Revolution occasioned a temporary reaction and

checked the triumphs of the Freemasons. But well they know how to repair

their broken fortunes, bide their time, and reappear with renewed force.

Barruel, who was an eye-witness of the events of the period, and also

himself intimately acquainted with many Freemasons in Paris, relates that

the brethren, considering that the time had come when they were free to

publish the secret they had sworn to keep, shouted aloud: “At last our

goal is reached; from this day France will be one vast lodge, and all

Frenchmen Freemasons.”

A strong reaction of disgust and terror at the satanic orgies of

Freemasonry in the ascendant, moderated for a while this shout of

triumph. But in the disasters inflicted on France by the conquering

Germans, the “craft” thought to find a recurring opportunity. If the

Communist attempt at Paris in 1871 was not originally planned by the

Freemasons, they openly and officially joined it. “A procession composed

of at least five thousand persons, in which members of all the grades

took part, wearing their insignia, and in which one hundred and fifty

lodges of France were represented, wended its way to the town hall of

Paris. Maillet, bearing the red flag as a token of universal peace,

headed the band, and openly proclaimed, in a speech which met with

the approval of all present, that the new Commune was the antitype of

Solomon’s temple and the corner-stone of the social fabric about to be

raised by the efforts of the craft. The negotiations carried on with the

government of Versailles on behalf of the socialists, and the way in

which they planted the banners of the craft on the walls of the capital,

accompanying this action with a threat of instantly joining the ranks of

the combatants if a single shot were fired at one of those banners (of

which a graphic account appeared in the _Figaro_ at the time), was all

of a piece with the sentiments they expressed” (_The Secret Warfare of

Freemasonry_, p. 172).

_Figaro_ closed its account of these strange events with the following

reflections: “But when posterity shall be informed that in the middle

of the XIXth century, in the midst of an unbelieving generation, which

openly denied God and his Christ, under the very guns of an enemy in

possession of all the French fortresses, hostilities were all at once

suspended, and the course of a portentous and calamitous civil war

interrupted because, forsooth, Brother Thirifoque, accompanied by two

Knights Kadosch, went to offer to M. Thiers’ acceptance the golden mallet

of supreme command (in the craft)--when, I say, this story is told to

those who come after us, it will sound in their ears as a nursery tale,

utterly unworthy of credence.”[35]

In _Révélations d’un Franc-maçon au lit de mort, pièce authentique,

publicé, par_ M. de Hallet (Courtrai, 1826, p. 10), we find the

following: “We must restore man to his primeval rights, no longer

recognizing rank and dignity--two things the mere sight of which offends

the eye of man and wounds his self-love. Obedience is a mere chimera, and

has no place in the wise plans of Providence.”

In the _Astræa, Taschenbuch für Freimaurer_, von Bruder Sydow (1845), an

orator thus speaks: “That which is destined to destruction must in the

course of things be destroyed; and if human powers resist this law, at

the behest of fate, a stronger power will appear upon the scene to carry

out the eternal decrees of Providence. The Reformation of the church,

as well as the French Revolution, proves the existence of this law.…

Revolution is a crisis necessary to development.”

The _Révélations_ says: “The poison must be neutralized by means of its

antidote, revolution must succeed to obedience, vengeance follow upon

effeminacy, power must grapple with power, and the reign of superstition

yield before that of the one true natural religion.”

Barruel, who had been a master Mason, states that the oath administered

to him was: “My brother, are you prepared to execute every command you

may receive from the Grand Master, even should contrary orders be laid on

you by king or emperor, or any other ruler whatever?”

“The grade of Kadosch”--the thirtieth grade--writes Barruel (p. 222),

“is the soul of Freemasonry, and the final object of its plots is the

reintroduction of absolute liberty and equality through the destruction

of all royalty and the abrogation of all religious worship.”

“Socialism, Freemasonry, and communism have, after all, a common origin”

(The _Latomia_--an organ of the craft--vol. xii. p. 237).

_Le Libertaire_, a Masonic journal published in this city, had the

following in 1858: “The _Libertaire_ knows no country but that which is

common to all. He is a sworn foe to restraints of every kind. He hates

the boundaries of countries; he hates the boundaries of fields, houses,

workshops; he hates the boundaries of family.”

Is it within the power of the human mind to conceive of any possible

individual or spiritual incarnation more deeply, vividly, and distinctly

branded with the note-mark or sign of Antichrist, given to us by the

Holy Spirit some two thousand years ago, by which we might recognize him

when he appeared--“the lawless one,” “spurning authority”--ὁ ἄνομος, qui

contemnunt dominationem?

And when we add to this, the one special and most wicked and lawless

characteristic of the “craft”--its portentous mystery--to our thinking,

they must willingly, and of set purpose, close their eyes who fail

to detect in it the very Antichrist whom the apostle declares shall

be manifested in the last days, after the apostasy, and whom he

designates by the epithet τὸ μυστήριον τῆς ἀνομίας--“the mystery of

lawlessness”--which he tells us had even then, at the very cradle of

the church, begun to put in movement its long conspiracy against the

salvation of mankind: τὸ γὰρ μυστηριον ἢδη ενεργεῖται τῆς ἀνομίας--“for

the mystery of lawlessness is even now already working.”

No sooner was Christ born than his infant life was sought; no sooner

did he begin to teach than “the ancient serpent” sought his ruin; just

before the triumph of his resurrection the enemy of mankind seemed to

have finally and completely triumphed in his crucifixion; no sooner had

his church, brought to life by his resurrection, begun her work of saving

mankind than the devil was at work with his “mystery of lawlessness”

for her destruction. All along it is Antichrist dogging the steps of

Christ; before the second coming of Christ there is to be the second

coming of Antichrist; before the final triumph over evil and revelation

of the sons of God, Antichrist is to have that his last open and avowed

manifestation--ἀποκάλυψις--and success, which the craft of Freemasonry is

already so far on the road to compassing.

Whether or no he is to receive a serious check before that terrific

triumph over all but the few remaining elect we know not. But so

unmistakable is his present manifestation that it is woe to those who

blink their eyes and follow in his wake! Woe to those whose judicial

blindness causes them to “believe a lie”! Woe to those who are caught

napping!

The next of the indications given us by the Holy Spirit of the Antichrist

is his _modus operandi_--his method--the way in which he will effect

his purposes, “whose coming is according to the way of working of

Satan”--_cujus est adventus secundum operationem Satanæ_.

The beast with seven heads and ten horns crowned with diadems described

in the Apocalypse is, we are there told, fully commissioned with his

own power by the red dragon, whom we are distinctly informed is the old

serpent, who is called the devil (διάβολος, or slanderer), “Satan, who

deceives the whole world.”

Now, Satan is designated as “the prince of darkness” in opposition to

Christ, “who is the true light, enlightening every one that cometh

into the world”; he is the father of those who “hate the light because

their deeds are evil.” When he would destroy Christ, “night was his

hour and the power of darkness.” But in taking a survey of the craft of

Freemasonry, what first seizes our attention? Is it not the profound

darkness in which all its operations are veiled? Those terrible oaths of

secrecy, made under the assured menace of assassination, attended with

all that sanguinary gibberish, the lie involved in which is not known

until the “seared conscience” is already in the chains of hell--surely,

if anything is, these are “secundum operationem Satanæ.”

In the _Vienna Freemason’s Journal_, MSS. for circulation in the craft,

second year of issue, No. 1, p. 66, is the following: “We wander amidst

our adversaries, shrouded in threefold darkness. Their passions serve as

wires, whereby, unknown to themselves, we set them in motion and compel

them unwittingly to work in union with us.”

In a work written in High-German, the authorship of which is ascribed

to a Prof. Hoffman of Vienna, the contents of which are supported by

documentary evidence, and of which a Dutch translation was published in

Amsterdam in 1792, which was reprinted at the Hague in 1826, the method

of working of this “mystery of lawlessness” is thus summed up:

“2. To effect this, a literary association must be formed to promote the

circulation of our writings, and suppress, as far as possible, those of

our opponents.

“3. For this end we must contrive to have in our pay the publishers of

the leading literary journals of the day, in order that they may turn

into ridicule and heap contempt on everything written in a contrary

interest to our own.

“4. ‘He that is not with us is against us.’ Therefore we may persecute,

calumniate, and tread down such an one without scruple; individuals like

this are noxious insects which one shakes from the blossoming tree and

crushes beneath one’s foot.

“5. Very few can bear to be made to look ridiculous; let ridicule,

therefore, be the weapon employed against persons who, though by no means

devoid of sense, show themselves hostile to our schemes.

“6. In order the more quickly to attain our end, the middle classes of

society must be thoroughly imbued with our principles; the lower orders

and the mass of the population are of little importance, as they may

easily be moulded to our will. The middle classes are the principal

supporters of the government; to gain them we must work on their

passions, and, above all, bring up the rising generation in our ideas, as

in a few years they will be in their turn masters of the situation.

“7. License in morals will be the best means of enabling us to provide

ourselves with patrons at court--persons who are nevertheless totally

ignorant of the importance of our cause. It will suffice for our purpose

if we make them absolutely indifferent to the Christian religion. They

are for the most part careless enough without us.

“8. If our aims are to be pursued with vigor, it is of absolute necessity

to regard as enemies of enlightenment and of philosophy all those who

cling in any way to religious or civil prejudices, and exhibit this

attachment in their writings. They must be viewed as beings whose

influence is highly prejudicial to the human race, and a great obstacle

to its well-being and progress. On this account it becomes the duty of

each one of us to impede their action in all matters of consequence,

and to seize the first suitable opportunity which may present itself of

putting them entirely _hors du combat_.

“9. We must ever be on the watch to make all changes in the state serve

our own ends; political parties, cabals, brotherhoods, and unions--in

short, everything that affords an opportunity of creating disturbances

must be an instrument in our hands. For it is only on the ruins of

society as it exists at present that we can hope to erect a solid

structure on the natural system, and ensure to the worshippers of nature

the free exercise of their rights.”

If this method of working, _operatio_, is not _secundum adventum Satanæ_,

we should be glad to know what is. Herein we find every feature of

Antichrist and his hosts which the Holy Ghost has drawn for our warning.

They are heaped together in such hideous combination throughout this

summary as scarcely to need particularizing. Our readers may not,

however, be unwilling that we should single them out one by one as they

appear more or less prominently in the several paragraphs; premising that

throughout one characteristic reigns and prevails, and, indeed, lends

its color to all the rest, that special attribute of “the father of

lies”--falsehood!

We will take the paragraphs in order, and photograph their most prominent

Antichristian features.

_The first._--Spurning authority. Giving ear to spirits of error and

doctrines of demons.

Speaking lies in hypocrisy, having a conscience seared.

Blasphemers.

Mockers, walking according to their own desires; animals, not having the

Spirit.

Mockers in deception, walking according to their own lusts.

_The second and third._--Lovers of themselves, lawless, proud, malicious,

traitors, froward, discourteous, fearful, mockers in deception.

_The fourth._--Calumniators, cruel, traitors.

_The fifth._--Mockers in deception.

_The sixth._--Traitors, without affection, without peace.

_The seventh._--Traitors, walking in impieties, walking according to

their own lusts, incontinent.

_The eighth._--Having their conscience seared, without peace, cruel.

_The ninth._--Spurning authority, traitors, lawless, without peace.

It must be borne in mind, moreover, that these are not merely

repulsive infirmities of individuals, but the essential and inevitable

characteristics deliberately adopted by the craft of Freemasons, and

which it cannot be without, if they are the brand which the finger of

God has marked upon the loathsome brow of the Antichrist of “the last

time.”[36]

In illustration of the former of these we quote the words of Brother

Gotthold Salomon, D.Ph., preacher at the new Synagogue at Hamburg, member

of the lodge entitled “The Dawn in the East,” in Frankfort-on-Main, who

thus writes in his _Stimmen aus Osten_, MSS. for the brethren: “Why is

there not a trace of anything appertaining to the Christian Church to be

found in the whole ritual of Freemasonry? Why is not the name of Jesus

once mentioned, either in the oath administered, or in the prayers on the

opening of the lodges, or at the Masonic banquets? Why do Masons reckon

time, not from the birth of Christ, but from the creation of the world,

as do the Jews? Why does not Freemasonry make use of a single Christian

symbol? Why have we the compasses, the triangle, the hydrometer,

instead of the cross and other emblems of the Passion? Why have wisdom,

beauty, and strength superseded the Christian triad of faith, hope, and

charity?”[37]

Brother Jochmus Müller, president of the late German-Catholic Church at

Berlin, says in his _Kirchenreform_ (vol. iii. p. 228): “We have more in

common with a free-thinking, honest paganism than with a narrow-minded

Christianity.”[38]

In the Waarscherwing (vol. xi. Nos. 2 and 8) we find the following:

“The laws of the Mosaic and Christian religions are the contemptible

inventions of petty minds bent on deceiving others; they are the most

extravagant aberrations of the human intellect.

“The selfishness of priests and the despotism of the great have for

centuries upheld this system (Christianity), since it enabled them to

rule mankind with a rod of iron by means _of its rigid code of morality_,

and to confirm their power over weak minds by means of certain oracular

utterances, in reality the product of their own invention, but palmed off

on the world as the words of revelation.”[39]

In a review of Kirchenlehre and Ketzerglaube by Dr. A. Drechsler in

vol. iv. of the _Latomia_, we find: “The last efforts made to uphold

ecclesiastical Christianity occasioned its complete expulsion from the

realm of reason; for they proved but too plainly that all negotiations

for peace must result in failure. Human reason became aware of the

irreconcilable enmity existing between its own teachings and the dogmas

of the church.”

At a congress of Masons held at a villa near Locarno, in the district

of Novara, preparatory to a socialistic demonstration to be held in the

Colosseum at Rome, in answer to the sapient question, “What new form of

worship is to supersede Catholicism?” the equally sapient answer was

returned, “Communist principles with a new religious ideal.”

From a document published, the author of _Secret Warfare of Freemasonry_

tells us,[40] by the Orient of Brussels, “to the greater glory of the

Supreme Architect of the world, in the year of _true light_ 5838” (1838),

we quote the following:

“1. That at the head of every document issued by the brethren, in an

individual or corporate capacity, should stand a profession of faith

in our lawgiver Jesus, the son of Mary Amram (the Josue of the Old

Testament), the invariable formula to be employed being, ‘To the glory of

the Great Architect of the Universe,’ … to expose and oppose the errors

of pope and priest, who commence everything in the name of their Trinity.

…

“3. That in remembrance of the Last Supper or Christian love-feast

of Jesus, the Son of Mary Amram, an account of which is given in the

Arabic traditions and in the Koran, a solemn festival should be held,

accompanied by a distribution of bread, in commemoration of an ancient

custom observed by the slaves of eating bread together, and of their

deliverance by means of the liberator (Josue). The distribution is to

be accompanied by these memorable words: ‘This is the bread of misery

and oppression which our fathers were forced to eat under the Pharaos,

the priests of Juda; whosoever hungers, let him come and eat; this is

the Paschal sacrifice; come unto us, all you who are oppressed; yet this

one year more in Babylon, and the next year shall see us free men!’

This instructive, and at the same time commemorative, supper of the

Rosicrucians is the counterpart of the Supper of the Papists.”

Dr. Dupuy, indeed, informs us of the corrupt portion of the Order of

Templars, that “Receptores dicebant illis quos recipiebant, Christum

non esse verum Deum, et ipsum fuisse falsum, non fuisse passum pro

redemptione humani generis, sed pro sceleribus suis”--“They who received

said to those whom they received that Christ was not really God; that he

was himself false, and did not suffer for the redemption of the human

race, but for his own crimes.”

In harmony with all this was the offensively blasphemous utterance of Mr.

Frothingham at the Masonic hall in this city some weeks ago, at which the

New York _Tablet_ expressed a just indignation--an indignation which must

have been shared by all who believe, in any way or form, in Jesus Christ,

Redeemer of the world: “Tom Paine has keyed my moral being up to a higher

note than the Jesus of Nazareth.”

The argument we have advanced seems to us to be convincing enough as it

stands. Could we have taken a historical survey of the μυστήριον τῆς

ανομίας in the two hemispheres from the “apostasy” up to the present

time, but especially during the last fifteen years, it would have

acquired the force of a logical demonstration. The limits to which we

are necessarily restrained in a monthly periodical put this completely

out of our power. Whoever he may be who has intelligently appreciated

the political events of the latter period will be able to supply the

deficiency for himself. Merely hinting, therefore, at the impossibility

of getting anti-Freemason appreciations of contemporary events before

the public--well known to all whose position has invited them to that

duty--as an illustration of the plan of action laid down in the second

clause of the above summary; at the recent unconcealed advocacy of the

“craft” by the New York _Herald_, and the more cautious conversion of

the London Times,[41] of that in the third; at the ribaldry of the press

under Freemason influence directed against the bishops, clergy, and

prominent laymen, as well as against the Pope; the nicknames they are

for ever coining, such as “clericals,” “ultramontanes,” “retrogrades,”

“reactionists”; their blasphemous travesties of the solemnities of

religion in theatres and places of public resort, and so on, of that

in the fourth and fifth; at the world-wide effort to induce states to

exclude religious influences from the education of youth, of that of

the sixth; at Victor Emanuel, the Prince of Wales, etc., of that of the

seventh; at the assassination of Count Rossi at the beginning of the

present Pope’s reign, the quite recent assassination of the President of

Ecuador, the repeated attempts at assassination of Napoleon III., the

deposition of so many sovereigns, even of the Pope himself--so far as

it was in their power to depose him--of that of the eighth; and at the

whole area of Europe strewn with the wreck of revolution, of that of the

ninth; we pass on to the last two marks of Antichrist with which we brand

the Freemason confraternity--_Qui solvit Jesum_ (Who abolishes Christ)

and _Qui adversatur et extollitur supra omne quod dicitur Deus, aut quod

colitur, ita ut in templo Dei sedeat ostendens se tanquam sit Deus_ (Who

opposes himself to, and raises himself above, all that is called God, or

is worshipped, so that he may sit in the temple of God, making himself

out to be, as it were, God).

Barruel, who was completely versed in Freemasonry, and who had been

himself a Mason, states (p. 222) that “the grade of Kadosch is the soul

of Freemasonry, and the final object of its plots is the reintroduction

of absolute liberty and equality through the destruction of all royalty

and the abrogation of all religious worship.” And he backs this statement

by a tragic incident in the history of a friend of his, who, because he

was a Rosicrucian, fancied himself to be “in possession of the entire

secret of Freemasonry.” It is too long to admit of our quoting it.

The reader anxious for information we refer to _The Secret Warfare of

Freemasonry_ (pp. 142-144).

_Le Libertaire_, a New York paper, in the interests of Freemasonry, about

the year 1858 had the following: “As far as religion is concerned, the

_Libertaire_ has none at all; he protests against every creed; he is an

atheist and materialist, openly denying the existence of God and of the

soul.”

In 1793 belief in God was a crime prohibited in France under pain of

death.

Those of our readers who have some acquaintance with modern philosophy

we need here only remind of the _natura naturans_ and _natura naturata_

of Spinoza, born a Jew, but expelled from the synagogue for his advocacy

of these principles of Freemasonry: “The desire to find truth is a noble

impulse, the search after it a sacred avocation; and ample field for this

is offered by both the mysterious rites peculiar to the craft and those

of the Goddess Isis, adored in our temples as the wisest and fairest of

deities.”--_Vienna Freemason’s Journal_ (3d year, No. 4, p. 78 et seq.)

In the _Rappel_, a French organ of Freemasonry, was the following passage

a few weeks ago: “God is nothing but a creation of the human mind. In a

word, God is the ideal. If I am accused of being an atheist, I should

reply I prefer to be an atheist, and have of God an idea worthy of him,

to being a spiritualist and make of God a being impossible and absurd.”

In short, the craft is so far advanced in its course of triumph as to

have at length succeeded in familiarizing the public ear with the denial

of the existence of a God; so that it is now admitted as one amongst the

“open questions” of philosophy.

Our illustration of the crowning indications of the satanic mark of

Antichrist afforded by the Freemasons--the sitting in the temple of God,

so as to make himself out to be, as it were, God--will be short but

decisive.

The well-known passage in the last work of the late Dr. Strauss, to the

effect that any worship paid to a supposed divine being is an outrage on

_the dignity of human nature_, goes far enough, we should have thought,

in this direction; but they go beyond even this.

A Dutch Mason, N. J. Mouthan, in a work entitled _Naa een werknur

in’t Middenvertrek Losse Bladzijde; Zaarboekje voor Nederlandsche

Vrijmetselaren_ (5872, p. 187 et seq.), says: “The spirit which animates

us is an eternal spirit; it knows no division of time or individual

existence. A sacred unity pervades the wide firmament of heaven; it is

our one calling, our one duty, our one God. Yes, we are God! We ourselves

are God!”

In the Freemasons’ periodical “for circulation amongst the brethren”

(Altenberg, 1823, vol. i., No. 1) is the following: “The idea of religion

indirectly includes all men as men; but in order to comprehend this

aright, a certain degree of education is necessary, and unfortunately

the overweening egoism of the educated classes prevents their taking

in so sublime a conception of mankind. For this reason our temples

consecrated to the _worship of humanity_ can as yet be opened only to a

few.[42] We should, indeed, expose ourselves to a charge of idolatry,

were we to attempt to personify the moral idea of humanity in the way

in which divinity is usually personified.… On this account, therefore,

it is advisable not to reveal the cultus of humanity to the eyes of the

uninitiated, until at length the time shall come when, from east to west,

this lofty conception of humanity shall find a place in every breast,

this worship shall alone prevail, and all mankind shall be gathered into

one fold and one family.”

The principles of this united family, “seated in the temple of God,”

the Masonic philosopher Helvetius expounds to us; from whom we learn

that “whatever is beneficial to all in general may be called virtue;

what is prejudicial, vice and sin. Here the voice of interest has

alone to speak.… Passions are only the intensified expression of

self-interest in the individual; witness the Dutch people, who, when

hatred and revenge urged them to action, achieved great triumphs, and

made their country a powerful and glorious name. And as sensual love is

universally acknowledged to afford happiness, purity must be condemned

as pernicious, the marriage bond done away with, and children declared

to be the property of the state.”[43] The father of such a “one fold and

one family” no one not himself signed with the “mark of the beast” could

hesitate to point out. The consummation above anticipated we are bid to

expect. Nor is it now far off. They who are not “deceived” have, however,

the consoling assurance that _our_ Lord will “slay him with the spirit of

his mouth, and destroy him with the illumination of his coming.”

SIR THOMAS MORE.

_A HISTORICAL ROMANCE._

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

II.

“You understand, M. de Soria,” said Wolsey to one of his secretaries, in

whom he placed the greatest confidence. “As soon as you see him, present

yourself before him, give the usual password, and then conduct him

through the subterranean passage that leads to the banks of the Thames.

Bring him here by the secret stairway. He will be dressed in a cloak and

suit of brown clothes, wearing a black felt hat tied round with a red

ribbon.”

“My lord, you may feel perfectly satisfied,” replied the secretary with a

self-sufficient air, “that all your orders will be punctually executed.

But he cannot possibly arrive for an hour yet; I will vouch for that, my

lord.”

“Go, however, sir,” replied the minister, impatiently; “I fear being

taken by surprise. Have less confidence in your own calculations, sir,

and be more prompt in your actions.” And saying this he made a sign for

him to go at once.

The door had scarcely closed on Soria, when the cardinal, who sat writing

in silence, heard in the court of the chancellor’s palace an unusual

noise. For some time he continued his work; but the tumult increasing,

and hearing loud bursts of laughter, he arose, opened the window and went

out on a high balcony, whence he had a view of all that was passing in

the principal court.

There a crowd of servants had assembled, and formed a circle around an

old woman who was apparently the object of their ridicule. Her large felt

hat, around which was tied a band of red ribbon, had fallen to the ground

leaving uncovered, not the head of an old woman, as they had supposed,

but one thickly covered with short hair, black and curling.

On seeing this head-dress the crowd redoubled their cries, and one of

them advancing suddenly, raised the mask concealing the features. What

was their surprise to find under that disguise a great rubicund face,

the nose and cheeks of which were reddened with the glow that wine

and strong drink alone produce, and giving sufficient evidence of the

sex to which it belonged. The man, seeing he was discovered, defended

himself with vigor, and, dealing sharp blows with his feet and hands,

endeavored to escape from his tormentors; but he was unable to resist

their superior numbers. They threw themselves upon him, tearing off his

brown cloak, and one of his blue cotton petticoats. The wretched creature

cried out vociferously, loudly threatening them with the indignation of

the cardinal; but the valets heard nothing, vain were all his efforts

to escape them. Nevertheless, being exceedingly robust, he at length

succeeded in overthrowing two of his antagonists, and then, dashing

across the courtyard, he sprang quickly into the second court, where,

finding a ladder placed at the window of a granary, he clambered up with

all the dexterity of a frightened cat, and hid himself under a quantity

of straw which had been stored there. In the meantime, the cardinal had

recognized from his elevated position on the balcony the red ribbon that

announced the messenger for whom he awaited with so much anxiety. Greatly

enraged at the scene before him, and forgetting his dignity, he hurried

from the balcony, rushing through the apartments that led from his own

room (in which were seated the numerous secretaries of state, engaged

in the work of the government). Without addressing a word to them, he

descended the stairs so rapidly that in another instant he stood in the

midst of his servants, who were stupefied at finding themselves in the

presence of their master, all out of breath, bareheaded, and almost

suffocated with indignation. He commanded them in the most emphatic terms

to get out of his sight, which they did without waiting for a repetition

of the order. From every direction the pages and secretaries had

assembled, among them being M. de Soria, who was in great trepidation,

fearing some accident had happened to the individual whom he had been

instructed to introduce with such great secrecy into the palace. His

fears were more than realized on seeing the cardinal, who cast on him

a glance of intense anger, and in a loud voice exclaimed: “Go, sir, to

the assistance of this unfortunate man who is being subjected to such

outrages in my own house. Not a few of those who have attempted to drive

him off shall themselves be sent away!” Then the cardinal, giving an

authoritative signal, those around him understood that their presence was

no longer desired, and immediately ascended the stairs and returned to

their work.

Wolsey himself quickly followed them; and M. de Soria, greatly confused,

in a short time appeared and ushered into the minister’s cabinet the

messenger, who was still suffering from the effects of the contest in

which he had been compelled to engage.

“Your letters! your letters!” said Wolsey eagerly, as soon as they were

alone. “All is right, Wilson. I am satisfied. I see that you are no

coward, and all that you have just now suffered will be turned to your

advantage. Nevertheless, it is quite fortunate that I came to your rescue

when I did, for I really do not know what those knaves might have done to

you.”

“They would have thrown me into the water, I believe, like a dog,” said

Wilson, laughing. “Oh! that was nothing though. I have been through worse

than that in my life. All I was afraid of was, that they might discover

the package of letters and the money.”

As he said this, the courier proceeded to unfasten the buckles of an

undervest, made of chamois leather, that he wore closely strapped around

his body. After he had taken off the vest he unfastened a number of bands

of woollen cloth which were crossed on his breast. In each one of these

bands was folded a great number of letters, of different forms and sizes.

Then he unstrapped from his waist and laid on the table a belt that

contained quite a large sum of money in gold coin, that Francis I. had

sent to the minister. The avarice of Wolsey was so well understood by

the different princes and sovereigns of Europe that they were accustomed

to send him valuable presents, or to confer on him rich annuities,

whenever they wished to gain him over to their interests. Wolsey had for

a long time been engaged in a correspondence with France. He carried

it on with the utmost secrecy, for he well understood if discovered by

Henry he would never be pardoned. His apprehensions were still greater,

now that he was endeavoring to direct the influence of his political

schemes, and that of the paid agents whom he had at the different courts