The reader, being now acquainted with much of the contents as well as

with the general tenor of Father Tondini’s essay, may find some interest

(possibly amusement also) in comparing the following remarks of the

London _Tablet_ (Sept. 18) with the confirmation of their accurate

appreciation of the “British Philistine’s” pride in his own obtuseness so

ingenuously furnished (Sept. 25) by a writer in the _Church Review_:

LONDON TABLET.

“We are a little afraid that the Anglican sympathizers with the Old

Catholics will not be sharp enough to understand the keen logic of Father

Tondini’s concise reasoning. The British Philistine rather glories in

being impervious to logic or wit, and chuckles over his own obtuseness

as a proof of the strength of the religion which he patronizes. It is

provoking to a zealous controversialist to have to do battle with such a

heavy antagonist, but we trust the good father will not cease to labor at

the conversion of our illogical but worthy fellow-countrymen. We thank

him for a well-timed and well-written pamphlet.”

(The _Universe_ calls it “another fatal blow for the theology of our

ex-prime minister; closely reasoned and perfectly terrible in its manner

of grasping its luckless opponent.”--_Universe_, September 25, 1875.)

CHURCH REVIEW.

“The Rev. Cæsar Tondini, who is fond of linking Russian Orthodoxy and

Anglican Catholicism in one sweeping condemnation, is by no means one

of the Pope’s greatest controversialists. But this pamphlet is hardly

worthy of even his reputation. Every point in it might be answered by

a _tu quoque_. Fact might be set against fact, defect against defect,

innovation against innovation, inconsistency against inconsistency,

and error against error. But picking holes in our neighbor’s coat will

never mend the rents in our own. So we forbear, content for the present

to congratulate ourselves on the fact that, while Romanists are still

utterly blind to their own nakedness, we have at least plucked a fig-leaf

by the efforts already made to bring about reunion.” [Who could help

thinking, “We would not give a fig for such a leaf as this”?]

IV.

We will conclude the present notice by some account of the recent

Conference at Bonn, in which the Old Catholics have given abundant

proof that they are no freer from variation than are any other of the

Protestant sects.

Desirous of strengthening their position by alliance with other forms

of schism, Dr. von Döllinger invited to a congress representatives

of the schismatic Greek and Russian Church, the English and American

Episcopalians, and the Old Catholics. The assembly was called the

“International Conference of the Union of the Christian Churches,” and

proposed as its object an agreement on the fundamental points of doctrine

professed by Christendom before its divisions, with a view “to restore

by a reform as broad as possible the ancient Catholic Church of the

West.”[204]

In this International Conference, which began on the 12th of August and

ended on the 16th, the principal Orientals, who numbered about twenty

in all, were two bishops from Roumania; an archimandrite from Belgrade;

two archimandrites, Anastasiades and Bryennios, from Constantinople,

sent by the patriarch as being well versed in all the questions which

have divided and which still divide the Greek and Latin Churches; there

were also present the Archbishop of Syra and Tino, Mgr. Licourgos, well

known in England, and six professors, among whom were Profs. Osinnin and

Janischef, the latter being the gentleman who at the last Conference

was so severe on Anglican orders. The Protestant Episcopalians were the

most numerous, being about a hundred in number; but they had only one

bishop among them--namely, the Bishop of Gibraltar. Those of Winchester

and Lincoln, who had also given their adherence to the movement, found

themselves at the last moment unable to attend. The most notable person

in the Anglican group was Dr. Liddon, Canon of S. Paul’s. Dean Howson, of

Chester, was also one of its members; his “views” on nearly every point

of church teaching being diametrically opposed to those of Canon Liddon.

The same group contained an Unitarian minister from Chesterfield (Mr.

Smith), and a “Primitive Methodist” (Mr. Booth, a chemist and druggist

of the same town), who on a late occasion was voted for and returned at

the head of the poll as an advocate of secular education. The Americans

sent only three delegates, and the “Reformed Church” one--the Rev.

Th. de Félice. The Old Catholics, all of whom were Germans, numbered

eighteen or twenty, with Dr. von Döllinger and Bishop Reinkens at their

head, supported by Herr Langen, “Altkatholik”; Herr Lange, Protestant,

and Herr Lang, the least orthodox of all. Close to this little group

figured seven or eight more German Protestants. In all, the Conference

was composed of about one hundred and fifty persons, of whom the _Times_

observes that, “slender as the gathering was, it was forced to display an

almost ludicrous caution in drawing up such articles of faith as would

command the assent of the whole assembly”--articles “so vague that they

might be made to mean anything or nothing”; and, further, that the few

English divines who went to Bonn to play at a council no more represent

the Church of England than Dr. von Döllinger represents the Church of

Rome, but spoke in the name of nothing but themselves. It suggests to

them, with scornful irony, that “charity begins at home,” and that in the

present distracted state of the Church of England, “when nothing keeps

the various and conflicting ‘schools’ of clergy in the same communion

but the secular forces of the Establishment, there is surely there a

magnificent field for the exercise of even a genius of conciliation.”

A Bavarian Protestant clergyman informed the assembly that, as there

was no chance of their coming to an agreement by means of discussion

about dogma, they had far better throw over dogma altogether, and trust

to brotherly love to bring about union. Dr. von Döllinger, however,

said that if they all shared this opinion, they had better have stayed

at home. One reverend gentleman proposed to settle the difference by

examining where the fathers all harmonize, and abiding by the result

(a task which, as a looker-on observed, would give all the theological

acuteness and learning in the world abundant work for about half a

dozen centuries); whereupon Bishop Reinkens nervously tried to draw the

debaters into the cloud-land of love and unity of purpose, etc., etc.

But here Canon Liddon hastened to the rescue with a carefully-prepared

scheme for effecting the reconciliation of the East and West, which

was apparently received by the Orientals with a tranquil indifference,

and was chiefly remarkable for its adroit semblance of effecting much,

while it in fact does nothing. Yielding here and there a phrase of no

special meaning, it declared in the next clause that it would retain its

own form of the Creed until the dispute should be settled by “a truly

œcumenical council.” This announcement was the signal for an outburst of

disapproval, questions, and objections. “What did Canon Liddon mean by

an œcumenical council?” “An assent of the whole episcopate.” This was

too much for Lord Plunkett, who exclaimed that he would never have come

to the Conference if he had known that it meant to confine the Christian

Church within the bounds of episcopacy. What, he should like to know,

was to hinder Presbyterian ministers from being admitted equally with

bishops to take part in an œcumenical council?

On this the canon obligingly agreed to substitute “the whole church”

for the obnoxious term; but while the assembly hesitated, some paragon

of caution suggested the phrase “sufficient authority.” However, this

masterpiece of conciliation--for nobody could say what it meant--was

rejected for “the whole church,” this latter being equally ambiguous

to those who were adopting it. On this they agreed. As the _Times’_

correspondent observes, “Everybody will agree with everybody else when

all deliberately use words for the purpose of concealing what they mean.

When men differ from each other essentially, it is childish folly to try

to unite them by an unmeaning phrase.”

The great question was that of the procession of the Holy Spirit. On this

M. Osinnin was the chief speaker on behalf of the Greeks, and he seems

to have challenged every interpretation of the Westerns, maintaining

even that _procedit_ was not an exact rendering of ἐκπορεύεται. However,

a committee was appointed, composed of the Germans, two Orientals, an

Englishman, and an American; and Dr. von Döllinger announced to the

Conference on its last sitting that an agreement had been arrived at on

all essential points. The Greeks were to retain their version of the

Nicene Creed, and the Westerns theirs; the latter were to admit that

the _Filioque_ had been improperly introduced, and that both were to

agree that, whichever version they used, their meaning was that the Holy

Spirit proceeds from the Father through the Son. With regard to the last

point, however, the Orientals said that although they had personally no

objection to the expression, yet they must decline to give any official

assent to the article until it had been submitted to their synods or

other competent authorities at home.

Judging from every account we have seen (all of them Protestant) of the

Bonn Conference, it is evident that its members, in order to give an

appearance of mutual agreement, subscribed to propositions which may be

taken in various senses. The six articles agreed to by the committee were

couched in the following terms:

“We believe with S. John Damascene, 1, that the Holy Spirit proceeds

from the Father as the beginning, the cause, and the fountain of Deity.

2. That the Holy Spirit does not proceed from the Son ἐκ τοῦ υίοῦ, and

that for this reason there is in the Godhead only one beginning, one

cause, through which all that is in the Godhead is produced. 3. That the

Holy Spirit is the image of the Son, who is the image of the Father,

proceeding from the Father and resting in the Son, as the outbeaming

power of the latter. 4. The Holy Spirit is the personal bringing forth

of the Father, but belonging to the Son, yet not of the Son, since he

is the Spirit of the Godhead which speaks forth the Word. 5. The Holy

Spirit forms the connecting link between the Father and the Son, and is

united to the Father through the Son. 6. The Holy Spirit proceeds [or, as

amended by Mr. Meyrick, ‘issues’] from the Father through the Son.”

It is the supposed denial of that unity of the αρχή, or originating

principle in the Most Holy Trinity, which has always been the ground of

the Greek objections to the Latin form of the Creed.[205] “The double

_Procession_[206] of the Holy Ghost has always been believed in the

church, only to a certain number of minds it remained for a time obscure,

and thus there are to be found in the writings of the fathers passages in

which mention is made rather of the procession from the Father than of

the double procession from the Father and the Son, but yet none which,

although not formally indicating, exclude or contradict it.

“In recurring to the expressions employed by the fathers, the members of

the Bonn Conference have made choice of some of those which are vague

and least explicit, instead of others which convey to the mind a clear

idea. We are fully aware that, from a historical point of view, the

question of the _Filioque_ presents some difficulties. At Nicæa, in 325,

the question of _procession_ was not even mentioned, from the fact of

its not having up to that time been raised. At Constantinople, in 381,

in order to cut short discussions which were tending to result in a

denial of the Trinity, the addition had been made to the Creed that the

Holy Ghost proceeds from the Father, without mention of the Son. At the

Third Council of Toledo, in 589, the faith of the church in the double

procession was clearly indicated by the addition of the _Filioque_--an

addition, which was adopted by several particular councils, and which

became general in France. The popes, however, foreseeing that the

Orientals--always inclined to be ill-disposed towards the West--would

make this addition an excuse for breaking off into schism, appeared at

first but little in favor of a modification which, although expressing

with greater accuracy the faith of the church, would furnish fresh fuel

to theological disputes. It was a question of prudence. But when the

truth was once placed in peril, they hesitated no longer. All the West

chanted the _Filioque_; and the Greeks themselves, on repeated occasions,

and notably at the Council of Florence in 1438, confessed the double

procession to be an article of the Catholic faith.”

The Old Catholics of Bonn have thus made, as it seems to us, a

retrogression on this question. Will this help to secure “the union

of the Christian churches” which was the object of the Conference? In

outward appearance possibly it may, because all the separated communities

willingly join hand in hand against the true church of Christ; but in

reality, no, for the Greeks will continue to reject the procession

through the Son, as the Anglicans will continue to accept it; and we have

no need to say that the Catholic Church will never cease to confess the

double procession, and to sing: _Qui ex Patre Filioque procedit_.

With regard to other subjects discussed by the meeting at Bonn, we will

briefly mention that Canon Liddon spoke against the invocation of saints,

and Dr. von Döllinger talked of “making a clear sweep” of the doctrine

of purgatory and indulgences; although, in stating the belief of his

co-religionists, he was obliged to reaffirm the doctrine of purgatory in

terms nearly equivalent to those of the Creed of Pope Pius IV. On this

matter, whatever the Greeks might do, how many of the Anglicans would

agree with the Old Catholics? Not only are the people who go to these

conferences from England in no sense representatives of the body to which

they belong, but even they themselves do not always abide by what they

have agreed to.[207] Dean Howson, in a statement he read at the last

Conference, put a Low-Church interpretation on the resolution of last

year’s Conference about the Eucharist, which interpretation Canon Liddon

immediately repudiated. Before Greek or German schismatics can unite with

the Church of England, they will have to make up their minds as to which

of at least four theological systems _is_ Anglicanism, and then to get

_that_ admitted by the other three.

As to the validity of Anglican orders, Dr. von Döllinger appears to have

considered it as resting on the certainty of Parker’s consecration,

without going into the really more important questions of Barlow’s

orders, or the sufficiency of form or intention, all of which are matters

of such grave doubt as to be practically worthless to any one insisting

upon the necessity of _certainty_ that the communion to which he belongs

possesses the apostolic succession.

We cannot conclude this sketch of the Bonn Conference without presenting

our readers with a portrait of its chief, Dr. von Döllinger, drawn by a

friendly hand--that of a French apostate priest, and one of the members

of the Conference--which we reproduce from the pages of the _Indépendance

Belge_.

“M. Döllinger,” he writes, “pronounced three long and eloquent

discourses, marked by that seriousness and depth which so especially

characterize his manner of speaking; but notwithstanding their merit,

they have not resulted in any new conclusion. May not the blame be in

some measure due to M. Overbeck, who … introduced into the discussion

authorities posterior to the epoch of the separation of East and West,

and mingled the question of the seven œcumenical councils with that of

the _Filioque_?… At all events, both obscurity and coldness found their

way into the debates.…

“Truly, this excellent M. Döllinger seems fated to go on from one

contradiction to another, and to accept one year that which he refused

in the preceding. For instance, in 1871, at the congress at Munich,

he energetically opposed the organization of Old-Catholic parishes;

afterwards he resigned himself to consent to this. In 1871 he desired the

Old Catholics to confine themselves, after his example, to protesting

against the excommunication they had incurred; but later on he is willing

that their priests should take upon themselves the full exercise of their

ministry. In 1871 and 1872 he wished to maintain the decisions of the

Council of Trent; in 1873 he decided to abandon them, as well as the

alleged œcumenicity of this council. In 1872 … he considered the attempts

made to establish union between the Old Catholics and the Oriental

churches as at any rate imprudent, if not even compromising. In 1874

he adopted the idea of which he had been so much afraid, and has since

that time used every endeavor to promote the union of the churches. Last

year a proposal [for a committee to examine on what points the earliest

fathers harmonized] was rejected by M. Döllinger with a certain disdain,

as impracticable and even childish. _Now_, however, we find him obliged

to come back to it, at least in part.”[208] “It is by no means in

reproach but in praise that we say this,” continues the writer, adding:

“He accepted with the best grace possible, in one of the sittings of the

Conference this year, the observations of Prof. Osinnin on the manner of

studying texts; and when an erudite and venerable man like M. Döllinger

knows how to correct himself with such humility, he does but raise

himself in the esteem of sincere men.”

We would here venture to observe that when “so erudite” a man as Dr. von

Döllinger, and one who is acknowledged by an entire sect as its most

distinguished doctor and its leader, is so little sure of his doctrine

that he is continually altering it, he and his followers are surely among

the last people who ought to refuse to the Pope the infallibility which

he in fact arrogates to himself in setting himself above an œcumenical

council, as was that of the Vatican.

If the head is represented by one of the members as being in a chronic

state of uncertainty, so are the members themselves represented by

another. In the _Church Review_ (Anglican) for Sept. 18, 1875, is an

article entitled “Old-Catholic Prospects,” the greater part of which

consists of one of the most abusive and malignant attacks against the

Catholic Church, and in an especial manner against the Jesuits, that

it has ever been our lot to come upon, even in the journal in which it

appears. After informing his readers that “Jesuitism has led the Pope

into the egregious heresy of proclaiming his own infallibility,” and

that “the Spirit of Christ, who would not rest in the Vatican Council,

where all was confusion, restraint, and secrecy, (!) has brooded over

the humble (?) Conference of trusting hearts” at Bonn, etc., etc., this

person, with a sudden sobriety, ventures on a closer inspection of the

favored sect for which he had just profanely claimed the guidance of the

Eternal Spirit, while denying it to the œcumenical council where the

whole episcopate of the Catholic Church was assembled with its head, the

Vicar of Christ.

This writer perceives that, “on the other hand, there are dangers in

the future. At present,” he says, “the Old-Catholic body is kept in

order by two master minds--Dr. Döllinger and Prof. Schulte. There are

innumerable elements of discord” (he adds) “manifest enough, but they

are as yet subdued by reverence for Dr. Döllinger, and beat down by the

sledge-hammer will of the lay professor. If either of these pilots were

removed, it is impossible to say into how many fragments Old Catholicism

might split. Its bishop has no means of control over minds, as have

Schulte and Döllinger. Michaelis is simply abusive and violent, ready

to tear down with hands and teeth, but incompetent to build. Repulsive

in personal appearance, his work is that of detraction, denunciation,

and destruction. To human eyes the movement is no movement at all; _it

contains in itself no authority_ to hold its members personally in check;

and yet, in spite of every disadvantage, the Old-Catholic society is the

expression of true feeling,” etc., etc.

But we have dwelt long enough on this picture; let us in conclusion turn

to a very different one. “Rome accepts no compromise; she dictates laws,”

says M. Henri Vignaud,[209] contrasting her in no friendly spirit with

the sect we have been contemplating, but yet in a spirit of calmness and

candor.

And this, which he intends as a reproach, is in reality a commendation.

It is the true church _only_ which _can_ accept no compromise when the

truth is in question, of which she is the faithful depository; and

whatever laws she dictates are to guard the truth, dogmatic or moral,

issued in God’s name and with his authority.

M. Vignaud acknowledges this in the following remarkable manner: “That

cannot be conciliated which is by nature irreconcilable. There can be no

compromise with faith.… Either man forges to himself the truths which

must illuminate his path, or he receives them from the Deity, in which

case he must submit to accept the dogma of infallibility; for without

this the whole theory falls. It is for this reason that the apostolic

Roman Catholicity is so strong. Subordinating reason to faith, it

does not carry within it the germ of any scepticism. There can be no

transacting with it, and whoever goes out of it enters, whether he is

aware of the fact or not, into rationalism, of which the logical outcome

is the elimination of the divine action in human affairs.”[210]

It would be scarcely possible to show more clearly that there are but

two logical positions in the world of intelligences--namely, Catholicity

and scepticism, or, as it is called in the present day, positivism. The

next step after refusing God all action in human affairs is to refuse him

existence.

The Conference at Bonn, however little it may have done in other

respects, has already produced one result which was far from the

intention of its promoters. It has furnished an additional proof that

there is one church only which is capable of resisting the invasion of

scepticism and unbelief, and that this church is the Catholic and Roman.

“_Either Jesus Christ never organized a church, or the Catholic is the

church which he organized._”[211]

MIDNIGHT MASS IN A CONVENT.

I have lately been reading some remarks on the curious association

existing between certain tastes and odors and an involuntary exertion of

the memory by which the recurrence of those tastes or odors recalls, with

a vividness not otherwise to be obtained, a whole series of incidents

of past life--incidents which, with their surrounding scenes, would

otherwise be quite forgotten and buried out of sight by the successive

overlaying of other events of greater interest or importance. Montaigne

has some singular illustrations of this peculiar fact of consciousness,

and there is a brief reference to the subject made in some recently

republished recollections of William Hazlitt. Connected with this is the

powerful influence known to be exercised in many well-authenticated cases

upon the nervous sensibilities by the exhalation of particular perfumes

or the scent of certain kinds of flowers harmless or agreeable to all

other persons. There is a reciprocal motion of the mind which has also

been noted, by which a particular train of thought recalls a certain

taste or smell almost as if one received the impression from the existing

action of the senses. An illustration is given in the discussion just

noted, where a special association of ideas is stated to have brought

back to the writer, with great vividness, the “smell of a baker’s shop

in Bassorah.” Individual experiences could doubtless be accumulated to

show that this mysterious short-hand mind-writing, so to term it, by

means of which the memory records on its tablets, by the aid of a single

sign imprinted upon a particular sense, the history of a long series of

associated recollections, is not confined to the senses of taste and

smell alone, but makes use of all.

The recollection of one of the happiest days of my life--a day of

strong excitement and vivid pleasure, but not carried to the pitch of

satiety--is inseparably associated with the warm, aromatic smell of a

cigar which I lighted and puffed, walking alone down a country road.

In this case the train of thought is followed by the impression on the

sense. But in another instance within my experience the reciprocal action

of thought and sense is reversed; the sight of a particular object in

this latter case invariably bringing back to my mind, with amazing

distinctness, a scene of altogether dissimilar import, lying far back in

the memory. The circumstances are these:

’Tis now some years since I visited the seaport town of Shippington. It

is, or was, one of those sleepy provincial cities which still retain

an ante-Revolutionary odor about its dock-yard and ordnance wharves. A

group of ragged urchins or a ruby-nosed man in greasy and much-frayed

velveteen jacket might be seen any sunny morning diligently fishing for

hours off the end of one of its deserted piers for a stray bite from a

perch or a flounder. The arrival of the spring clipper-ship from Glasgow,

bringing a renewal of stock for the iron merchants, or of a brig with

fruit from the Mediterranean, used to set the whole wharf population

astir. Great changes have taken place of late years. Railroads have been

built. Instead of a single line of ocean steamships, whose fortnightly

arrival was the event of the day, half a dozen foreign and domestic lines

keep the port busy. Fashion, which was once very exclusive and confined

to a few old families, has now asserted its sway over wider ranks,

and the officers of her majesty’s gallant Onety-Oneth, and the heavy

swells of Shippington society whose figures adorn the broad steps of the

Shippington Club-House, have now the pleasure of criticising any fine

morning a (thin) galaxy of female beauty and fashion sweeping by them,

whose _modes_ rival those of Beacon Street or Murray Hill.

But at the time of which I write--when I was a school-boy, a quarter of

a century ago--it had not been much stirred by the march of these modern

improvements. Her Britannic majesty was then young to the throne, and a

great fervor of loyalty prevailed; and when the Royal Welsh Fusileers

used to march down to the parade-ground for morning drill, with the

martial drum-major and its great bearded Billy-Goat, presented by the

queen, dividing the honors of the head of the regiment, it would be

hard to exaggerate the enthusiasm that swelled the bosoms of the small

boys and African damsels who stepped proudly along with the band. Those

were grand days, _quorum pars magna fui_, when I too marched down the

hill from the citadel, with a mind divided between awe and admiration

of the drum-major--curling his mustache fiercely and twirling his staff

with an air of majesty--and a latent terror of the bearded pet of the

regiment, whom report declared to have destroyed three or four boys in

Malta. But rare indeed were those holidays, for I was impounded most

of the time in a college, where the study of the Latin _Delectus_ gave

little opportunity for the pursuit of those more attractive branches

of a liberal education. About half a dozen of the boys, of whom I was

one, were proficients at serving Mass. It was therefore with great joy

at the distinction that we found ourselves named, one frosty Christmas

Eve, to accompany Father W---- to the Convent of the Sacred Heart, about

a mile distant, where he was to celebrate midnight Mass. Oh! how the

snow crisped and rattled under our feet as we marched along, full of

importance, after Father W----, each boy with his green bag, containing

his surplice and _soutane_, swung over his arm! What a jolly night it

was; and how the stars twinkled! We slapped our hands together, protected

by our thick blue mitts, and stamped our feet like soldiers on the march

to Moscow. It was after ten o’clock, and the streets were dark and

nearly deserted. To us, long used to be sound asleep at that hour in

our warm dormitory, each boy in his own little four-poster, with the

moonlight streaming in through the windows on its white counterpane--and

not daring, if we were awake, so much as to whisper to the boy next to

us, under pain of condign punishment in the morning--there was something

mysterious and almost ghostly in this midnight adventure. As we passed

the guard-house near the general’s residence, the officer of the night,

muffled in his cloak, came along on the “grand rounds.” The sentry, in

his tall bear-skin hat, stops suddenly short in his walk.

“Who goes there?” he calls out in a loud, fierce voice, bringing down his

bayonet to the charge.

We clung closer to Father W----’s skirts. “Rounds,” replies the officer

in a voice of command, his sword rattling on the ground, iron-hard with

the frost. “What rounds?” “Grand rounds!” “Advance, grand rounds, and

give the countersign!” Then the sergeant of the guard, the alarm being

given, rushes out into the street with his men, all with bayonets drawn

and looking terrible in the moonlight. They form in line, and the officer

advances. A whispered conversation takes place; the soldiers present arms

and march back into the warm guard-house; and the officer passes silently

on to the next guard.

While this scene was going on we stood half terrified and fascinated,

hardly knowing whether to take to our heels or not. But the calm voice

of Father W----, as he answered “A friend” to the sentry’s challenge,

reassured us. Soon we reached the convent gate, and, entering the

grounds, which were open for the occasion, found the convent all ablaze

with lights. The parents and friends of the young lady pupils were

permitted to attend the midnight Christmas Mass. The convent, and convent

chapel which communicated with it, stood in the midst of winding walks

and lawns very pretty in the summer; but the tall trees, now stripped of

their leaves, swung their bare branches in the wind with a melancholy

recollection of their faded beauty. Groups, in twos and threes, walked

silently up the paths, muffled in cloaks and shawls, and disappeared

within the chapel. We were received by the lady-superior, Mme. P----,

whose kind voice and refined and gentle manners were sadly maligned

by a formidable Roman nose, that struck our youthful minds with awe.

What unprincipled whims does Nature sometimes take thus to impress

upon the countenance the appearance of a character so alien to our

true disposition! Nor is it less true that a beautiful face and a form

that Heaven has endowed with all the charms of grace and fascinating

beauty may hide a soul rank with vice and malice. The Becky Sharpes of

the world are not all as ferret-featured as Thackeray’s heroine, whom,

nevertheless, with much truth to art, he represents as attractive and

alluring in her prime. But dear Mme. P----’s Roman nose was not, I have

reason to believe, without its advantages; the fortuitous severity of

its cast helping to maintain a degree of discipline among her young lady

boarders, which a tendency to what Mr. Tennyson calls “the least little

delicate curve” (_vulgo_, a pug), or even a purely classical Grecian,

might have failed to inspire. Forgive me the treason if I venture even

to hint that those young ladies in white and blue who floated in and out

of Mme. P----’s parlors on reception-days, like angels cut out from the

canvas on the walls, were ever less demure than their prototypes!

We altar-boys were marshalled into a long, narrow hall running parallel

with the chapel. There we busied ourselves in putting on our red

_soutanes_ and white surplices, and preparing the altar for Mass. But

we had a long time to wait, and while we stood there in whispering

silence, and the chapel slowly filled, suddenly appeared Mme. P----

with a lay sister, carrying six little china plates full of red and

white sugar-plums, and some cakes not bigger than a mouthful, to beguile

our tedium. To this day the sight of one of those small plates, filled

with that kind of sugar-plums, brings back to my mind with wonderful

minuteness all the scenes I have described and those that followed. The

long walk through the snow, the guard-house, the convent grounds, the

figures of Mme. P---- and her lay sister advancing towards us, rise

before me undimmed by time; and even now as I write the flavor of the

sugared cassia-buds seems to be in my mouth, though it is over twenty

years ago since I cracked them between my teeth with a school-boy’s

relish for sweetmeats.

The feeling of distant respect engendered by the sight of Mme. P----’s

nose gave way all at once to a profound sympathy and admiration for that

estimable lady, as she handed us those dainties. Yet, as they disappeared

before our juvenile appetites, sharpened by the frost, we could not help

feeling all a boy’s contempt for the girls that could be satisfied with

such stuff, instead of a good, solid piece of gingerbread that a fellow

could get two or three bites at! We had no doubt that the convent girls

had a _congé_ that day, and that this was a part of the feast that had

been provided for them.

We marched gravely into the sanctuary before Father W----, and took our

places around the altar-steps while he ascended the altar. A deeper hush

seemed to fall on the congregation kneeling with heads bowed down before

the Saviour born on that blessed morning. The lights on the altar burned

with a mystical halo at the midnight hour. The roses around the Crib of

the infant Redeemer bloomed brighter than June. We heaped the incense

into the burning censer, and the smoke rushed up in a cloud, and the

odorous sweetness filled the air. Then along the vaulted roof of the

chapel stole the first notes of the organ, now rising, now falling; and

the murmuring voice of the priest was heard reading the Missal. Did my

heart stand still when a boy--or is it touched by a memory later?--as,

birdlike, the pure tones of the soprano rose, filling the church, and

thrilling the whole congregation? Marvellous magic of music! Can we

wonder to see an Arion borne by dolphins over the waves, and stilling

the winds with his lyre? Poor Mme. L----! She had a voice of astonishing

brilliancy and power. Her upper notes I have never heard excelled in

flute-like clearness and sustained roundness of tone. When I heard her

years later, with a more experienced ear, her voice, though a good deal

worn, was still one to be singled out wherever it might be heard. She is

since dead. She was a French lady of good family. Her voice had the tone

of an exile. She sang the _Adeste fideles_ on that Christmas morning with

a soul-stirring pathos that impressed me so much as a boy that the same

hymn, sung by celebrated singers and more pretentious choirs, has always

appeared to me tame.

It would not serve my present purpose to pursue these recollections

farther. Enough has been said to show how quickly the mind grasps at some

one prominent point affected by sense, to group around it a tableau of

associated recollections. That little china tea-plate with its blue and

gilt edge, heaped over with sugar-plums, brings back to me scenes that

seem to belong to another age, so radical is the change which time makes

in the fortunes and even emotions of men.

When the lights were all out in the chapel, except those that burned

around the Crib, and the congregation had silently departed, we wended

our way back to the college with Father W---- in the chill morning air

more slowly than when we started; sleepy, but our courage still unabated

by reason of the great things we had shared in, and the still greater

things separated from us by only one more, fast-coming dawn. We slept

like tops all the morning, being excused from six o’clock Mass on account

of our midnight excursion. When we joined the home circle on Christmas

morning, you may be assured we had plenty to talk about. Nor was it until

after dinner, and all the walnuts had been cracked, and our new pair of

skates--our most prized Christmas gift--tried on and admired, that the

recollection of our first Christmas Mass began to fade from our minds.

Pure hearts and innocent joys of youth! How smooth the stream--_nescius

auræ fallacis_--on which it sails its tiny craft! How rough the sea it

drifts into!

S. LOUIS’ BELL.[212]

S. Louis’ bell!

How grandly swell

Its matin chime,

Its noonday peal,

Its vesper rhyme!

How deeply in my heart I feel

Their solemn cadence; they to me

Waft hymns of precious melody.

S. Louis’ bell!

What memories dwell

Enshrined among

Each lingering note

And tuneful tongue!

As on the quivering air they float,

Those sweet vibrations o’er and o’er

Bear tidings from a far-off shore.

S. Louis’ bell!

What clouds dispel,

What doubts and fears

Dissolve away,

What sorrowing tears,

Like mists before the rising day!

While on the waiting, listening air

Rings out S. Louis’ call to prayer.

S. Louis’ bell!

Ring on and tell

In matin chime,

And noonday peal,

And vesper rhyme,

And let thy joyful notes reveal

The story loved of mortals best--

Of Holy Child on Virgin’s breast,

While herald angels from above

Sang anthems of eternal love!

S. Louis’ bell!

When earth’s farewell

Upon my parting lips shall dwell,

And when I rise

On angel wing

To seek the gates of Paradise,

And stand before the Heavenly King,

Though in that realm of perfect peace

All other earthly sounds should cease,

Methinks ’twould be

A joy to me

Once more to hear,

With bended ear,

The music loved on earth so well--

The echoes of S. Louis’ bell!

FROM CAIRO TO JERUSALEM.

Seated in the spacious hall of the new hotel in Cairo, we discussed a

tour through the Holy Land. We had quitted our comfortable and home-like

_dahabéeah_, wherein we had lived for nearly four months upon the waters

of the historical Nile. A sad farewell had been said to our trusty

sailors, and even those of them who had lingered around the hotel for

days after our arrival, to kiss our hands as we came out, had now taken

their departure. Old Abiad, our funny man, had for once worn a sober look

as he bade us God-speed on our homeward voyage. Said--the indefatigable,

hard-working, muscular Said, ever ready for the hardest work, and ever

foremost in action--had left us with tearful eyes, and had started on his

upward voyage to Keneh, to marry the young Moslem maiden to whom he had

pledged his troth some few months before.

Yes, the Nile trip was really over, but on the tablets of memory was

painted a most bright and beautiful picture, which time alone could

efface. Still another separation: one of our party, having been in the

Holy Land the previous year, was about to remain in Egypt, while the rest

of us visited Syria. Father H----, Mme. D----, and the writer made the

travelling party. The plans were soon settled, and a day was appointed

upon which we should depart from Cairo to meet the Russian steamer which

was advertised to leave Alexandria on Monday, April the 13th, A.D. 1874.

One of the greatest difficulties in travelling in the East is to obtain

accurate information concerning the arrival and departure of steamers

and trains. When inquiring what time the train would leave Cairo for

Rhoda, the terminus of the railway along the Nile, I was informed that

it would leave somewhere about seven o’clock in the morning, and would

reach Rhoda between six and eight in the evening; this was the most

accurate information I could possibly obtain. In point of fact, the

train left Cairo at nine A.M., and reached Rhoda at half-past ten at

night. On Monday morning, April 13, there was a general clearing out of

travellers from the hotel. At nine A.M.--and, for a wonder, punctual to

the minute--we left the station at Cairo on the train going to Ismailïa.

We passed through some of the richest country of the Delta, teeming with

life and activity. The _Sagéars_, or Persian water-wheels, were sending

their streams of life-giving water through the numberless little canals

on every hand. Here a line of laden camels march along with stately step.

There a family--father, mother, and son--accompanied by the omnipresent

donkey, called to mind the flight of the Holy Family into Egypt. And well

they may; for here we are in the land of Goshen, at Rameses, the home of

the Israelites, the starting-point of their long, dreary wanderings. Now

the railroad marks the line between the cultivated land and the sandy

plains of the desert; on one side rich vegetation, nurtured by the

fresh-water canal, on the other, sandy hillocks stretching away to the

line of the horizon; and in a few moments we see the deep, rich blue of

the water of Lake Timsah, contrasting most strikingly with the golden

sand of its desert bank. Ismailïa! Ere the train has stopped we are

surrounded by a crowd of Arabs thirsting for their spoil. A score of them

pounce upon our baggage. After considerable shouting and threatening, we

compromise, and a truce is proclaimed. We engaged two of them to carry

our baggage to the steamer on the lake. O porters of the United States!

how you would blush and hang your heads in shame to see these Arabs

handle baggage. In my childish and untravelled simplicity I thought it

most wonderful to see you lift those heavy boarding-houses, miscalled

trunks, and carry them to the fourth story of a hotel. But hereafter,

for porters, commend me to the Arabs. We had four or five heavy valises,

one of them weighing nearly one hundred pounds, and numberless small

parcels. One of the men hung these valises from his neck, and tying the

smaller parcels in among them, as though by way of ornament, started

off, followed by his brother porter, with our only trunk, a large and

very heavy one, strapped on his back. They walked at a brisk pace to the

boat, about one mile distant, and did not seem in the least fatigued when

they arrived there. As we started to walk down the long avenue leading

to the lake, we were beset as usual by the importunities of three or

four donkey-boys, each one recounting the praises of his own animal,

and speaking disparagingly of the others, yet all in the best possible

humor. Running here and there, dragging after them the patient donkey,

they cried out: “Him good donkey, sah; look him. Oder donkey no good; him

back break. Him exquisite donkey, sah! Him Yankee Doodle!” Suddenly, in a

fit of indignation, I turned upon them and howled at the top of my voice:

“Empshy Ya Kelb” (“Get out, O dog!”), when, with a roar of laughter,

one little imp jumped in front of me, and exclaimed: “Oh! Howadji can

speak Arabic. Him good Arab donkey. Take him, sah; him speak Arabic.”

Notwithstanding this great inducement, I did not take him.

Like Aladdin’s palace, Ismailïa has sprung up almost in a single night.

In 1860 the site of the present town was a barren waste of sand; but

when the fresh-water canal was completed to this place, and the magic

waters of the Nile were let loose upon it, the golden sands of the desert

gave place to the rich verdure of vegetation; gardens, filled with the

choicest fruits and flowers, sprang up on every hand. Indeed, it seems

but necessary to pour the waters of the Nile on the desert to produce

a soil which will grow anything to perfection. Here we see the pretty

little Swiss _châlet_ of M. de Lesseps, and a short distance beyond

the palace of the viceroy, built in a few months, for the purpose of

entertaining his illustrious guest at the opening of the Suez Canal.

What singular fellows these Arabs are! Our two porters demand three

rupees (a rupee is worth about fifty cents) for their services. I quietly

take one rupee from my pocket and offer it to them. Indignantly they

reject it; and if I will not give them what they ask, they will accept

nothing at all; and with loud words and angry gestures they shout and

gesticulate most vehemently, complaining of the insignificant pittance

I offer them for the hard work they have just gone through. I repocket

the rupee, and proceed very leisurely to arrange our places on the

little postal boat, which is to leave in about an hour. Having purchased

tickets, and seen that everything was properly arranged, I again return

to the attack, as I am now upon the offensive, and offer them the

rupee. No, they will not have it; but now they will accept two rupees.

Well, it being the rule of Eastern negotiations that as one party comes

down the other should go up, like a balance, I increase the rupee by a

franc, and after much talking they agree to accept it. But now what a

change comes over them! Finding that they have extracted from me all

that they possibly can, their whole manner changes, and they become as

polite and affable as you please. They thank me, proffer their services

to do anything for me that I may wish, kiss their hands in respectful

salutation, and are off.

Our steamer is somewhat larger than a man-of-war’s boat, and our little

company is soon assembled in the cabin. Besides ourselves, there are,

first, a voluble young Russian who came with us from Cairo, and who

precipitates himself most desperately into the strongest friendships

that the time will allow with every one he meets, telling you all about

himself and his family, and then finding out as much as he can about

you and yours; next, a stolid Saxon, Prussian vice-consul at Cairo, a

very pleasant and intelligent young man; and, lastly, a quiet, retiring

young Italian lady, who, unable to speak any language besides her own,

cannot join in the general conversation, which is carried on principally

in French. At six o’clock we left the landing-place at Ismailïa, and,

passing out the northeast corner of Lake Timsah, we entered the narrow

cutting of El Guisr. The surface of these heights is the highest point in

the Isthmus of Suez, being from sixty to sixty-five feet above the level

of the sea. In cutting the canal through this part they were obliged to

dig down some ninety feet, in order to give the canal its proper depth

below the sea level. Just after we entered this cutting, the strong north

wind which was blowing at the time caught madame’s parasol, whirled it

out of her hand, blew it overboard, and the last we saw of it it was

floating placidly along toward Suez. One sees here how perceptibly the

sand is filling up the hard-won trench, and the dredging-machines are

kept in constant operation to keep the channel clear. At dusk we passed a

large English steamer tied up for the night--as large steamers are never

allowed to travel in the canal after dark.

We soon entered Lake Menzaleh, and continued through it some twenty-seven

miles to Port Said. Fifteen years ago a belt of sand, from six to nine

hundred feet in width, occupied the place where Port Said now stands.

Here in April, 1859, M. de Lesseps, surrounded by a handful of Europeans

and a score of native workmen, gave the first blow of the spade to that

great channel of communication between the East and the West. Soon the

ground for the future town was made, houses erected, gardens laid out,

and to-day Port Said is a town of nearly ten thousand inhabitants, with

streets, squares, gardens, docks, quays, mosques, churches, and a very

safe and easily-approached harbor. The name Port Said was given to it in

honor of the then viceroy, Said Pasha. The next morning, when I went to

the office to purchase tickets, I was informed, by the not over-polite

clerk in the Russian Steamship Co.’s office, that notwithstanding it was

advertised that the steamer would leave Alexandria on Monday, it would

not leave until Tuesday, and consequently would not leave Port Said

until Wednesday afternoon--another illustration of the uncertainty of

travelling information in the East. In the afternoon I determined to go

down to the lake and endeavor to shoot some flamingoes or pelicans, both

of which abound here in great numbers. Leaving the town, I started to

cross the wide, level plain which separated it, as I supposed, from the

lake. Some distance ahead I saw numerous birds disporting themselves amid

the glistening and sparkling waters of the lake. After walking for nearly

an hour, I reached the spot, but no lake was there, and turning around, I

saw it at the point from which I had started. Somewhat confused, I turned

towards the sea, and there I saw, high up in the air, a sand-bank with

women walking upon it, and a little further on two gigantic figures like

light-houses moving toward me in the air. In a moment the truth flashed

upon me--it was a mirage; and retracing my steps to the town, I found

that the lake was in a different direction from the one I had taken. The

next day we went on board the steamer, which arrived from Alexandria

about ten in the morning. There is considerable excitement on board, and

a number of smart-looking boats with trim crews rapidly approaching

us announce the arrival of M. de Lesseps with his wife and her two

nieces, _en route_ for a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. M. de Lesseps is

a man of medium height, rather stout, and with a very good-natured and

jovial-looking countenance. He wears a heavy gray mustache, and his

hair is silvery white. His appearance is that of a man of great energy

and determination, and one to project and carry through the colossal

work he has so successfully executed. The ship was very much crowded,

or perhaps it would be more correct to say that the accommodations were

very limited, as we did not have more than fifty first-class passengers

on board, and yet there were not sufficient accommodations for them in

the first cabin. Father H---- and I, together with a young Austrian with

whom we had become acquainted at Port Said, were obliged to sleep in

a second-class cabin. We were told that they would so arrange it that

we could eat in the first saloon, and at dinner-time we found a small

work-table set for four of us to eat from. However, it was quite large

enough for me; for I had not been seated many minutes before I felt an

unaccountable desire to go on deck and inhale the fresh air.

Having done so, I retired for the night. Bright and early the next

morning I was upon deck, but I found Father H---- there before me.

Madame, having a very comfortable room in the first cabin, had not

yet risen. The sea was still and calm as a pond, and, turning my face

toward the east, I beheld for the first time the mountain ranges of

Judæa. Yea, there before me was Judæa, the land promised and given to

the seed of Abraham. There, among those hills, Samson had performed his

exploits of power. There the royal David and the wise Solomon had lived

and reigned. Ay, and there One greater than them all, the Man-God, was

born, lived, and laid down his life for the salvation of mankind. And

was it really true that I, an inquisitive Yankee of the XIXth century,

was soon to tread those sacred spots, hallowed with reminiscences so

dear to the heart of every Christian? I could scarce believe it. Was I

not in a dream, and would I not soon awake to find it all a beautiful

but fleeting vision? No, it was true, and it was made most painfully

apparent by the harsh clangor of the Arab boatmen, and their frantic

endeavors to take possession of us, as our ship dropped anchor off the

town of Jaffa. There is no harbor of any kind here, and when the sea is

calm the steamers anchor about one mile from the shore, and passengers

and their baggage are landed in small boats. Immediately in front of the

town, and but a short distance from it, a series of partially-covered

rocks forms a wall, broken only by two channels or gateways, one about

ten feet in width, and the other a little wider. Through these the sea

dashes with tremendous fury, and as the little boat approaches it is

caught upon the summit of some breaker, and dashed through the opening

into the quiet haven behind. When it is stormy, the steamers do not stop

here at all, but land their passengers a short distance farther up the

coast. The bright, genial face of Father Guido (president of the Casa

Nuova) soon welcomed us to Palestine. He had come down from Jerusalem to

meet M. de Lesseps, and to offer him the hospitality of their convent,

which was thankfully accepted. We soon disembarked and entered a small

boat, accompanied by our trusty dragoman, Ali Aboo Suleyman, who had

travelled with one of our party the previous year, and whom I believe

to be one of the best dragomans in the East. Our boat, propelled by the

strong arms of a half-score of powerful Arabs, soon brought us alongside

of the town. Passing through a narrow gateway, and giving a substantial

and material wink to the revenue official, we, with our baggage, were

soon deposited at the door of the Latin convent. After greeting the kind

and hospitable fathers, and arranging terms with Ali, we started out

for a short walk. Traversing the narrow, tortuous streets and filthy

alleys, jostled by camels, horses, donkeys, and preceded by Achmud,

Ali’s youngest son--a lad of fourteen years, who, with a pompous and

authoritative air, pushed aside old men and young, women and children,

and would have done the same with the camels had he been able, to make

room for the Howadji--we reached the spot where stood in former days the

house of Simon the tanner. Here the Apostle Peter resided many days,

and here he saw the vision of the clean and unclean beasts, wherein

the voice commanded him saying: “Arise, Peter, kill and eat.” A small

mosque now occupies the site of the house. The streets were thronged

with Russian pilgrims returning from their Easter pilgrimage to the Holy

City. Many of them will leave in the afternoon on the steamer which

has brought us from Egypt, and in a few short days will be at Odessa,

whence the railway will carry them to St. Petersburg. About three in the

afternoon, accompanied by an Irish priest who had lived in Malta for

several years, we mounted our horses and started for Jerusalem. We had

been most hospitably entertained by the kind fathers at the convent; a

large room and an excellent breakfast had been provided for us, but no

remuneration asked. We, of course, made a donation, which was thankfully

received. We rode through the narrow streets, passed out the gate, and

in a few moments were among the world-famous orange-groves of Jaffa. The

sky was cloudless, the weather like a beautiful May day at home, and

the air heavy with the delicious fragrance of the oranges. We rode for

nearly a mile through these beautiful groves. Meanwhile, Ali provided

himself with numbers of these large oranges, and soon for the first time

I tasted an orange that I really enjoyed. Just plucked from the tree,

with skin half an inch in thickness, and without seeds, this luscious

fruit seems almost to dissolve in the mouth like ice-cream. Ali owns a

large grove, from which he gathers about one hundred and fifty thousand

oranges per annum. These he sells in large quantities at the rate of two

pounds sterling per thousand, yielding him a very nice income, as the

expense of taking care of them is very small. Now we are riding along

the level plain which separates the Judæan hills from the bright blue

waters of the Mediterranean, and a little after six o’clock we drew rein

at the Latin convent in Ramleh. It is almost useless for me to speak of

the kindness and hospitality of these good Franciscan fathers of the Holy

Land, as it is known throughout the world, and abler pens than mine have

endeavored, but in vain, to praise them as they deserve. Unselfish,

kind, burying self completely in the great work they have undertaken,

they have given up their homes, families, and all that was dear to them,

to live a monastic life among these sacred spots, to guard these holy

places, and, like ministering angels, to assist pilgrims from every

clime and of every Christian race and nationality. Clad in the humble

garb of their order, they go quietly and unostentatiously through life,

sacrificing themselves at every turn for the benefit and comfort of

others. They have stood through centuries, a devoted band of chivalrous

knights guarding the spots rendered sacred by the presence of their God.

May he in his goodness reward them by permitting them to stand as a noble

guard of honor around his celestial throne in the heavenly hereafter!

After a comfortable night’s rest and a good breakfast, we started at six

o’clock, in order to avoid the intense heat of midday. M. de Lesseps and

party had preceded us by nearly two hours. As we rode out the convent

gate, numbers of lepers, with shrunken limbs and distorted countenances,

clamored piteously for alms. We dropped some small coins into their tin

boxes, which they carry so that there may be no possibility of contact

with the compassionate passer-by who may bestow alms upon them. We

rode for some time across a level plain, and near ten o’clock reached

Bab-el-Wady (Gate of the Valley), at the foot of the mountain range. Here

we found a very comfortable house, which has been erected for the sake of

affording accommodation to pilgrims. We lunched here, took a short nap,

and started on our way about two in the afternoon. The whole distance

from Jaffa to Jerusalem is not over thirty-six miles; but fast riding is

not practicable on account of the baggage, which is transported on mules

at a very slow pace; consequently, it generally requires two days to

make the trip, whereas a moderately fast horse could easily accomplish

the journey in seven or eight hours. We now enter Wady Ali. One could

scarcely imagine a more suitable place for lurking bandits to conceal

themselves in than among the thick undergrowth here. Their musket-barrels

might almost touch their unconscious victim’s breast, without being

visible, and many a tale has been told and retold around the Howadji’s

camp-fire of their exploits of robbery and murder in this place. But now,

thanks to the strict though tardy vigilance of the sultan, the pass is

free from danger.

What feelings of emotion now fill my breast! The dreams of my childhood

are being realized--I am in the Holy Land! Reaching the summit of one of

the ridges, a beautiful panorama is spread out before us. At our feet

lies the valley of Sharon, dressed in the richest green, and ornamented

with the bright, beautiful wild flowers of early spring; beyond lies the

plain of Ramleh, and in the distance, like a silver frame, sparkles and

glistens the bright waters of the Mediterranean. Anon we see beneath

us the beautiful valley of Beit Hanina, and Ali, laying one hand on my

shoulder, points to a little village nestled amid the olive-groves in

the valley. Yes, that is Ain-Karim, the place of the Visitation of the

Blessed Virgin--the spot where was born the “greatest of men.” We check

our horses but for a moment; we have no eyes for that now. Every gaze is

fixed upon that small yellow house upon the top of the opposite hill;

for has not Ali told us that from that point we shall see the Eternal

City? Riding rapidly down the mountain-side, we do not even stop as we

cross the brook--where David gathered the pebbles with which he slew his

gigantic adversary--and push rapidly up the opposite mountain. Father

H---- and I are in advance, while madame rides behind with the Irish

priest. The shades of evening are now falling, and I fear lest night

may come on before we reach the city. Scarce a word is spoken; my heart

beats with excitement, such as it has never known before, and seems as

though it would break through its prison-house, so eager, so anxious, is

it to move quickly on. Unable to restrain my impatience, I give my horse

a blow with my riding-whip, and he starts on a full run. Father H----

calls me back. We have travelled so long and shared so many pleasures

together, let us together share the great pleasure of the first sight of

Jerusalem. I rein in my horse, and ride by his side. Now the top of the

hill is reached, and it is yet light; but we have mistaken the house--it

is another one still farther on. It is now twilight. We speak not a word,

but, bent forward, we scan the horizon with piercing eyes, as though we

would penetrate the mountains themselves, so eager are we to see the

city. I hail a passing boy: “Fin el Kuds?” (“Where is Jerusalem?”),

but with a stupid stare he passes on. A few moments more the house is

reached, and Sion, royal city of David, lies before us! Waiting until the

rest of the party ride up, we dismount, kneel, kiss the ground, and then

recite aloud the psalm _Lætatus Sum_, a Pater Noster, and an Ave Maria,

remount, enter the city by the Jaffa gate, ride to our comfortable

quarters at the Latin Hospice, and _are in Jerusalem_.

At the convent we were entertained in the most hospitable manner, and

provided with the neatest and tidiest of rooms. Early the next morning

Father H---- and I sallied forth to call on Père Ratisbonne. Following

the Via Sacra, we stopped before an iron gate a short distance below the

arch Ecce Homo, and little Achmud, picking up a large stone, pounded

upon it as though he were repaying a grudge which he had cherished

against it for centuries. I ventured to remonstrate, suggesting that they

might be displeased at so much noise being made. But he answered very

coolly--meanwhile continuing the pounding as if his future happiness

depended upon making a hole in the door--that he wanted to inform those

inside that some visitors wished to call upon them. I said nothing, but

doubted seriously whether that would be the impression produced on their

minds. Had it been in America, and had I been inside, I should have

imagined that it was an election row, or a fire during the reign of the

volunteer fire department. But notwithstanding all this, no one appeared,

and we moved away disgusted, only to find that we had been at the wrong

place, and to be farther informed that Père Ratisbonne was in Paris.

What shall I say of the sacred spots of Jerusalem, which so many abler

pens than mine have attempted to describe?--vainly endeavoring to portray

the inexpressible emotions that crowd the breast of every Christian as he

kneels before them for the first time! Perhaps I can convey to my readers

some idea of the feeling which continually pervaded my whole being. It

was as if the curtain of the past had been rolled back, placing me face

to face with the living actors in that great tragedy of our Redemption

eighteen hundred years ago. What contributed in a great measure to this

was that we had lived during the winter in an atmosphere of three or

four thousand years ago. We had scarcely esteemed it worth while to look

at the ruins of the Ptolemys, they seemed so recent after the massive

temples of the Rameses and the Ositarsens, and now the beginning of

the Christian era appeared but an affair of yesterday. The Adamic and

Mosaic dispensations seemed a little old, ’tis true, but the Christian

dispensation was yet to us in all the glory of its early morn. I felt,

as I crossed the Kedron and read the Holy Gospels seated beneath the

olive-trees in the garden of Gethsemane, as if even I had been a personal

follower of the Man-God, and in imagination could hear the hosannas of

praise as he rode past me on the ass on the way from Bethany. Before this

religion had seemed to me more like an intellectual idea. Now I felt that

I knew Him as a friend, and my heart beat earnest acquiescence to Father

H----’s remark: “Coming from Egypt, Christ appears a modern personage;

and the visit to the sacred places of Palestine adds to the intellectual

and moral conviction of the truth of Christianity, the feeling and

strength of personal friendship with its Author.”

On Sunday Father H---- celebrated Mass at the altar erected on the spot

where the Blessed Virgin stood during the Crucifixion. The hole in the

rock wherein the sacred cross was planted belongs to the Greeks, and

over it they have erected an altar, loaded down, like all their other

altars, with tawdry finery. On another occasion I had the happiness to

serve Father H----’s Mass on the spot where our Lord was nailed to the

cross. But the greatest happiness of all was reserved for the morning

we left the Holy City, when madame and I received Holy Communion from

the hands of Father H----, who celebrated Mass, which I served, in the

Holy Sepulchre itself. _Hic Jesus Christus sepultus est._ In that little

tomb the three of us, who had shared together the pleasures and dangers

of a long voyage in Egypt and Nubia--here on the very spot where He was

entombed, we alone, in early morn, received his sacred body and blood,

giving fresh life and courage to our souls for our future struggles with

the world. How much better, instead of incrusting the sepulchre with

marble and gems, to have left it as it was, rude and simple as when the

Man-God was laid in it! But one sacred spot is left in its primitive

state--the grotto of the Agony. A simple altar has been erected in it,

and a marble tablet let into the wall with this inscription upon it: “Hic

factus est sudor ejus sicut guttæ sanguinis decurrentis in terram.” The

walls and roof of the grotto are to-day as they were that terrible night

when they witnessed the sweat as drops of blood rolling down his sacred

face.

The limits of this article will not permit me to tell how we wandered

reverentially along the Via Sacra, or gazed in admiration from Olivet’s

summit on Jerusalem the Golden lying at our feet; of our interesting

visit to the residence of the Princesse de La Tour d’Auvergne, on the

spot where the apostles were taught the Lord’s Prayer, which she has

inscribed on the court-yard walls in every written language. I could

tell of our visit to the _Cœnaculum_ to the Temple, the tomb of the

Blessed Virgin, our walks through the Valley of Jehoshaphat; but these

descriptions are so familiar to every Christian that I will content

myself with relating more of the personal incidents which befell us than

general descriptions of what we saw.

Father H---- and I left Jerusalem on Tuesday morning, and, after riding

several hours, camped for the night near the Greek convent of Mars

Saba. No woman is allowed to enter this convent, and men only with

permission of the Greek Patriarch of Jerusalem. We visited the tomb of

S. Saba, model of anchorites, and saw in one room the skulls of fourteen

thousand of his brethren, most of them massacred by the Bedouins. Rev.

Mr. Chambers, of New York, with two young friends, was encamped near

us, and we spent a very pleasant evening in their tent. At five o’clock

the next morning we were in the saddle, _en route_ for the Dead Sea.

We had a Bedouin escort, who was attired in a dilapidated, soiled

night-shirt, and was scarcely ever with us, either taking short cuts down

the mountain-side--as he was on foot--and getting far in advance of us,

or lagging equally as far in the rear. Nevertheless, it was a powerful

escort--had we not paid the sheik of the tribe five dollars for it? and

did it not represent the force and power of a mighty tribe of Bedouins?

In sober earnest, this hatless, shoeless escort was a real protection;

for if we had been attacked while he was with us, his tribe, or the

sheik of it, would have been forced by the authorities to make good our

loss, and, moreover, the attacking tribe would have incurred the enmity

of our escort’s tribe--a very serious thing in this part of the world,

and among men whose belief is: Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall

his blood be shed. The Bedouins find this way of robbing travellers more

profitable than the old-time system of taking their victim’s property

_vi et armis_, for in the latter instance they are liable to be pursued,

caught, and punished; while in the former, by exacting a fee from the

traveller and furnishing an escort in return, they make considerable

money without fear of punishment. While riding along toward the Dead Sea,

I frequently dismounted to shoot partridges, and on remounting I took

out the cartridges which had not been used, before handing my gun to the

escort, who carried it for me. On one occasion, when near the Dead Sea,

I had pursued several partridges, but did not get a shot at them, and

returning to my horse, held by the escort, I was about to draw out the

cartridges when he requested me to let them remain, so that I should not

have the trouble of reloading for the next shot. I shook my head with a

negative motion, when he replied in an humble tone: “Very well. I am a

Bedouin, and of course you cannot trust me.” And then flashed across my

mind that terrible curse pronounced upon Ishmael and his descendants:

“His hand shall be against every man, and every man’s against him.”

Feeling sorry for the poor fellow, I looked him straight in the eye, as

though expressing my confidence in him, and handed him the loaded gun.

I was alone with him now, as the rest of the party had ridden on a mile

or two in advance. But I felt perfectly safe, because he was walking

ahead of me, and, had he meditated treachery, I had my revolver in my

belt, and could have killed him before he could raise the gun to shoot.

However, I presume that he simply wanted to play sportsman himself; for

when he returned me the gun, some hours afterwards, both barrels were

empty. About ten o’clock we reached the barren shores of the Dead Sea,

passing, very close to it, numberless heaps of cinders, indicating a

recent Bedouin encampment. We took a long bath in these buoyant waters.

I sank as far as my neck, and then walked through the water as though on

land. I remained nearly an hour in the water without touching the bottom.

It is very difficult to swim, as, when one assumes the swimming position,

the legs are thrown half out of the water. These waters, covering the

site of Sodom and Gomorrha, are clear as crystal, yet to the taste are

bitter as gall. Riding along the plain for a short hour, we entered the

luxurious vegetation on the banks of the Jordan, and dismounted near the

place where S. John baptized our Lord. Swift-flowing, muddy, turbulent

Jordan! shall I ever forget thee or the pleasant swim I had in thy sweet

waters? Father H---- and I dozed for about an hour, took a lunch, and

then, remounting, rode across the level plain of Jericho, and about five

o’clock reached our tent, pitched on the site of ancient Jericho, at the

foot of the Mount of Temptation, where Satan would tempt our Lord with

the vain, fruitless riches of this world. After dinner we walked a short

distance, and sat down on the limb of a tree overhanging the sweet waters

of the heaven-healed fountain of Elisha. Surrounded by armed Bedouins,

who watched our every motion with eager curiosity, and occasionally in

plaintive tones requested _backsheesh_, we passed a delightful hour

recalling the sacred reminiscences connected with the spots around us.

Behind us a crumbling ruin marks the site of once proud Jericho--the

city to which the warlike Joshua sent the spies from the Moabitish hills

beyond the Jordan; the city destroyed by the Israelitish trumpet-blast,

and against which the terrible curse was pronounced: “Cursed be the

man before the Lord that riseth up, and buildeth this city Jericho: he

shall lay the foundation thereof in his first-born, and in his youngest

son he shall set up the gates of it”--a curse which was most fearfully

fulfilled. Yonder Elijah went up to heaven in a whirlwind. Far away in

the distance the Dead Sea, hemmed in by its mountain banks, lies calm and

placid in the dying sunset. At our feet is the broad plain of Jericho,

and at our back the mountains of Judæa. How singular it must have seemed

to the Israelites when they first saw mountains covered with trees and

verdure! In their old Egyptian home they had seen but sand-mountains, the

vegetation in no place extending beyond the level ground; and now for the

first time after their dreary desert wanderings they saw the vegetation

creeping up the mountain-side even to its summit, and thousands of sheep

browsing upon it on every hand. Early the next morning we were in the

saddle, _en route_ for Jerusalem, and, passing the spot where the good

Samaritan ministered to the poor man who had fallen among thieves, we

reached Bethany about noon. Procuring some tapers from an old woman, we

descended into the tomb from which the voice of his God had called forth

the dead Lazarus. A flight of steps leads down some distance into a small

chamber, which is to-day in the same condition as when Martha’s brother,

arising from the dead, testified to the assembled crowd the power of

Jesus of Nazareth. From here we ascended Olivet, and from its summit

looked with admiration upon the beautiful panorama spread out beneath us,

and lunched under the venerable olive-trees, which perhaps had cast their

shade upon the weary form of our Saviour, and had witnessed the glorious

miracle of his Ascension. Soon after we reached our convent home.

The Jews in the Holy City are much fairer than their brethren in America.

They wear the old-time gabardine, belted at the waist and extending to

the ankles; on the head a high black felt hat with broad brim, while two

curls hang down the cheek on either side. They are a sorrowful-looking

race, fascinating to gaze upon as connected with the great Drama, yet

inspiring me at the same time with a feeling of disgust which I could

not control. How striking a picture of their degradation and fall from

their once proud estate as the chosen ones of God, is shown as they

gather on Fridays to their wailing-place; five courses of large bevelled

stones being all that remain of Solomon’s grand Temple! Here are Jews

of all ages and of both sexes, crying bitterly over fallen Jerusalem.

Old men, tottering up, bury their faces in the joints and cavities, and

weep aloud as though their hearts were breaking, while in chorus comes

the low, plaintive wail of the women. In and among, and around and about

them, with shouts of mirth and laughter, play the children of the Arab

conquerors. The Jews are permitted to weep here unmolested.

On Sunday afternoon, accompanied by Father Guido, we went to Bethlehem.

We passed the night in the Latin convent, and the next morning madame

and I received Holy Communion from the hands of Father H----, who

celebrated Mass in the Crib of the Nativity, on the spot where the Wise

Men stood when adoring the new-born Babe. The very spot where Christ

was born is marked by a silver star, with this inscription upon it:

“Hic de Virgine Maria Jesus Christus Natus est.” The star belongs to

the Latins, but the altar over it to the Greeks, who have several times

attempted to carry off the star, but unsuccessfully. They, of course,

will not permit the Latins to celebrate Mass upon the altar. The Greeks,

being more powerful, are continually harassing and heaping all sorts of

indignities upon the Latins, who are obliged to submit to them. Shame

upon the Catholic nations of Europe--nations which in bygone times sent

forth those noble bands of Crusaders, sacrificing their lives to rescue

the holy places from infidel hands! But Easter a year ago they destroyed

the valuable hangings in the Holy Crib, presented to the Latins by the

French government, and stole two pictures from their altars valued at

six thousand dollars apiece. Nay, more than this: they even severely

wounded with a sword the Franciscan brother who endeavored to prevent

the execution of their nefarious designs. And again the past Easter, but

a few days before we were there, witnessed another of these terrible

scenes of barbarism and inhumanity. A number of unoffending pilgrims,

just returned from their annual Easter visit to the Jordan, were denied

entrance by the Greeks to the basilica over the Holy Crib. And when they

insisted upon entering the church--which is common property, and in

which they had a perfect right to go--and attempted to force their way

in, they were arrested by the Turkish governor of Bethlehem--who is in

league with the Greeks--under the pretext that they were inciting to

riot, and cast into a loathsome dungeon in Jerusalem. But, thanks to the

exertions of M. de Lesseps, they were subsequently released.

I rode over to the hill where the shepherds watched their flocks that

eventful night when the angels announced to them the “glad tidings of

great joy.” In the afternoon we rode across the mountains to Ain-Karim,

the birth-place of S. John the Baptist.

The women in this part of the country, but particularly in Bethlehem and

its vicinity, carry all their fortunes on their heads. Dressed in the

picturesque garb of the Moabitish women, their coins are hung in great

numbers from their caps. One young mother, with her babe in her arms,

and with her cap almost covered with rows of gold coins, approached me

at Ain-Karim, and begged me in a piteous tone for a copper, and appeared

delighted when I gave it to her. They would almost sooner starve than

part with these coins, in which they take great pride; but I imagine that

after they are married their husbands find means of obtaining possession

of them, and then they get into general circulation again. We went to see

the scene of the Visitation, over which an altar had been erected in the

early ages of Christianity, but which had been concealed for centuries,

and only accidentally discovered of late by the Latins in renovating

their church. Alongside the altar is the impression of a baby in the

rock. It is said that when Herod’s soldiers came to the house of S.

Elizabeth to execute their master’s murderous commands to massacre the

little innocents, the saintly mother pressed her infant against the wall,

which opened, received him, and then, closing again, hid him from view;

and thus was he saved to grow up a voice crying in the wilderness, “Make

straight the way of the Lord.” We spent the night in the convent built

on the site of the house where was born this “greatest of men.” The next

day we returned to Jerusalem, visiting _en route_ the Greek church on the

spot where grew the tree from which the sacred cross was made.

Shortly after this we left the Holy City, soon bade farewell to our

trusty dragoman, and embarked on the _Tibre_ at Jaffa, bound for

Marseilles. Oh! what impressions were made upon me by my short sojourn

among those sacred places. How my faith was strengthened, and my love and

devotion increased, and how earnestly and often I wished, and still wish,

that each and every one I know could see what I have seen and feel as I

now feel!

A CHRISTMAS VIGIL.

“One aim there is of endless worth,

One sole-sufficient love--

To do thy will, O God! on earth,

And reign with thee above.

From joys that failed my soul to fill,

From hopes that all beguiled,

To changeless rest in thy dear will,

O Jesus! call thy child.”

Exeter Beach was divided into two distinct parts by a line of cliff

jutting far out into Exeter Bay. Below the eastern face of the cliff

lay the Moore estate, and then came the town; but on the west side was

an inlet, backed by dense woods, and bounded on the farther extremity

by another wall of rock. This was known as Lonely Cove, and deserved

its title. From it one looked straight out to the open sea; no island

intervened, nor was anything visible on shore save the two long arms of

frowning rock, the circuit of pine coming close to the edge of drift-wood

that marked the limit of the tide, and, at the far distance, a solitary

house. This had once been occupied by a man who made himself a home apart

from every one, and died as lonely as he lived; since then it had been

deserted, and was crumbling to decay, and many believed it to be haunted.

Along this beach, about three o’clock one Christmas Eve, Jane Moore was

walking. It was a dull afternoon, with a lowering sky, and a chill in the

air which foreboded rain rather than snow; but, wrapped in her velvet

cloak and furs of costly sable, Jane did not heed the weather.

Her heart was full to overflowing. From the first Christmas that she

could remember to the one previous to his death, she had taken that

walk with her father every Christmas eve, while he talked with her of

the joy of the coming day, sang to her old Christmas carols, and sought

to prepare her for a holy as well as a merry feast. He had tried to be

father and mother both to his motherless girl, but his heart ached as he

watched her self-willed, imperious nature, often only to be curbed by her

extreme love for him.

“Be patient, my friend,” the old priest who knew his solicitude used to

say. “It is a very noble nature. Through much suffering and failure, it

may be, but _surely_, nevertheless, our Jane will live a grand life yet

for the love of God.” And so James Moore strove to believe and hope, till

death closed his eyes when his daughter was only thirteen years old.

Heiress of enormous wealth, and of a beauty which had been famous in that

county for six generations, loving keenly all that was fair, luxurious,

and intellectual, Jane Moore was one of the most brilliant women of her

day. Dancing and riding, conversation and music--she threw herself into

each pursuit by turn with the same whole-hearted _abandon_ which had ever

characterized her. Yet the priest who had baptized her, and who gave her

special, prayerful care and direction, laid seemingly little check upon

her. Such religious duties as were given her she performed faithfully;

she never missed the daily Mass or monthly confession; not a poor cottage

in the village in which she was not known and loved, though as yet she

only came with smiles and money and cheery words, instead of personal

tendance and real self-denial. No ball shortened her prayers, no sport

hindered her brief daily meditation. The priest knew that beyond all

other desires that soul sought the Lord; beyond all other loves, loved

him; and that she strove, though poorly and imperfectly and with daily

failure, to subject her will to the higher will of God. To have drawn

the curb too tightly then might have been to ruin all; the wise priest

waited, and, while he waited, he prayed.

This Christmas Eve on which Jane Moore was speeding along the beach

was the last she would ever spend as a merry girl in her old home. As

a wife, as a mother, she might come there again, but with Epiphany her

girlhood’s days must end. Her heart, once given, had been given wholly,

and Henry Everett was worthy of the gift; but the breaking of old ties

told sorely upon Jane, who always made her burdens heavier than need be

by her constant endeavor to gain her own will and way. Her handsome face

looked dark and sallow that afternoon; the thin, quivering nostrils and

compressed lips told of a storm in her heart.

“I cannot understand it,” she said aloud. “_Why_ must I go away? Surely

it was right to wish to live always in my old home among my father’s

people. _Why_ should God let Henry’s father live and live and live to be

ninety years old, and he be mean and troublesome? and _why_ should my

dear father die young, when I needed him? I cannot bear to go away.”

And then came to her mind words said to her that very day--few words, but

strong, out of a wise and loving heart--“God asks something from you this

Christmas, in the midst of your joy, which I believe he will ask from

you, in joy or sorrow, all your life long until he gets it. He wants the

entire surrender of your will. I do not know how he will do it, but I

am sure he will never let you alone till he has gained his end. Make it

your Christmas prayer that he will teach you that his will is better and

sweeter than anything our wills may crave.”

She flew faster along the beach, striving by the very motion to find

relief for the swelling of her heart.

“I cannot bear it,” she cried--“to have always to do something I do not

want to do! I cannot bear it. Yes, I can, and I will. God help me! But I

cannot understand.”

On, on, faster still, sobs choking her, tears blinding her. “I wanted so

much to live and die here. God must have known it, and what difference

could it make to him?”

“Don’t ye! Don’t ye, Tom! Ye’ve no right. Ye mustn’t, for God’s sake.”

The words, in a woman’s shrill voice, as of one weak with fasting or

illness, yet strong for the instant with the strength of a great fear or

pain, broke in upon Jane’s passion, and, coming to herself, she found

that she was close to the Haunted House. Fear was unknown to her; in an

instant she stood within the room.

Evidently some tramp, poorer than the poorest, had sought shelter--little

better than none, alas!--in the wretched place. A haggard woman was

crouching on a pile of sea-weed and drift-wood, holding tightly to

something hidden in the ragged clothing huddled about her, striving

to keep it--whatever it might be--from the grasp of a desperate,

half-starved man who bent over her.

“Gie it to me,” he cried. “I tell ye, Poll, I’ll have it, that I wull,

for all ye. And I’ll trample it, and I’ll burn it, that I wull. No more

carrying o’ crucifixes for we, and I knows on’t. Gie us bread and

butter, say I, and milk for the babby there.”

“Nay, nay, Tom,” the woman pleaded. “It’s Christmas Eve. He’ll send us

summat the night, sure. Wait one night, Tom.”

“Christmas! What’s him to we? Wait! Wait till ye starve and freeze

to death, lass; but I’ll not do’t. There’s no God nowhere, and no

Christmas--it’s all a sham--and there sha’n’t be no crucifixes neither

where I bes. Ha! I’s got him now, and I’ll have my own way, lass.”

“Stop, man!” Jane stood close beside him, with flashing eyes and her

proud and fearless face. “Give me the crucifix,” she said.

But she met eyes as fearless as her own, which scanned her from head to

foot. “And who be you?” he asked.

“Jane Moore,” she answered, with the ring that was always in her voice

when she named her father’s honored name.

“And what’s that to me?” the man exclaimed. “Take’s more’n names to save

this.” And he shook the crucifix defiantly.

“Stop, stop!” Jane cried. “I will pay you well to stop.”

“Why then, miss?”

“Your God died on a cross,” Jane answered. “You shall not harm his

crucifix.”

“Speak for yourself, miss! Shall not? My wull’s as strong as yours, I’ll

warrant. God! There’s no God; else why be ye in velvets and her in rags?

That’s why I trample this ’un.”

In another moment the crucifix would have lain beneath his heel; but Jane

flung herself on her knees. All pride was gone; tears rained from her

eyes; she, who had been used to command and to be obeyed, pleaded like a

beggar, with humble yet passionate pleading, at the feet of this beggar

and outcast.

“Wait, wait,” she cried. “Oh! hear me. Truly your God was born in a

stable and died upon a cross. He loves you, and he was as poor as you.”

“There be no God,” the man reiterated hoarsely. “It’s easy for the likes

o’ ye to talk, all warm and full and comfortable.”

Jane wrung her hands. “I cannot explain,” she said, “I cannot understand.

But it must be that God knows best. He sent me. Come home with me, and I

will give you food and clothes and money.”

“Not I,” cried the man defiantly. “I knows that trick too well, miss.

Food and clothes belike, but a jail too. I’ll trust none. Pay me here.”

Jane turned her pocket out. “I have nothing with me,” she said. “Will you

not trust me?” But in his hard-set face she read her answer while she

spoke.

“Very well,” she continued. “Take a note from me to my steward. He will

pay you.”

“Let’s see’t,” was the brief reply. Hastily she wrote a few words in

pencil, and he read them aloud.

“Now, miss,” he said, “it’s not safe for me to be about town much ’fore

dark, and, what’s more, I won’t trust ye there neither. Here ye’ll bide

the night through, if ye means what ye says.”

“O Tom!” the woman exclaimed, breaking silence for the first time since

Jane spoke, “’twull be a fearful night for the like o’ she.”

“Let her feel it, then,” he retorted. “Wasn’t her Lord she talks on born

in the cold and the gloom to-night, ’cording to you and she, lass? Let

her try’t, say I, and see what she’ll believe come morn.”

Like a flash it passed through Jane’s mind that her last midnight Mass

among her own people was taken from her; that, knowing her uncertain

ways, no one would think of seeking her till it was too late, any more

than her steward, well used to her impulses, would dream of questioning

a note of hers, no matter who brought it. Yet with the keen pang of

disappointment a thrill of sweetness mingled. Was not her Lord indeed

born in the cold and the gloom that night? “I am quite willing to wait,”

she said quietly.

The man went to the door. “Tide’s nigh full,” he said, “and night’s nigh

here. I’ll go my ways. But mark ye, miss, I’ll be waiting t’other side,

to see ye don’t follow. Trust me to wait patient, till it’s too dark for

ye to come.”

Jane watched him till he had reached the further line of the cliff; then

she buried her face in her hands. Space and time seemed as nothing;

again, as for years she had been used to do, she strove to place herself

in the stable at Bethlehem, and the child-longing rose within her to

clasp the Holy Infant in her arms, and warm him at her heart, and clothe

him like a prince. And then she remembered what the man had said: “It’s

easy for the likes o’ ye to talk, all warm and full and comfortable.”

There are natures still among us that cannot be content unless they

lavish the whole box of ointment on the Master’s feet. Jane turned to the

heap of sea-weed where the half-frozen woman lay. “Can you rise for a

minute?” she asked gently. “I am going to change clothes with you. Yes, I

am strong, and can walk about and bear it all; but you will freeze if you

lie here.” And putting down the woman’s feeble resistance with a bright,

sweet will, Jane had her way.

Half exhausted, her companion sank back upon her poor couch, and soon

fell asleep; and when the baby woke, Jane took it from her, lest its

pitiful wailing should rouse the mother, to whom had come blessed

forgetfulness of her utter inability to feed or soothe it. She wrapped

the child in her rags, and walked the room with it for hours that night.

It seemed to her that they must freeze to death if she stopped. For a

time the wind raged furiously and the rain fell in torrents; no blessed

vision came to dispel the darkness of her vigil; no ecstasy to keep the

cold from biting her; she felt its sting sharply and painfully the whole

night through. The first few hours were the hardest she had ever spent,

yet she would not have exchanged them for the sweetest joy this world had

ever given her. “My Lord was cold,” she kept saying. “My Lord was cold

to-night.”

By and by--it seemed to her that it must be very late--the storm passed

over. She went to the door. The clouds were lifting, and far away the sea

was glimmering faintly in the last rays of a hidden and setting moon.

Below a mass of dark clouds, and just above the softly-lighted sea, shone

out a large white star. Across the water, heaving heavily like one who

has fallen asleep after violent weeping, and still sobs in slumber, came

to her the sound of the clock striking midnight; and then all the chimes

rang sweetly, and she knew that the Mass she had longed for had begun.

“I cannot bear it!” she cried; then felt the child stir on her breast,

and, gathering it closer to her, she said slowly: “God understands. His

way must be best.” And she tried to join in spirit with those in church

who greeted the coming of the Lord.

Surely there was some reason for her great disappointment and for her

suffering that night. Reason? Was it not enough to be permitted thus to

share His first night of deprivation? And presently she began to plan for

herself God’s plan--how the man would return, and find her there wet and

cold and hungry, and would learn why she had done it, and would never

doubt God again. She fancied them all at home with her, employed by her,

brought back to a happy, holy life; and she prayed long and earnestly for

each.

He did come, as soon as the gray morning twilight broke--came with haste,

bade his wife rise, and take her child and follow him. He gave no time

for the words Jane wished to speak; but when the woman said that she must

return the garments which had kept her warm, and perhaps alive, that

night, Jane cried “No, no! It is as if I had kept our Lady warm for once,

and carried her Child, not yours.” And she clasped the baby passionately,

kissing it again and again.

The man stood doubtful, then tore the rich cloak from his wife’s

shoulders, seized the mean one which it had replaced, wrapped her in it,

hiding thus the costly attire, that might have caused suspicion, then

looked about the room.

“The crucifix?” he said.

“Is it not mine?” Jane asked.

He pointed to the woman. “It’s her bit o’ comfort,” he said. “Gie it to

her, miss. Plenty ye’s got, I wot. I’ll ne’er harm ’un again.”

There was no more farewell than that; no more promise of better things.

In a few minutes they had disappeared among the pines; and cold,

suffering, disheartened, Jane made her way homeward. To her truest home

first; for bells were ringing for first Mass, and Jane stole into church,

and, clad in beggar’s rags beneath her velvet cloak, knelt in real

humility to receive her Lord. “I do not understand,” she said to him,

sobbing softly. “Nothing that I do succeeds as I like. But, my Jesus, I

am sure thy will is best, only I wanted so much to help them for thee.

Why was it, my Jesus?”

But the years went by, and though Christmas after Christmas Jane

remembered with a pang that great disappointment, her longings and her

questions remained unanswered.

And so it was in almost everything. Her life after that strange Christmas

Eve was one of constant, heroic, personal service for others, in the love

of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. The brilliant woman was never seen again at

ball or hunt, but beside the beds of the sick and suffering she was daily

to be found, making the most painful, repulsive cases her special care.

And she, who had delighted in daintiest apparel, never wore again after

that Christmas morning jewels or costly clothing. “I have tasted once the

sweetness of faring like my Lord,” she said impetuously to her husband.

“Do not break my heart by making me all warm and full and comfortable

again.” And he, whose high soul answered nobly to her own, never tried to

hold her back, but followed her eagerly in her earnest following of her

Lord.

Yet the self-willed nature cost its owner many sufferings before it

learned submission to the divine Master. It pleased God that Jane Everett

should live to an advanced and very strong old age, and it also pleased

him through all those years to conform her will to his by constant and

peculiar trials. The husband whom she loved with an almost idolatrous

love was taken from her, without an instant’s warning, by a fearful

accident. Her sons, whom she dedicated to God’s holy priesthood, died in

their cradles; her daughters grew into the fairest bloom of womanhood,

only to become the brides of death. Yet nothing quenched the fire in her

eye, and the cry of her heart for years was still its old cry: “O God! I

cannot bear it. Yes, I can. God’s will is best. But I cannot understand.”

One Advent the last remaining friend of her youth sent to her, begging

her to come with haste to pass with her the last Christmas they could

expect to be together on earth; and the brave old woman, though craving

to spend the holy season near her darlings’ graves, went forth to face

the inclement weather with as stout a heart as in her youth she had sped

along Exeter Beach under the threatening sky. In a little village, with

no one near who knew her except her servants, Death laid his hand upon

her who had desired him for many days.

“This is a serious illness,” the physician said to her. Then, reading

rightly the spirit with which he had to deal, he added: “A sickness unto

death, madam.”

“Harness the horses, then,” she said, lifting herself, “and let me get to

Ewemouth and die there.”

“Send for a priest,” the doctor answered her. “You have no time to lose.”

“It has been always so, father,” Jane said, looking up pitifully into

the face of the priest when at last he came. “From the time that I

first earnestly gave myself to God, up to this time, he has thwarted me

in every way. Sixty years ago this very Christmas Eve he did it. It all

comes back to me as hard to bear as then; and all my life has been like

that.” And slowly and with pauses Jane told the story of her night at

Lonely Cove.

“It has always been so, father. Whenever I have loved any one or tried to

help any one, I have failed or they have left me.”

“My daughter,” the priest replied, “God’s work in a life like yours is

far more the subjection of the will than the number of holy actions for

others. Be sure that what we think failure is often success in God’s

eyes and through his power. He asks one last sacrifice from you. Madam,

God has brought you here to add the crowning blessing to your life--the

opportunity of a last and entire surrender of your will to his most

blessed will. Will you offer to him your whole life, that to you seems so

incomplete and marred, judged by your own plans and wishes, saying to him

without reserve that you believe, certainly, that his way is far better

than yours?”

He held the crucifix before her, and suddenly the long years seemed

to vanish like a dream, and she felt once more the biting cold in the

haunted house at Lonely Cove, and again a child nestled upon her heart,

bringing with it the thought of the manger-bed, and the question, _Why_

should so much suffering be? And from that manger her thoughts returned

to the hard couch of the cross; and to all that mystery of suffering came

the mysterious answer, “Not my will, but thine, be done.”

She took and kissed the offered crucifix. “Yes, father,” she said

meekly. “May the most just, most high, and most amiable will of God be

done, praised, and eternally exalted in all things. I had rather die

here, O my God! since it is thy blessed will, than in any other place on

earth.”

“Amen,” said the priest.

But when the last sacraments had been administered, and Jane lay calm and

patient now, waiting her release, the priest drew near to her, and looked

with a great reverence upon her face.

“My daughter,” he said “it is at times the will of God to show us even

here the use of some part at least of what he has let us do for him.

Be sure his Sacred Heart remembers all the rest as well. Sixty years

ago this Christmas Eve my father was saved from a great sin, my mother

and I from death, by a Christian woman’s love for her Lord. The first

confession I ever heard was my own father’s last. He told me that from

the time he saw that rich young girl in rags endure the biting cold for

God, faith lived in his heart, and _would not die_. I saw him pass away

from earth in penitence and hope. For more than thirty years I have

labored among God’s poor as your thank-offering. Madam, my mother by the

love of God, God sends you this token that he has worked his own work by

means of you all your life long. He sends you this token, because you

have given him the thing he most desired of you--your will.”

Jane folded her aged hands humbly. “Not unto us, O Lord!” she said, low

and faint, and then a voice as of a son and priest at once spoke clearly,

seeing her time had come: “Depart, O Christian soul! in peace.”

THE APOSTOLIC MISSION TO CHILI.

_A CHAPTER IN THE LIFE OF PIUS IX._

Before entertaining ourselves with an account of the voyage and journeys,

from Genoa to Buenos Ayres and across the continent to Valparaiso,

of the first pope who has ever been to America, we shall enter into

a few details to show the occasion of the apostolic mission which he

accompanied in an official capacity.

The great reverses of Spain at the beginning of the present century, and

the consequent weakening of the bonds that united her American colonies

to their mother-country, besides some other causes silently working

since the emancipation of the thirteen British provinces from England,

finally led to a Declaration of Independence, which was established after

several years of war. But the king to whose government these New-World

possessions had been subject for nearly three hundred years refused to

recognize the accomplished fact or to enter into diplomatic relations

with rebels against his authority.[213]

The Congress of Verona, in 1822, took some notice of these revolted

countries; but the European powers did not all agree to receive them

into the family of nations by a formal recognition, and it is well

known that the views expressed in that assembly gave rise on the part

of the President of the United States to a declaration of policy which

has been called the Monroe Doctrine.[214] The Holy See, having sublimer

interests to deal with, could not act as indifferently in this matter as

other governments, which looked only to temporal advantage, and wrangled

over old systems of public policy regardless of recent events. By the

quixotic obstinacy of Spain the South American republics suffered much

inconvenience, particularly in point of religion, because Rome could not

provide for their spiritual wants without risking an open rupture with

his Catholic Majesty--such were royal pretensions of restricting the

exercise of papal rights, even in merely nominal dominions.[215]

During the latter part of Pius VII.’s pontificate the government of

Chili sent one of its distinguished citizens, the Archdeacon Don

José Cienfuegos, envoy to Rome, with instructions to try to establish

direct ecclesiastical relations between the Holy See and Santiago, the

capital of his country. He arrived there on August 22, 1822, and was

well received, but only in his spiritual capacity. The pope would not

recognize him as a political agent. On the 7th of September following

the Holy Father addressed a brief to the Bishop of Merida de Maracaybo,

in which he expressed himself solicitous for the spiritual necessities

of his children in those far-distant parts of America, and intimated

his ardent desire to relieve them. A little later he formed a special

congregation of six cardinals, presided over by Della Genga, who became

his successor as Leo XII.; and after mature deliberation on the religious

affairs in the ex-viceroyalties of Spain, it was determined to send a

mission to Chili, that country being chosen for the honor as having made

the first advances. This measure so displeased the Spanish government

that the nuncio Monsignor--afterwards Cardinal--Giustiniani was

dismissed; and although he was soon after permitted to return, the wound

inflicted upon him left its sting behind, for, coming very near to the

number of votes requisite to election in the conclave after Pius VIII.’s

death, the court of Madrid barred his fortune by the exercise of that

odious privilege called the _Esclusiva_; the ground of his exclusion from

the Papacy being supposed at Rome to have been his participation in the

appointment of bishops to South America. The right (?) of veto expires

with its exercise once in each conclave; and Cardinal Cappellari (Gregory

XVI.), who, as we shall see, had the most to do with these episcopal

nominations, was elected pope.

The choice of a vicar-apostolic for the Chilian mission fell upon Prof.

Ostini (later nuncio to Brazil and a cardinal), who, after having

accepted the position, saw fit suddenly to decline it for reasons best

known to himself. In his stead Don Giovanni Muzi, then attached to the

nunciature at Vienna, was selected, and, having been recalled to Rome,

was consecrated Archbishop of Philippi in _partibus infidelium_,[216]

with orders to proceed immediately to Santiago. The mission, of which we

shall speak more particularly hereafter, embarked on October 4, 1823, and

reached Rome on its return the 7th of July, 1825.

Leo XII. succeeded Pius VII. In 1824 the republic of Colombia sent Don

Ignacio Texada to Rome with an application for bishops and apostolic

vicars in that immense region; but the Spanish ambassador, Chevalier

Vargas, a haughty diplomate, brimful of _Españolismo_, went to the pope

and demanded his dismissal. This was refused. The envoy had come for

spiritual interests, not on political grounds; and the Spaniard could

not convince Leo that the rebel’s argument--by which he asked no more

than that species of indirect recognition granted by the Holy See,

under Innocent X. and Alexander VII., to the house of Braganza when it

forced Portugal from under Spanish rule--was not a good one and founded

on precedent. Nevertheless, Texada returned to Bologna, and finally

withdrew altogether from the Papal States. He had some fine qualities,

but lacked discretion in speech, which was a fault very injurious

to his position. Harpocrates is still the great god of diplomacy the

world over. This state of things was embarrassing. Spain had refused

to recognize the independence of her many provinces in the New World,

although she had ceased practically even to disturb them. The king, who

was somewhat of a _Marquis de Carabas_, claimed all his old rights over

them, and, among them, that of episcopal presentation. Cardinal Wiseman,

who was an attentive observer of these times, remarks--very properly, we

think--that even if such a power could be still called legal, “it would

have been quite unreasonable to expect that the free republics would

acknowledge the jurisdiction of the country which declared itself at

war with them.” This was a clear case in which allegiance should follow

protection. After a prudent delay, Leo thought it his duty to represent

energetically to the Spanish government the inconvenience he suffered

from the existing state of affairs, and the impossibility of his viewing

with indifference a condition in which the faithful, long deprived of

pastors, were urgently asking for bishops for the vacant sees. Yet His

Holiness had taken no decisive step, but called upon his majesty either

to reduce his transatlantic subjects to obedience or to leave him free

to provide as best he could for the necessities of the church. In the

consistory of May 21, 1827, the pope, after protesting that he could not

any longer in conscience delay his duty to Spanish America, proceeded to

nominate bishops for more than six dioceses in those parts. Madrid was,

of course, displeased, although it was twelve years since the government

had lost even the shadow of authority there, and at first refused

to receive the new nuncio, Tiberi.[217] At this juncture Pedro Gomez

de Labrador was sent from Spain expressly to defeat the measure; but

although “acknowledged by all parties, and especially by the diplomatic

body in Rome, to be one of the most able and accomplished statesmen in

Europe, yet he could not carry his point” against the quiet and monk-like

Cardinal Cappellari, who was deputed by the pope to meet him. In the

allocution pronounced by Labbrador before the Sacred College, assembled

in conclave to elect a successor to Leo, he made an allusion to the

ever-recurring subject of the revolted Americans; but although done with

tact, it grated on the ears of many as too persistently and, under the

circumstances, unreasonably put forward.

The discussion between the courts of Rome and Madrid was not renewed

during the brief pontificate of Pius VIII.; but in the encyclical letter

announcing his election there is a delicate reference to the affair

which, although not expressly named, will be perceived by those who

are acquainted with the questions of that day. Comte de Maistre says

somewhere that if a parish be left without a priest for thirty years,

the people will worship--the pigs; and although the absence of a bishop

from his diocese for such a length of time might not induce a similar

result, yet the faithful would drop, perhaps, into a Presbyterian form of

church government and be lost. The veteran statesman Cardinal Consalvi

evidently thought so, as we see by the fourth point, which treats of

Spanish America, in the conference that he was invited to hold with

Leo XII. on the most important interests of the Holy See.[218] When,

therefore, Gregory XVI.--who, as Cardinal Cappellari; had not been a

stranger to the long dispute--became pope, he ended the matter promptly

and for ever. In his first consistory, held in February, 1831, he filled

a number of vacant sees and erected new ones where required in South

America. On the 31st of August following he published the apostolic

constitution “Solicitudo Ecclesiarum,” in which he explained the reasons

why the Holy See, in order to be able to govern the universal church,

whose interests are paramount to all local disputes, recognizes _de

facto_ governments, without intending by this to confer a new right,

detract from any legitimate claim, or decide upon _de jure_ questions.

The republics of New Granada[219] (1835), Ecuador (1838), and Chili

(1840) were subsequently recognized with all the solemnities of

international law.

In the last-named country there were two episcopal sees during the

Spanish dominion. These were Santiago and Concepcion, both subject to

the Metropolitan of Lima; but Gregory rearranged the Chilian episcopate,

making the first see an archbishopric, with Concepcion, La Serena, and

San Carlos de Ancud (in the island of Chiloe) for suffragan sees.

At the time that the apostolic mission to South America was determined

upon, there was living in Rome a young ecclesiastic as yet “to fortune

and to fame unknown,” but who was destined to become the first pope who

has ever been across the Atlantic, and the foremost man of the XIXth

century. This was Don Giovanni Mastai-Ferretti, one of the fourteen

canons of the collegiate church of Santa Maria _in Via Lata_. He was

selected by Pius VII. to accompany Mgr. Muzi as adjunct. The secretary

of the apostolic delegation was a priest named Giuseppe Sallusti, who

wrote a full narrative of the expedition, in which, as Cardinal Wiseman

says, “The minutest details are related with the good-humored garrulity

of a new traveller, who to habits of business and practical acquaintance

with graver matters unites, as is common in the South, a dash of

comic humor and a keen sense of the ridiculous, and withal a charming

simplicity and freshness of mind, which render the book amusing as well

as instructive, in spite of its heavy quotations from that lightest of

poets, Metastasio.”[220] It is in 4 vols. 8vo, with a map. Comparatively

only a small portion of the work is taken up with the actual voyages and

travels of the party, the rest being devoted to the preliminaries or

causes of the mission, to a description of Chili, and an account of the

many missionary establishments which had once flourished, as well as of

those that were still maintained, there. A fifth volume was promised by

the author to contain the documents, official acts, and results of the

mission; but we believe that it was never published. The vicar-apostolic

having received, at the earnest solicitation of a learned ecclesiastic

from the Argentine Confederation, Rev. Dr. Pacheco, very ample faculties

not only for the country to which he was more immediately accredited,

but also for Buenos Ayres, Peru, Colombia, Mexico, and all other parts

of the ex-Spanish dominions, and accompanied by the envoy Cienfuegos and

Father Raymond Arce, a young Dominican belonging to Santiago, the party

left Rome for Bologna, where it rested awhile to get a foretaste of the

magnificent scenes in the New World from Father T. de Molina, who had

long resided in Chili. The next stage in the journey was to Genoa, the

port of embarkation, which was reached only on the 17th of July; but, “by

a series of almost ludicrous delays,” the expedition was detained until

after the death of Pius VII. and the election of his successor, Leo XII.,

who confirmed the mission and addressed a brief to the president[221] of

the Chilian Republic, recommending its objects and the welfare of its

members.

All matters being now satisfactorily arranged, the party got on board the

fine French-built brig _Eloysa_ on the 11th of October, 1823. The vessel

sailed under Sardinian colors, and was manned by a crew of thirty-four

men, and officered by experienced sailors, the captain, Anthony Copello,

having several times navigated the South Atlantic. The weather was very

rough, as usual, in the Gulf of Lyons; “and gurly grew the sea,” to the

dismay and discomfiture of the terrified landsmen, “Mastai,” as Sallusti

familiarly calls his companion, suffering horribly from sickness. This

was but the beginning of many trials, and even some serious dangers,

amidst which we can well imagine that the captain would have been glad

beyond measure if any one had hinted at the very special Providence that

guarded his ship, by quoting the famous words, “_Quid times? Cæsarem

vehis et fortunam ejus!_” Soon the _Eloysa_ approached the coast of

Catalonia, down which she sailed at the rate of ten knots an hour, until

struck by a furious southwest hurricane, the _libeccio_ so much dreaded

in the Mediterranean, which threatened destruction to all and everything

in its course. To a landsman like Sallusti the storms encountered on

this voyage would naturally appear worse than they really were, and his

frequent account of “waves mountain-high” and “imminent shipwreck” would

perhaps sound like “yarns” to an old tar. He delights in describing the

_Eloysa_ as

“Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies,

Her shattered top half buried in the skies”

--(_Falconer_),

and everywhere shows himself, like a good inland _abbate_, dreadfully

afraid of salt water. Capt. Copello would fain have put into Valencia for

shelter; but it was feared that the Spanish authorities might detain his

ship, or at least disembark the passengers, and it was determined rather

to brave the elements than to trust themselves within gunshot of a

Spanish harbor. These bold resolutions, however, did not appease the fury

of the wind, and it finally came to deciding between a watery grave and a

stony prison; the decision was quickly taken, and Palma, in the island of

Majorca, was fetched in safety. The mission party was very inhospitably

treated here; and Mgr. Muzi and Canon Mastai were ordered to come on

shore at once and give an account of themselves. As soon as they had put

foot on land, the two distinguished ecclesiastics were thrust into a cold

and filthy Lazaretto, on plea of sanitary regulations, but really out of

spite for their character and destination. Their papers were seized, and

measures instantly taken to bring them to trial; and there was even talk

of sending them to an African fortress where political prisoners were

confined. When Sallusti heard of this Balearic treatment, he summoned all

his Italian courage, and, going on shore, declared to the cocked-hatted

officials that he would share the fate of his companions; but instead

of admiring this prodigality of a great soul (Hor. _Od._ i. 12, 38),

those unclassical islanders simply swore round oaths and turned him in

with the rest. This was fortunate in one sense; for we would otherwise

have missed a good description of the examination of the three Italians

before the magistrates, who behaved rudely; the alcade, in his quality

of judge, putting on more airs than a Roman proconsul.[222] Further

outrages were threatened, but the intervention of the _Sardinian consul_

and of the Bishop of Palma finally convinced those proud men of the

exclusively religious mission of their victims. In view of subsequent

events in Italy, it seems strange that the future pope should have been

saved from further indignities, and perhaps from a dungeon, by an agent

of the Piedmontese government; yet so it was. The Italians were permitted

to return to the ship, but a demand was made to deliver up the two

Chilians as rebellious Spanish subjects. This was promptly refused; but

notwithstanding a great deal of blustering and many threats, the case

was allowed to drop, and the _Eloysa_ sailed away after several days’

detention. Gibraltar was passed on the 28th of October, and a severe

storm having tossed the brig about unmercifully on her entry into the

Atlantic, the peak of Teneriffe loomed up on November 4.

After leaving the Canary Islands, the _Eloysa_ was hailed one dark

night by a shot across her bows, which came from a Colombian privateer,

and quickly brought her to. She was quickly boarded, and a gruff voice

demanded her papers and to have the crew and passengers mustered on

deck. Sallusti was in mortal dread, and, to judge from his description

of the scene, he must have been quaking with fear; but Don Giovanni

Mastai behaved with that calmness and dignity which even then began to

be remarked in him, in whatever circumstances he found himself. After

some delay, the brig was allowed to proceed; nothing being taken off but

a bottle of good Malaga wine--which, however, was rather _accepted_ than

stolen by the rover of the seas.

After a time the Cape Verd Islands appeared in all their richness; and

on the 27th of the month the line was crossed amidst the usual riot of

sailors, and with the payment of a generous ransom by the clergy. On

December 8 the _Eloysa_ lay becalmed alongside of a slaver crowded with

poor Africans on their way to Brazil. Sallusti complains about this time

of bad water and short rations, and mentions with particular disgust that

the fare generally consisted of potatoes and lean chickens. On the 22d a

man fell overboard in a dreadful gale, and was rescued with difficulty.

Christmas was celebrated as well as circumstances permitted; and a neat

little oratory having been fitted up in the main cabin, midnight Mass

was said by the archbishop, the second Mass by Canon Mastai, and the

third by Friar Arce. On the 27th of December, S. John’s Day, and the

patronal feast of the canon, the welcome cry of “Land ho!” was heard

from the look-out at the mast-head about three P.M., and the crew and

passengers united upon deck to return fervent thanks to Almighty God.

The land sighted was a small desert island, a little north of Cape Santa

Maria, off the coast of Uruguay. A fearful storm was encountered the next

evening at the mouth of the La Plata. This was one of those southwestern

gales, called _Pamperos_, which frequently blow with inconceivable fury,

causing singular fluctuations in the depth of the wide mouth of the

river. It raged so that the captain was obliged to cut his cable and

abandon the shelter of Flores Island, which he had sought when it began,

and to take to the open sea again. With better weather he returned and

dropped anchor opposite Montevideo on the evening of January 1, 1824.

Sallusti goes into raptures over the beautiful aspect of the city, as

seen from the bay; its broad and regular streets, its stately houses

built on a gentle elevation, its fine cathedral, the strains of music

borne over the water--everything enchanted the travellers, weary of a

three months’ voyage.

“The sails were furl’d; with many a melting close

Solemn and slow the evening anthem rose--

Rose to the Virgin. ’Twas the hour of day

When setting suns o’er summer[223] seas display

A path of glory, opening in the west

To golden climes and islands of the blest;

And human voices on the balmy air

Went o’er the waves in songs of gladness there!”

--(_Rogers._)