When death, in visiting a household, is unaccompanied by sordid

cares, the lost one being necessary to our hearts alone; when the

living have no remorse for the past and no terror for the future

of their friend; when the silent face is peaceful; and when the

earth that opens to receive it is warm and full of life, like the

bosom of a mother where a sleeping child hides its face--then

death is more beautiful than life.

{723}

Thus this celestial visitant came to the Granger household; and

if an angel had alighted visibly in their midst, and folded his

white wings to tarry there a day, the presence could not have

been more sacred or more sweet. Every sign of gloom was banished.

The light was no more shut out than it always was in summer; all

the rooms were perfumed with flowers; and the master of the house

was not left alone, but lay at the front end of the long parlor

suite, in full sight of the family as they came and went.

Among the many callers who came that day was the Rev. Dr.

Kenneth, the old minister with whom we have seen Mr. Southard

taking theological counsel. This gentleman listened with

astonishment and indignation while Mrs. Lewis told him that Mr.

Granger had died a Catholic, and would have a requiem mass the

next morning.

"He must have been unduly influenced, madam!" said the minister

excitedly. "Mr. Granger would never have taken such a step of

himself. It is impossible!"

Somewhat embarrassed, Mrs. Lewis drew back, and disclosed Miss

Hamilton sitting in the shadow behind her, and, at the first word

of reply, gladly left the room, having no mind to stand between

two such fires, though the doctor's opponent looked too pale and

quiet to be very dangerous.

"With God all things are possible, Dr. Kenneth," was what

Margaret said. He regarded her sternly; yet after a moment

softened at sight of the utter mournfulness of her face.

"O child of many prayers!" he exclaimed, "whither have you

wandered?"

"Please don't!" she said. "I can not bear anything; and we don't

want any harsh words while he is here."

The doctor hesitated, and turned to go; but she stopped him.

"While I saw you standing out there and looking at him, I

remembered how often you used to come to my grandfather's, and

how you petted me when I was a little girl. One day I was trying

to carry you the large Bible, and I fell with it. Grandfather

scolded me; but you patted my head when you saw that I was on the

point of crying, and said that the Highest and the Holiest fell,

not once only, but thrice, under his burden. And you pulled my

curls, and said, laughing, that if strength dwelt in length of

locks, then I ought to be able to carry not only the Bible, but

the house. What makes the difference now? Are you harder? or am I

in less need of charity?"

"You have your friends," he said coldly, "those for whom you left

us."

"Not so," she replied. "I have those in this house; but in the

church I had only him out there. My church, here, at least, does

not receive converts as yours does. I suppose it must be because

they know that we are only coming home to our own Father's house,

and they think it would be presumptuous in them to come to meet

us, as if we needed to be welcomed."

"What! was no courtesy, no kindness shown you?" he asked

incredulously.

"Scarcely a decent civility," she replied. "But no matter about

that. Only, I want you to remember it, and to send my old friends

back to me. If they will not come, then their talk of religious

freedom is hardly sincere; and if you do not tell them, then I

shall think you unchristian. Indeed, doctor, when you have passed

me ill the street, without any notice, I haven't thought that you

were very good just then."

{724}

The doctor looked at her keenly. "I will be friends with you on

one condition," he said.

"And that?"

"Let Mr. Southard alone!" he said with emphasis.

Before she could utter a protestation, he had left the room.

The day crept past, and the night, and another day; and then

there was nothing for them to do but take up their life, and try

to make the best of it.

The first event to break the monotony came in September, when

Dora was baptized. All the family attended the ceremony, for the

time putting aside whatever prejudices they might feel. Then they

began to look eagerly for Mr. Southard's return.

He might be expected on the first Sunday of October, he wrote

most positively, but, for the rest, was very indefinite. He wrote

so vaguely, indeed, that his congregation were rather displeased.

His leave of absence had expired, yet he seemed to consider his

coming home a furlough. Rather extraordinary, they thought it.

Mr. Southard was not one of those pastors who live in a chronic

deluge of worsted-work from their lady friends. On his first

coming to the pulpit, there had been symptoms of such an

inundation; but he had checked them with characteristic

promptness, representing to the fair devotees the small need he

had of four-score pairs of pantoufles, even should his life be

prolonged as many years, and suggesting that those who had so

much leisure might profitably employ it in visiting and sewing

for the poor. But the repulse was given with such simplicity and

candor, and so utterly unconscious did he appear that any motive

could have prompted their labors save a profound conviction that

their pastor was shoeless, that even the most inveterate

needle-woman forgave him. He was not in the least sentimental, he

was indeed strict, and often cold, though never harsh.

Still, though he lacked many of the qualities of a modern popular

minister, his people were much attached to him. They trusted him

thoroughly, and they were proud of him. He had talent, culture,

and a high character and reputation. He was not a sensational

preacher; but his directness and earnestness were unique, and

occasionally his hearers were electrified by some eloquent

outburst, full of antique fire kindled at the shrines of the

prophets. It also did not go against him that he was the

handsomest man in the city, a bachelor, and rich enough in his

own right to dispense with a salary.

Great, therefore, was their delight when his return was

positively announced, and they set about preparing for it with a

good will.

The church was renovated, a new Bible and a sofa were purchased,

and a beautiful Catharine-wheel window, full of colored glass,

was put in over the choir. Receptions were arranged, flowers

bespoken, committees appointed, the barouche which was to take

him home from the depot was chosen, and the two dignitaries who

were to occupy it with him were, after due deliberation,

selected. All this was done decently and in order. Mr. Southard's

people were far from being of the vulgar, showy sort, and prided

themselves on being able to accomplish a good deal without any

fuss whatever. Even the newspaper chorus which proclaimed each

progressive step of the minister's homeward journey, as

Clytemnestra the coming of the sacred fire, sang in subdued

language and unobtrusive type. At last, all that was wanting was

the final announcement, in the Saturday evening papers, that the

reverend gentleman had arrived.

{725}

Indeed, the notice had been written, with all particulars, the

evening before, and had almost got into print, when it was

discovered that Mr. Southard had not arrived. The barouche had

returned from the depot without him, the two dignified personages

who went as escort suffering a temporary diminution of dignity

and an access of ill-temper. It is rather mortifying to see

people look disappointed that it is only you who have come, and

to know that not only have you lost the glory which was to have

been reflected on you from the principal actor in the scene, but

that your own proper lustre is for the time obscured. +

It was found, however, that a letter had been written by Mr.

Southard, not a pleasing one, by any means, to his disappointed

masters of ceremonies. He would be in his pulpit on Sunday

morning, he informed them; and after Sunday would be happy and

grateful to see any of his dear and long-tried friends who would

be so kind as to call on him. But till that time he did not feel

equal to the excitement of any formal reception. He had scarcely

recovered his strength after a long illness, he was fatigued with

travel, and also, he was returning to a house made desolate by

the death of one of his oldest and dearest friends.

"They are terribly wilted," Mr. Lewis said, as the family sat

around the centre-table that evening. "You never saw anybody so

grumpy as the deacons are. They are scandalized, moreover, in

view of the only way in which he can come now. Of course, he will

have to travel all night, and come into town Sunday morning.

There's Sabbath-breaking for you."

"One good thing," Mrs. Lewis said; "they have stopped ringing the

door-bell. I do believe there have been a hundred people here

to-day to ask if Mr. Southard had come."

"Auntie," said Aurelia, with a look of mild horror, "you don't

know what uncle said to the last gentleman who came. He told him

that when the minister made his appearance, he would hang out a

flag over the portico, and fire rockets from the front windows."

The three ladies were sewing, and Dora sat beside Margaret with a

catechism in her hand, learning the Acts.

"Aunt Margaret," whispered the child, "what do you think God told

me when I said, 'O my God! I firmly believe'? Says he,' Oh! what

a lying little girl you are!'"

"Why should he say that?" was the grave inquiry.

"Because I told him that I believed all the sacred truths; and

how can I believe when I don't know 'em? This is what I did; I

said, 'Please don't listen to me now, O Lord! I'm not talking to

you. I'm only learning my lesson.'"

"Come to bed now, my dear," said Margaret, "and we will talk

about it."

"I did not expect Mr. Southard to show so much feeling," Mrs.

Lewis said, when the two had gone out. "He received the news of

Mr. Granger's change of religion with such silent displeasure

that I supposed he would discard even his memory. He shows

courage, too, in still speaking of him as a friend; for some of

his people will be displeased."

"I'm sure, aunt," Aurelia replied rather hastily, "no one can say

that Mr. Southard ever lacked the courage to utter his

sentiments."

"No," Mrs. Lewis said in a very moderate tone, but looked sharply

into her niece's drooping face.

{726}

Aurelia had not looked up in speaking, and seemed to be engrossed

in her work; but there was a glistening of tears through the

thick lashes, and the delicate rose in her cheeks had grown

crimson-hearted. She seldom spoke with spirit; but when she did,

it always woke that rich bloom.

The bell rang again, and in a few minutes the parlor-door opened,

and the Rev. Doctor Kenneth came in.

"The servant told me that Mr. Southard has not arrived," he said;

"but as she did not absolutely forbid me, I came in to see the

rest of you."

They welcomed him cordially. The doctor had got in the way of

dropping in occasionally, and they were always glad to see him.

The venerable gentleman was something of a courtier, and knew how

to make himself all things to all men.

"I have my colleague at last," he said, "and to-morrow I promise

myself the pleasure of hearing Mr. Southard, if he comes."

Margaret returned to the parlor, and was pleasantly saluted by

the doctor who made room for her to sit beside him. She took the

place willingly, being especially pleased with him just then;

for, by his influence, her old friends were beginning to gather

about her, coldly at first, it is true, but that would mend in

time.

They resumed the conversation which her coming had interrupted.

"I have never denied that Mr. Maurice Sinclair might possess some

noble qualities," the doctor said, in his stateliest manner. "And

I have never said nor thought that he could rightly be called a

base man. But I have said, and I still think that he was a

dangerous man; and moreover, that last letter of his, instead of

softening my judgment, makes me condemn him all the more; for it

shows unmistakably what light he sinned against."

"But, doctor," interposed Aurelia's soft voice, "he seemed to be

a Christian at last."

"By no means, my dear," the doctor answered decidedly. "His

unbelief was nobler, that is all. The Christian soul strains

upward, and drops off the earthly; the pagan soul strains

outward, and grasps what is greatest on earth. He was a pagan. I

have always, during my whole ministry, had more fear of those who

stand on the border-lands between good and evil, than of those

who are clearly in the enemy's country. Do you want to take wine

with a drunkard? Certainly not. The faithful can resist a glaring

tempter; but let one of these gallant chieftains come up with his

mouth full of fine sentiments, and presto,

'All the blue bonnets are over the border!'

But what can we preachers do when the ladies decide to canonize a

man? I'm afraid they are disposed to believe that a fine head

must deserve a fine crown."

"There's one exception, doctor," Mr. Lewis said, pointing to his

wife.

The lady appeared not to notice the allusion to herself, but

spoke in a musing, silvery voice, her eyes fixed dreamily on

space.

"What a wise arrangement of Providence it is, that interesting

masculine penitents should awaken the gushing philanthropy of

ladies, gentlemen standing aloof; while interesting feminine

penitents almost as invariably excite the pious charity of men,

ladies, in their turn, holding off. In both cases, there are the

feast and the skeleton quite correct. I recollect, doctor,

hearing you preach, years ago, a sermon on the Magdalen. It was

very edifying; but I was sorry that you found it necessary to

mention her golden hair. Indeed, I have always thought that the

old painters would have made a better point if they had

represented her as a plain, middle-aged woman, with great haggard

eyes, like pits of darkness through which the soul was

struggling, only a spark, but kindled to a conflagration which

should consume with holy fire that poor, desecrated clay of hers.

That is the true Magdalen; not your light Correggio, who might be

a _danseuse_ reading a French novel after the ballet."

{727}

The lady had dropped her careless air, and was speaking almost

vehemently. It seemed, indeed, that some personal experience lent

a poignancy to her convictions on the subject.

"I am glad of the chance to express my opinions," she said, "and

glad that you have made me angry enough to have courage to speak.

I protest against this pernicious indulgence which latter-day

Christians show to vice, persuading themselves that they are

charitable.'Swear him, and let him go,' as the soldier said of

the rattlesnake. When I see these sentimentalists seek out real

penitence where it hides speechless and ashamed, then I will call

them charitable, and not before. But no; real penitence is not

interesting. It cannot attitudinize, it stammers, it has red and

swollen eyes, it shrinks almost from being forgiven, it never

holds its head up again."

"But, madam," said the doctor, somewhat disconcerted, "all are

liable to mistakes; and in being too strict with doubtful

penitents, we may discourage the true ones."

"They are easily distinguished," she said curtly. "Besides, you

lose sight of another risk you run. You appear to take for

granted that none are tempted save those who fall. How do you

know how many may be holding on to their integrity by a mere

thread, struggling desperately but silently, needing every help,

in so precarious a condition that a breath, a word, may destroy

them? Such people do not speak; you hear nothing of them but the

crash of their fall. Or, if they fall not, you never know. To me,

that conflict is more pathetic, more tragical, than all the

paraded sighs and tears of those who have found that dishonesty

doesn't pay. Those who do right simply and purely for God's sake

are few and far between. Most people need the support of public

opinion and the approbation of those whom they look up to. Let it

be seen that, do what they may, if only they can excuse

themselves prettily and plausibly, they will be easily forgiven,

and set still higher than before, and what will be the result?

You can see it in society to-day. Charity, so-called, has

increased; has virtue increased?"

"If good women would not make themselves so disagreeable, as they

often do," Mr. Lewis said gruffly.

"Try to please them," his wife replied. "Praise them a little; be

agreeable yourselves, and see if they don't improve in that

respect. Meet a person with a glum face, and if that person is

sincere and sensitive, you are not likely to get smiles in

return."

Aurelia leaned toward her aunt, put an arm around her, and

whispered, "Dear auntie, you're an angel; but please don't say

any more."

"I do not like to hear men and women criticise each other," the

doctor said calmly, introducing a switch into the track of the

conversation. "They are neither of them fitted to think for and

judge the other. They, in the moral universe, are like earth and

sea in the physical. And as air is common to earth and sea, so

spirit, and all higher influences, are common to man and woman

alike."

{728}

"Yes," Miss Hamilton said, "and while the earth has gold, and

silver, and iron, and gems, the sea has only pearls, and they are

tears, woman's proper _parure_. And while the earth

maintains its place, and is not moved, the sea goes moaning

about, breaking itself on rocks, and climbing even to heaven,

only that it may fall again upon the land."

"Blessed showers!" said the doctor, who had watched her smilingly

while she spoke. "Be sure, Margaret, sooner or later those for

whose sakes you and your sisters have climbed to heaven with such

toil and pain will see some heavenly likeness in you, and hail

you as welcome messengers. Don't lose courage, dear. Don't join

the bitter waves that break themselves against the rocks, or the

sly, insidious waves that steal away the land and drag it down.

But let your part be with those who visit us by the way of

heaven. Wouldn't you rather we should look up when we want you,

though it were seldom, than look down, though it were often?"

She looked up, bright and blushing for a moment, like her old

self, trembling with gladness, she knew not why. It seemed to be

a prophecy of good tidings.

Into the silence that followed a deep sigh broke. They all looked

up, then rose, speechless, changed suddenly into a group of

mourners. For Mr. Southard stood before them with that in his

countenance which showed how much more plainly than even their

living faces he saw the shadow of one who was gone for ever.

Pallid with sickness, fatigue, and trouble, he came forward to

receive their almost voiceless welcomes.

"God knows," he said, "that if the choice had been with me, my

place, rather than his, should have been made vacant."

Chapter XVI.

A Deserted Flock.

Bostonians have been accused of putting too much Sabbath into

their Sundays; but long may it be before the noisy waves of

business or pleasure shall wash away that quiet island in the

weary sea of days. There is a suggestion of peace, if not of

sacredness, in the silence almost like that of the country, in

the closed doors and empty streets; and when the bells

"Sprinkle with holy sounds the air, as the priest with the hyssop

Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters blessings upon them,"

he must be insensible indeed who does not--at least,

momentarily--remember that there is another world than this.

On the morning after his return, Mr. Southard resumed his old

Sunday habit of breakfasting in his own room, and none of the

family saw him before service. He always went to his church

early, and alone, and never spoke to any one on the way.

"Margaret, you really ought to go with us this time," Mrs. Lewis

said. "I think you might unbend for once."

"To stoop from the presence of God to the presence of a creature

is bending too far," was the reply. "Such bending breaks. I and

my pet are going to see the heavens open, and the Lord descend;

are we not, Dorothea, gift of God?"

Mrs. Lewis turned herself about before the cheval-glass to see

the effect of a superb toilet that she had made in honor of the

occasion. "Ah! well," she said. "You may be right. I have indeed

a faithful heart, but a woefully skeptical head; shall we go

now?"

{729}

The night had been very sharp for the season; but when they all

went out together, the sun was shining warmly through the morning

haze, the air was still, and the dripping, splendid branches of

the October trees were hesitating between hoarfrost and dew, and

glittering with both. People in holiday attire, and with holiday

faces, went past, the bells clanged out, then paused, and left

only a tremulous murmur in the air, the very spirit of sound. Far

away, a chime rang an old-fashioned hymn, in that quaint, stiff

way that chimes have.

At a street-corner the party separated, and went their several

ways.

As the Lewises entered their own church, they involuntarily

exchanged a smile. Nothing could be prettier than that interior.

The side-lights were all shut out, and for the first time the new

window was unveiled, and threw its rich light over the choir, and

up the nave, kindling the flowers that profusely draped the

pulpit and platform, and edging with crimson the garnet velvet

cushions. The people in this church had usually easy elbow-room,

but to-day they permitted themselves to be crowded a little by

visitors. There were even chairs brought into the galleries; and

when the hour for service arrived, there was a row of gentlemen

standing behind the last pews. But there was no sound save the

soft rustle of ladies' dresses, and now and then a hushed

whisper. There was the most perfect decorum and composure, and a

silence that was respectful if not reverential. No belligerent

mutterings ever rose through the voice of prayer or praise within

these walls; no belated worshipper ever went tramping up to the

very front after service had begun; and moreover, neither in

this, nor in any other Protestant church, did visitors come with

opera-glasses and chattering tongues, to turn what was meant as a

place of worship into a place of amusement.

Quite late, Dr. Kenneth came up the aisle, and seated himself in

the Lewis pew; and while every one looked at him, the door

leading back from the platform to the vestry was opened, and

almost before they were aware, Mr. Southard had entered and taken

his place.

There was a soft stir and rustle all through the church, and the

choir sang an anthem--that beautiful one of Brasbury's:

"How beautiful is Zion

Upon the mountain's brow,

The coming of the messenger,

To cheer the plains below."

Mr. Southard sat with his eyes fixed on the cornice-wreath, and

let his congregation stare at him, and they did not scruple to

take advantage of the opportunity. The impression was not the one

they had expected to receive. He was too pale and spiritual, and

his expression was too much that of some lofty martyr fronting

death unmoved, a St. Sebastian, pierced with arrows, his soul

just pluming itself for flight through those lifted eyes.

Moreover, not only were all their flowers invisible to him, but

he never looked at their new window, though the light from one of

its golden panes streamed full in his face as he sat. Where was

the smiling glance that might, surely, have made one swift

scrutiny of their familiar faces, unseen so long? Where was the

prayer of thanksgiving that he had been brought safely back to

his people, after such an absence, and through so many dangers?

Where was the joyful hymn of praise?

When Mr. Southard rose, he repeated only the Lord's prayer; and

the first hymn he read was anything but joyful:

"Nearer, my God, to thee,

Nearer to thee,

E'en though it be a cross

That raiseth me."

{730}

"Dear me! doctor," Mrs. Lewis could not help whispering, "I do

wish that for to-day, at least, he could have hidden the cross

under the crown."

The text was unexpected: "_Little children, love one

another._"

Not a single war-note, not a word of that Aceldama from which he

had but just come, but an impassioned exhortation that, casting

aside all differences, dissensions, and uncharitableness, they

should love each other even as Christ had loved them.

Mr. Southard seldom displayed any strong feeling except

indignation or a lofty fervor; but now he seemed deeply moved,

and full of a yearning tenderness toward those whom he addressed.

And they, after the first, forgot their disappointment, and were

almost as much affected as he.

"Why do I choose for my text words which recall the sufferings of

our divine Lord?" he asked. "And why do I select words of parting

exhortation rather than words of greeting? Because the passion is

not yet ended; because Christ is no more a king to-day than he

was nineteen centuries ago; because even among those who call

upon his name, his commands, his entreaties are disregarded.

Still his sceptre is but a reed, his purple still covers the

marks of the lash, his brow still bleeds under its crown. Lastly,

because I am not a pastor returning joyfully to his flock, hoping

for no more partings, but one who comes sorrowfully to say

farewell, scarcely daring to hope for any other meeting with you.

"A pastor? And who is he that leadeth the flocks of the Lord? He

to whom the divine Shepherd hath given the charge, bidding him

go. Brethren, he has not spoken to me, save in rebuking. Instead

of green pastures, I have led you in the desert. For still

waters, I have brought you to the banks of Marah. Who is he in

whose hands the baptismal waters are cleansing, who can bind man

and woman as husband and wife, who can consecrate the bread and

wine, who can loosen its burden from the penitent soul? He who,

looking up the line of his spiritual descent, sees the tongues of

fire alighting upon his ancestors in the Lord. Bear with me, my

friends! At the head of my line stands the traitor who sat at

meat with Christ, and ate the bread he broke, and drank the wine

he blessed, and then betrayed him."

The congregation were too much startled and puzzled by this

sudden turn to notice that Doctor Kenneth's head was bowed

forward on the front of the pew, and that Aurelia Lewis was

leaning with her face hidden on her aunt's shoulder.

But Mr. Southard saw them, and grew yet paler. When he spoke

again, it was with difficulty.

"This is no place for me to stand and advocate doctrines denied

by you. Yet surely it is no treason to the trust you reposed in

me when you invited me to become your pastor, if I ask, if I

entreat that you will examine fairly and prayerfully before you

condemn my course.

"I dare not trust myself to thank you for all your past

friendship for me, to utter my wishes for your future good, or to

tell you how my heart is torn by this parting. I have only

strength to go.

"Do you ask whither I am going? After years of mental torment

unsuspected by you, and when at last my strength was deserting

me, and the waters were going over my soul, where did I find

refuge and safety? In that glorious old ship whose sails are full

of the breath of the Spirit, who has faith for an anchor, the

cross as her ensign, and St. Peter at the helm. Brethren, I am a

Roman Catholic, thank God!"

{731}

Immediately the congregation were in confusion, and one gentleman

stood up and called, "Stop, sir!"

The light that had sprung to Mr. Southard's face at the last

words dropped out again. He leaned over the pulpit, and commanded

silence with a gesture at once imploring and imperative.

"One word more!" he said. "Believe in my unaltered affection for

you; and believe also that though my hands are not anointed to

give benediction, I fervently pray that God may bless you now and

for ever. Farewell!"

He turned away from them, and walked slowly toward the

vestry-door. Before he had closed it behind him, a silence fell,

and he heard Doctor Kenneth's trembling voice exclaim, "Let us

pray!" Glancing back, Mr. Southard saw the old minister standing

with upraised hands in his deserted pulpit.

Where he passed the rest of that day, the family did not know. It

was early twilight when they saw him coming up the street toward

the house. By that time they had recovered from their first

excitement, all but Aurelia. She still kept her room.

Mr. Southard walked with a firm and dignified step, and his face

was perfectly serene. He even smiled when he saw Margaret

standing in the parlor window, watching for him.

"No servant shall open the door for him this time, at least," she

thought, and hastened to open it herself.

"Welcome home!" she said exultingly, holding out both hands to

him. "You did that nobly! A thousand times, welcome!"

Mr. Southard closed the door, then looked at her boldly, putting

her hands back. "Do not mock my empty life with so slight a gift

as mere kindness," he said. "If you give me your hand, give it to

me to keep."

She stood one instant wavering, then gave him her hand again.

"Keep it," she said.

Lingering behind him as he went to meet Mr. and Mrs. Lewis,

Margaret flung her pledged hand upward as if she flung a gauge.

"Louis Granger, you shall not look down and think that I am

breaking my heart for you!"

Chapter XVII.

In Exitu Israel.

Some one tells of a wind so strong that he could turn and lean

his back against it, as against a post. Mr. Southard found some

such effect as this in the excitement caused by his change of

religion. For there are times when a strong opposition is

wonderfully sustaining. It fans the flame, and keeps the soul in

a lively glow, without any expenditure of our own breath.

Being thus saved the pains of maintaining his fervor, the new

convert took up tranquilly his religious studies, viewing from

the inside that church which heretofore he had seen only from the

outside. The study was an ever fresh delight; and as, one after

another, new beauties were revealed, and new harmonies unfolded

themselves, the miracle seemed to be, not that he should see now,

but that he should have been blind so long.

No one knows, save those who have been born away from this home

of the soul, the full delight of that succession of surprises and

discoveries in the search made by him who comes late to his

father's house. The first dawn or flash of faith, come as faith

may, shows only the door, and a dim and long-stretching

perspective. But once inside, with what wonder, what curiosity,

what incredulity, even, we wander about examining the treasures

of this new-found inheritance of ours.

{732}

Surely, we say, here we shall be disappointed. Here there will be

a shade on the picture. But, looking closely, we find instead a

still more eminent beauty. Nor are these varied discoveries

exhausted in a few months, nor in a few years, nor in many years.

Even when the noon of life has been spent in the quest, and

twilight comes, still there are

"such suites to explore,

Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune."

But the most spiritual of us are not all spirit; and when, after

a few weeks, the storm of denunciation against him subsided a

little, weary of its own violence, Mr. Southard began to feel the

vacuum left by his loss of occupation, and to depend more on the

home life.

Here the prospect was not without shadows. Mr. and Mrs. Lewis had

behaved nobly, and, after the first shock, had stood by him

through every trial. "Not that I am so fond of Catholicism," Mr.

Lewis said. "But I like to see a man who has a mind of his own,

and isn't afraid to speak it."

The shadow in this case was Mr. Lewis's niece, who showed an

unconquerable coldness toward her former minister. This was not

to him a matter of vital consequence, certainly, though it

troubled him more than he would have expected. She had always

looked up to him with undoubting faith as her religious guide.

Now he perceived with pain and mortification that he had not only

destroyed her respect for his own authority, but had made her

distrustful of all authority.

He attempted to justify himself to her; but she stopped him.

"I do not occupy myself in criticising your conduct and opinions,

Mr. Southard," she said; "and I would rather say nothing about

it."

For the first time, it struck him that Miss Lewis had a very

stately manner.

Neither was Miss Hamilton just what Mr. Southard wished his

promised wife to be to him, though he could scarcely have told in

what she was lacking. Her evident desire that for the present the

engagement should be unsuspected, even by their own family, he

did not find fault with, though it prevented all confidential

intercourse between them; but he would have preferred that she

had not been quite so positively friendly, and no more. It seemed

a little odd, too, that he should never, even by accident, find

her alone, though they had frequently met so in the old times.

Weary, at length, of waiting on chance, he requested an

interview, and stated his wishes. He would like to go to Europe

as soon as possible, and stay there a year. He could not feel

himself settled in the church, till he had been in Rome a

Catholic, having once been there an unbeliever. Of course he

would expect to take his wife with him. Why should they delay.

Why not be married at Christmas, and start so as to reach Rome

before Easter?

Margaret grew pale. "It is so soon," she said in a frightened

way. "And you know I cannot leave Dora. You might go without me."

Then, as his countenance fell, she added, trying to smile, "I

love my freedom, and want to keep it as long as I can. But when I

do take bonds on myself, I shall be very dutiful."

"I do not think that you will lose any freedom which you need

greatly desire to keep," he said gently, but with a shade of

disapproval. "And as to Dora, Mrs. Lewis would take good care of

her."

{733}

"Dora is a sacred charge to me, Mr. Southard," Margaret said

hastily; "not only her person, but her faith. I cannot intrust

her to any one else. Besides, she would break her heart if parted

from me. No one else can comfort her when--when she needs

comfort."

Mr. Southard considered awhile.

"I approve of your being careful to do your duty by the child,"

he said presently. "But, you know, some priest could have her

religious education under his supervision while we are gone. I

would not, on any account, urge you to violate a scruple of

conscience. Possibly, however, if you should consult your

confessor, he might decide that your duty to the child should

bend to your duty to me."

Margaret's face blushed up crimson, and her eyes emitted a spark.

"The confessor whom I shall consult when I name my wedding-day,

will be my own heart," she said, in anything but a humble tone of

voice.

Mr. Southard looked at her searchingly. "Can it be," he asked,

"that a lack of affection on your part is the cause of this

reluctance?"

"I esteem you highly, Mr. Southard," she replied faintly,

shrinking a little. "But I am not very reasonable, and you must

have patience with me. Please don't say any more now. This is

very sudden. I will think of it."

"Very well," he replied. "Perhaps when you have thought, you may

accede to my first proposal. It is not worth while to delay, you

know, when one's mind is made up."

"I must go now with Dora to make her first confession," Margaret

said, anxious to change the subject. "Will you excuse me? I am

afraid the storm may grow worse. The rain is falling gently now;

but you know the old proverb:

'When the wind comes before the rain,

You may hoist your topsails up again;

But when the rain comes before the winds.

You may reef when it begins.'"

"And a true proverb it is in more ways than one," Mr. Lewis said,

appearing at that moment. "When my wife begins by flying at me

and tearing my hair out, and then goes to crying afterward, I

hope for fair weather soon. But when she starts with a gentle

drip of tears, I always look out for squalls before it is over.

Remember that for your future guidance, Mr. Southard."

Margaret escaped from the room, and in a few minutes was on her

way to the church, with Dora half hidden under her cloak, and

nestled close to her side. As she rode along, feeling, some way,

as if they were flying from pursuit or from a prison, she

experienced one of those tender touches of recollection with

which the Spirit, ever following us, seeks to recall our wayward

hearts. "What should I do if I had no church to go to?" was the

thought that came; and as it came, the altar toward which she was

approaching, glowed through the chill November rain like the fire

in happy homes.

Outside, in the corridor leading to that familiar chapel of St.

Valentine, endeared by so many sacred and tender memories, they

paused a moment and recollected themselves.

"My dear little one, Christ Jesus the Lord is in there!"

"Do you truly think that he likes me?" whispered Dora

apprehensively, glancing askance at the lambent little flame that

burned inside.

"Oh! yes," was the confident answer. "He is very fond of you when

you are good."

The sweet face smiled again.

"Then I an't afraid of him, auntie. Come."

{734}

After an act of contrition on her own account, and a prayer for

the child, Margaret led Dora to the confessional, placed her on

her knees there, and, dropping the curtain behind her, retired to

wait at a distance.

Verifying the proverb, it was blowing quite violently when the

two started for home again. Margaret went directly up to her

chamber, having need to be alone. What was it striving within

her, what memory, almost at the surface of her mind, yet unseen,

like a flower in spring just ready to burst through the mould

that feels but knows it not? On her table was a bunch of English

violets that some one had left there for her. At the sight of

them, her trouble sharpened to pain that had yet some touch of

delight in it. The wind was full of voices, it caught the rain,

and lashed the windows, it shook the doors, and called sighingly

about the chimneys, and swung the vines against the panes. As she

leaned there wondering and troubled, a faint, sweet perfume from

the violets stole into her face. It was magical. She sank on her

knees and drew the flowers to her bosom.

"O my friend! how could I ever dream of forgetting you?"

How it came back, that rainy day at the seaside, the terror of

the tempest, the fire she had kindled, the watch she had kept,

the presentiment of sorrow, then the muffled figure coming down

the road, the rain, the wind, and his smile, all meeting her at

the door, and the perfume of the violets he had brought her!

Who knows not the power that perfumes have over the memory? The

influence of sound is evanescent, that which the eyes have seen

the imagination changes in time; but a perfume is the most

subtile and indestructible of reminders. You have walked in the

world's beaten ways many a year, till the country home of your

childhood is a picture almost effaced from your mind. Its tones

echo no more, its faces are faded, its scenes forgotten.

Some sultry summer day, wandering from the city, but only half

weaned from the thoughts of it, your listlessly straying feet

crush the warm, wild herbage, and a thick perfume of sweet-fern

rises about you. What does it mean? Thrilling to your

finger-tips, you bend and inhale that strange yet familiar scent.

Its touch is as potent as the touch of the rod of Moses.

"A score of years roll back their tide

Of mingled joy and pain;

Dry-shod I cross the torrent's bed,

And am a child again."

Old scenes come up: gray rocks start out, lichen-jewelled; there

are billows of butter-cups, mayweed, and clover, over which your

young fancies sailed moth-winged, and brought rich freights from

every port; the long lines of pole and stone fences are built up

again in a twinkling; the boiling spring leaps bubbling into the

heart of the sunshine; in the woods the cold, bright waters run

hurrying over the pebbles; there is the homestead, the smoke from

the chimney, the open windows, some one standing in the door,

some one calling you with a voice as real as your breath; there

are faces with eyes that see you, every feature plain, there are

hands stretched out.

How it rises and tramples on your present, that past that hides

but never dies! How your heart-strings strain with the vain

longing to stay for ever in this bright, recovered country, and

look no more on the desert and the land of bondage!

"Flow back, O years! into your channel,

Flow, and stop the way!

Let me forget how vain the fancies

Of that childish day."

{735}

If we did not know that every hope and sweetness in the past were

but seeds for future blossom and fruit; if we did not know that

childhood is but a bee's load of honey, but a babe's sip of milk,

to those flowing streams in the promised land; if we did not

believe that God's denial is brief, his bounty endless; that

surely he sees and marks every pain; and that he holds the

fulfilment of our utmost wish just at the verge of our utmost

endurance--if we were not sure of this, could human nature bear

the cross that sometimes is laid upon it? It could not!

Miss Hamilton did not appear at the dinner-table that day; but in

the evening Mr. Southard was summoned to her in the library. She

met him with an April face full of a grieved kind of joy, or a

joyful grief, crossed the room toward him when he came in, and

held out her hands to him.

"Forgive me!" she said hurriedly. "But, Mr. Southard, I cannot

marry you. I made a mistake. Don't be angry with me. I cannot

help it. And I think, too, that you mistook also."

"I do not understand this," he said, dropping her hand.

"I should never have thought of marrying, if I had not been angry

with him," she said. "That was wicked and foolish, and I have got

over it now. We are reconciled. I shall never forget him."

"Am I to understand that your remembrance of Mr. Granger is a bar

to your union with me?" asked Mr. Southard, regaining his

composure.

"An insurmountable bar!"

He bowed gravely. "Then there is no more to be said. I wish you

good-evening."

She watched him go; and when the door had closed, broke into a

soft laugh. "In exitu Israel;" she said. "I am free!"

The door opened again, and Mr. Lewis came in. "You here?" he

said. "I want to get the first volume of--But what's the matter

with you? I just met Mr. Southard going into his room. Have you

promised to marry him?"

"No, I have promised not to," Margaret said, smiling.

Mr. Lewis looked at her with a softening face, and eyes that grew

dim.

"I'm glad of it, Maggie," he said. My wife and Aurelia were sure

that you and he would make a match; and I couldn't say anything

against it. But I hated the thought of your forgetting

_him_."

There was no danger, indeed, of her forgetting him. It was

impossible for her. She had not one of those facile hearts that

rest here and there, on whatever offers, growing worn and

threadbare at last, till there is nothing left to give. Hers was

an imperious constancy which, having once chosen, did not know

how to change, and perpetually renewed itself, like a fountain,

as fresh to-day as it was a century ago. Such affection does not

absolutely need the happiness of earth; for its root is in the

soul, not in the flesh, and the time of its perfecting is

hereafter.

Chapter XVIII.

Daybreak.

As there are plants that need crushing to bring out their

perfume, so there are natures that become thoroughly amiable only

through pain and humiliation. Mr. Southard's was one of these.

Every blow that struck him made some breach in his puritanic

severity, and revealed some hidden grace of mind or heart. He had

possessed an intellectual humility, and had submitted himself

with all the force of his reason.

{736}

But such humility is like the weight of snow that in winter

presses the head of the slender sapling to earth, whence it is

ever ready to spring back again at the first fiery sun-touch. It

savored too much of the arrogant self-accusation of those who, as

Mr. Lewis said, think they are the sun because they have spots on

them. Now, he seemed really humble, he distrusted himself, and he

accepted kindness with a gratitude that touched the hearts of

those who gave it.

To Mrs. Lewis's surprise, he made a confident of her, and spoke

quite freely of his disappointment.

"I do not blame Margaret," he said. "It was ungenerous of me to

take advantage of her first moment of enthusiastic sympathy for

me to exact a promise from her. But the temptation was strong.

Existence with her would never be mere vegetation. She always

gets at the inside of life. However, since God has willed it

otherwise for me, I shall try to act like a Christian and like a

sensible man. All the difference it makes in my plans is that I

shall go away a little sooner."

They were sorry to have him go; for their esteem for him had

insensibly grown into affection, and their affection constantly

increased.

"I declare, I had no idea that I should feel so bad about it,"

Mr. Lewis said when the time came for good-byes. "Give me your

shawl to take out. I am going to the depot with you."

Margaret and Dora had taken leave of Mr. Southard, and were

standing in one of the front windows, watching to see him off.

Mrs. Lewis walked slowly out of the parlor with him.

"Where is Aurelia?" he asked, looking about. "I have not seen

her."

"Oh! she told me to say good-by for her," answered Mrs. Lewis

carelessly. He hesitated, and looked hurt. "I suppose she doesn't

care to take the trouble to see me," he said. "Tell her I said

good-by, and God bless her."

"I will do nothing of the kind!" said the lady, with emphasis.

Mr. Southard stared at her in astonishment.

"'Doesn't care to take the trouble!" she repeated indignantly.

"It is rather you who haven't cared to treat her with common

gratitude or civility. You have had eyes for only Miss Hamilton,

who didn't care a fig for you; while Aurelia, the poor simpleton!

who made a hero of you, and broke her heart because you were in

disgrace with the world and disappointed in love--you hadn't a

glance for. No; I won't say good-by to her. I will let her

believe that you went without remembering her existence, as you

came near doing. It will help her to forget you. There, take that

with my blessing, and good-by. The carriage is waiting."

"Where is she?" he exclaimed, his whole face changed, and become

alive all at once. "I shall not stir from the house till I have

seen her, if I have to wait a year."

"What will Miss Hamilton think of your constancy?" asked Mrs.

Lewis with a toss of the head.

"Madam," said Mr. Southard, "for me there is but one woman in the

world, and that is she who loved me without waiting to be asked.

Will you be so good as to tell Aurelia that I wish to see her in

the library?"

He went toward the library, and Mrs. Lewis leisurely returned to

the parlor, a curious little smile on her lips.

{737}

Aurelia Lewis was seated before the library fire, with her hands

folded in her lap.

As Mr. Southard paused an instant at sight of her, then came

hastily in and shut the door after him, she rose and looked at

him with an air of dignified composure. Her face was perfectly

colorless.

"Is it true," he began at once, "that you have sympathized with

me more than I knew? Tell me! A disappointment now would be too

cruel."

Aurelia's full bright eyes opened a little wider, and a faint

color warmed her cheeks; but she seemed too much astonished or

too indignant to speak. Yet after the first glance, she drooped a

little, and leaned on the back of her chair, as if, like that

fair Jewish queen, _for delicateness and overmuch tenderness,

she were not able to bear up her own body_.

How pure and sweet she was! Silent as dew. How utterly womanly

her untainted loveliness!

"Esther!" exclaimed Mr. Southard.

After ten minutes Mr. Lewis put his head out of the carriage

door, and made a sign to his wife, who was benevolently

contemplating him from the parlor. She raised the window.

"Where is Mr. Southard?" he asked.

"He is saying good-by to Aurelia," was the reply; and the window

went down again.

Minutes passed, but no Mr. Southard appeared. It was the day

before Christmas, and the air was too sharp to make a long

tarrying out doors agreeable.

"I've heard of eternal farewells, but I never before had the

honor of assisting at one," muttered Mr. Lewis; and having waited

as long as endurance seemed a virtue, he went into the house.

"Where is Mr. Southard?" he asked, looking round the parlor.

"In the library, saying good-by to Aurelia," replied his wife

suavely.

Mr. Lewis looked at Margaret.

"Will you tell me what she means? I don't believe her. She always

puts on that truthful look when she tells a lie."

Margaret laughed. "I think you may as well dismiss the carriage,"

she said.

In something less than half an hour Mr. Southard and Aurelia made

their appearance. They were received with great cordiality.

"I hope you liked your journey to Europe," said Mr. Lewis with

immense politeness. "Is the pope in good health?"

Mr. Southard was beyond the reach of mocking. "I have postponed

my journey till this lady can be ready to accompany me," he said.

"And I have convinced her that four weeks will be enough for her

preparation."

Aurelia went to lean on Margaret's shoulder. She was trembling,

but her face showed full contentment. "I would rather be Esther

than Vashti," she whispered.

"I'm delighted enough to forgive you even a greater impertinence

than that, if greater could be," was the whispered answer. "I am

not Vashti, though you are Esther."

The next day, after coming home from early mass, Margaret sat in

her chamber toward the east, with Dora and her two friends, Agnes

and Violet, leaning on her lap, and watching her face. She had

been telling them the story of that miraculous birth, and,

finishing, looked up into the morning sky, and forgot them;

forgot the sky, too, presently, with all its vapory golden

stretches, and glimpses of far-away blue, and saw instead her

life past, present, and to come. Looking calmly, she forgave

herself much, for had not God forgiven her? and hoped much, for

there was no room for despair; and grew content, for all that she

could desire was within her reach.

{738}

Beginning at the lowest, she had an assured home, kind friends,

and a dear and sacred duty in the care of this child. So far, all

was peace.

One step higher then. Could the friend who still lived on in her

heart forget her in that heaven to which her love had led him?

And, weak and childish though she was, with her impatience, her

scarcely broken pride, her obstinately clinging affection, could

she be altogether unlovely to him? Some strong assurance answered

no.

Higher yet her thought took its stand. There was faith, that

second sight by which the soul sets her steps aright as she

climbs, never missing the way. There was an unfading hope, and a

charity that embraced the world. There was God. And all were

hers!

As Margaret sat there, the three children leaned motionless,

hushing themselves lest they should break that beautiful trance.

It was no momentary glow of enthusiasm, no mere uprising of

feeling; for mounting slowly, through pain, and doubt, and

weakness, she had reached at last the heights of her soul, and

saw a wide, bright daybreak over the horizon of a loftier life.

----------

A Glimpse Of Ireland.

I had long cherished the desire to visit Ireland, a country for

many reasons so interesting to every American Catholic. The

opportunity of making a brief tour in Europe during a summer

vacation having unexpectedly presented itself, I determined,

therefore, to leave the steamer at Queenstown and make the

journey to London by way of Dublin. On the 29th of July, 1867,

after a remarkably pleasant passage, we found ourselves, at an

early hour of the morning, in sight of the famous Skellig

rocks--called by sailors the Bull, Cow, and Calf--and thus gained

the welcome advantage of sailing all day in sight of the Irish

coast. The first impression one receives from the appearance of

the country between Valentia and Cork is sad and desolate; in

harmony with the tragic history of the suffering, oppressed race,

whose home is seen for the first time, by the voyager from the

New World, under one of its most barren and lonely aspects. The

only interest which can attract the eye and the mind is that of a

sort of wild and rugged grandeur, coupled with the historical

associations which give a charm to the names of Bantry and

Dingle. The lonely waters, where scarcely a sail was to be seen

during the live-long day, told of the suppression of the

industrial and commercial life of the Irish nation by the

long-continued tyranny of that power which absorbs all its

resources to feed its own greatness.

The long, barren stretches, showing scarcely a sign of vegetable,

animal, or human life, where for miles one could see only here

and there a little shealing and a few sheep cropping the brown,

scanty herbage, seemed to give the lie to the well-known, and, as

I afterward saw, well deserved appellation of "the Emerald Isle."

{739}

Expressions of surprise escaped from some of my

fellow-passengers, agreeable and intelligent American gentlemen,

who, like myself, were on their maiden trip to Europe; and from

some others of the party who were children of Irish parents,

looking for the first time on the land of their exiled ancestors.

The coast is frequently steep and precipitous, suggesting to the

memory the many tales of shipwreck in wild nights of tempest one

has read in boyhood. The Martello towers stand at intervals along

the horizon, like gigantic watchmen looking out seaward to spy

the smuggler or the foreign invader, and in the distance the line

of the Kerry Mountains completes the view of the wild, desolate

landscape. The heights of Bantry are rendered for ever sacred and

memorable by the martyrdom of the Franciscan fathers, Donald and

Healy, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. They were revisiting the

ruined monastery of Bantry, for the purpose of ministering to the

spiritual wants of their poor, persecuted flock, when they were

seized by the agents of the glorious reformation, tied back to

back, and hurled headlong down the precipice into the ocean. What

a wonder that the Irish people are so insensible to the value of

a gospel brought to them with so much pains and trouble, so

kindly presented to them, enforced by such lovely examples of

Christian virtue, and supported so long, notwithstanding their

obstinacy, at such great expense!

Early in the morning, we stopped our engines off the Cove of

Cork, a little steamer boarded us, the freight and baggage were

speedily, though, in the case of rocking-chairs, not very safely,

tumbled aboard of her decks, under the herculean direction of our

fat boatswain. Three cheers went up from the City of Paris, which

steamed off grandly for Liverpool, and we puffed in, not grandly

but very pleasantly, toward Queenstown. The Cove of Cork is

world-renowned for its beauty and excellence as a haven for

ships, but desolate-looking from the fact that it is better

supplied with fortresses, cannon, and ships of war than with the

peaceful, plenty-bringing steamers and sailing-vessels of

commerce. I once heard a little American boy utter the

exclamation, as we were entering the port of Havana and espied

the soldiers on duty, "How afraid they must be, guarding

everything that way!" It appears to be the same case in Ireland.

The English government is very much afraid of its Irish subjects,

if we may measure its fears by the display of force which meets

the eye everywhere. The only consolation which a sincere lover of

the Irish people can find in looking upon this state of things

is, that, since the endurance of this coercive tyranny is for the

time a necessary evil, the force is so very irresistible as

effectually to prevent the bloody horrors which would follow a

general insurrection. A young English officer, whom I met at the

hotel in Cork, expressed his regret that an open rebellion had

not broken out, which, he said, would have been an affair of a

month, and which of course would only have increased the miseries

and riveted the chains of the Irish people. For myself, I could

not help shuddering at the thought of the fearful tragedy which

would have been enacted if the people had been goaded by

demagogues to such an attempt, and blessing God that the efforts

of these madmen had failed. It is plain enough that Ireland

cannot be governed in this way much longer.

{740}

There is but one hope and one method for the English crown to

retain Ireland as a portion of the British empire; which is, to

win the willing loyalty of the people by an ample redress of

their grievances, and the inauguration of a policy which has in

view the real good of the Irish people.

Our little steamer landed us at about eight in the evening; the

officers were very polite and obliging, and we were soon ashore

on the sacred soil, with our luggage in the hands of a couple of

lively gossoons, and our steps free to go anywhere we pleased.

As soon as one steps ashore on the Irish soil, he feels that he

is in the land of frolic and drollery. The irrepressible and

indomitable spirit of the Celtic race rebounds under the strokes

of adversity like an india-rubber ball under the blows of a bat.

"The harder you do knock him down, the higher he do bounce." My

fellow-voyagers who came ashore at Queenstown fell into a state

of hilarity at once which was wonderful to behold, and which

continued during their whole stay in Ireland. They held their

sides and laughed uproariously, not, be it understood, with any

feeling of contempt or ridicule--for they were gentlemen, and

altogether free from snobbish prejudice or religious bigotry--but

from pure, genial sympathy with the comedy which was going on in

the crowd that pressed eagerly around the welcome passengers from

America, contending for their luggage. Old women whose vivacity

old age had only sharpened, and little boys who were so many

Flibbertigibbets in fun and smartness, with huge cars drawn by

diminutive donkeys, on which they piled pyramids of trunks, if

they were lucky enough to get them; boys with barrows, and boys

with only hands and shoulders--struggled and jibed and danced and

scolded, and rushed upon every passenger as he emerged from the

barrier, in a good humored and tumultuous manner that can only be

appreciated by one who has seen it. We pushed off for the last

train to Cork, followed by a dozen runners of the Queenstown

hotels, vociferating the praises of their several houses,

assuring us that the train had left five minutes before, and

urging us most affectionately to go up the next morning after a

good night's sleep, by the boat, that we might enjoy the scenery

of the beautiful river Lee. This piece of advice was good, and I

recommend every traveller to follow it. We turned a deaf ear to

it, however, reached the train in time, and in half an hour were

comfortably deposited in the well-known and most excellent

Imperial Hotel of Cork.

The rather singular English name of Cork is not, as one is apt to

suppose, our common word designating a certain very light

substance, and applied without any reason or propriety that

anybody can see to a very substantial city and county. It is a

corruption of the Irish word _Carroch_, signifying a valley,

which has been Anglicized, like many other foreign words, by a

most perverse and stupid English custom of changing them into

English words of somewhat similar sound. The first beginning of

the city was a monastery founded in the seventh century by St.

Finnbar, whom I recognized as an old acquaintance, from the

cathedral dedicated to his honor at Charleston, S. C., by the

illustrious Bishop England, who was a native of Cork. The old

cathedral of St. Finnbar, which was rebuilt in 1735, has been

demolished, to make way for a new one, which I most devoutly hope

may never be built on the sacred spot consecrated by the ancient

Irish monk until this shall revert to its rightful possessors.

{741}

Another holy site, that of Gil Abbey, which is extremely

picturesque and beautiful, is occupied by the Queen's College.

The Sisters of Mercy are fortunate enough to possess another

pleasant spot, rising to a wooded hill, which was also the seat

of an ancient monastery, and where is now situated their very

neat and commodious convent. There are three very good Catholic

churches in the city--St. Patrick's, St. Mary's, and Holy

Trinity; the latter founded by F. Matthew, and containing a

stained glass window as a memorial of O'Connell. The Mardyke, an

avenue shaded with elms for the distance of a mile, is a pleasant

walk, and I passed an hour there in company with a small party of

friends, from New York, in a most amusing and agreeable manner,

surrounded by a group of children with whom we soon established a

most intimate friendship by means of plums. The Irish children

are remarkable for their beauty, their blooming health, and for a

mixture of fun and innocence, of brightness and simplicity, of

boldness and modesty, indicating a state as near to that of

unfallen childhood as I can imagine. The pranks of the young

Corkonians afford a source of unfailing amusement to the stranger

within their gates; but I was most amused by the boys with

donkeys, who were to be seen riding in state to school in the

morning, and, in the afternoon, all about the environs scattered

in groups on the grass, ready to exchange a biting sarcasm with

every passing coachman, while their dear little friends, the

donkeys, fed quietly near by. It would be useless, however, to

attempt to describe all that is droll and comic in the population

of Cork, for it seems as if it were the business of their lives

to be as funny as they can, for their own delight and that of the

beholder.

Cork is a fine, well-built town, of 90,000 inhabitants, the third

in importance in Ireland. The environs are extremely beautiful. I

was there at midsummer; the weather was perfect, and I could see

to the best advantage the tilth and verdure which make the

Emerald Isle so famous. Certainly, they have not been

exaggerated, and no one can wonder at the praise which the

Irishman bestows upon his soil, or the intense love which he

cherishes for it. I only wonder that those who were born and bred

there can ever be contented elsewhere; and surely nothing but the

most unendurable poverty and want would ever drive such numbers

of them into exile. Perhaps the most picturesque objects which

meet the eye, in the country, are the white farm-houses with

thatched roofs, standing in their neat little flower-gardens,

their walls covered with honeysuckle or other creeping vines. The

only thought which mars the pleasure of looking on the rich

meadows, the waving fields, the herds of superb cattle, and

flocks of fat sheep, is, that the outward show of beauty and

prosperity is obtained by the sacrifice of the poor people, and

enjoyed by a small number only. If you drive out, your carriage

is followed by a troop of ragged, fleet-footed young beggars; and

if you chance to pass a factory when the hour for stopping work

has come, you may see a long procession of young women,

bareheaded, barefooted, ragged, and emaciated, who are glad to

work for a shilling a day.

The most interesting place to visit in the neighborhood of Cork

is Blarney Castle. I am ashamed to say that I was afraid to go on

a jaunting-car, although at Dublin I made the experiment with

great success and pleasure. It seemed to me, when I looked at the

jaunting-car for the first time, that it would shake one off as

soon as it turned a corner.

{742}

We accordingly drove out to Blarney in an open carriage, going by

the road to Kanturk, and returning by Sunday-Well road. Aside

from the merely jocose associations of the Blarney-stone, the

old, ivy-clad tower is an extremely interesting and picturesque

object, and the grounds of the demesne, so celebrated in Irish

lyrics, are charming. The cromlech and pillar stones, on which

are inscriptions in the ancient Ogham characters, carry back the

imagination to an antiquity almost without limits, and suggest

the thought that perhaps as long ago as the time of King David,

or even the Exodus, Druids may have performed their sacred rites

in these still groves. Our guide was a poor little sickly

humpbacked boy of sixteen rejoicing in the _sobriquet_ of

Lord John Russell, and possessing very sharp wits and

inexhaustible good-humor. Every one about the castle seemed to

take especial delight in a standing joke at his expense, that he

was an old man with a heavy family. The poor fellow seemed to

enjoy our company very much, and expressed the intention of

emigrating to America. The only reason he could give was that the

weather was too warm in summer at Blarney. At the castle gate his

jurisdiction terminated, and we were handed over to another

amusing original, the lame old gardener, who has many a story to

tell of Walter Scott, and Tom Moore, and Father Prout. As for the

Blarney-stone, I will not say how many of our party kissed it. In

Lord John Russell's opinion, there was no need of our doing so;

he was sure we had one of our own in America which we had all

kissed frequently before leaving home. Whoever has spent an

afternoon at Blarney, in genial company, will admit that it was

one of the pleasantest days of his life, if his soul is not too

full of steam and railroads to be capable of simple and natural

enjoyments.

The journey by rail from Cork to Dublin is a most tantalizing

one. Flying at full speed through several counties, one catches

glimpses at every moment of places and scenes of historic

interest and natural or artificial beauty, which he longs to

visit and inspect at leisure. The distance is one hundred and

sixty-five miles; the railway is an admirable one; everything

about the way stations is neat and attractive, and the route

passes in a direct line through the counties of Cork, Limerick,

Tipperary, King's, Queen's, and Kildare. Among the objects of

interest which are passed are the abbeys of Mourne, Bridgetown,

Kilmallock, Knocklong, Holy Cross, Thurles, Templemore, Moore

Abbey, Old Connell, Kildare Cathedral, with St. Bridget's chapel;

the castles of Barrett, Carrignacenny, Kilcolman, which the poet

Spenser received as his share in the spoliation; Charleville; the

Rock of Dunamase, with the ruins of Strongbow's Castle; the Rock

of Cashel; the Hill of Allen, where Fin McCoul lived; several

round towers; the famous bog of Allen; the Curragh of Kildare;

and quantities of others--which keep one perpetually, and to a

great extent vainly, looking out of window, first on one side,

then on the other, while you are hurried over a country every

step of which is rich in history, poetry, and legend, and should

be slowly traversed on foot and at leisure. Three of my agreeable

companions of the voyage were with me in the same carriage; a

very pleasing gentleman, with his son, a bright youth of sixteen,

joined us an hour or two before reaching Dublin, and they were as

curious about America, especially Indians, and our sea-voyage, as

we were about the antiquities and curiosities of Ireland.

{743}

Our trip was therefore wanting in nothing to make it lively and

agreeable, and we were finally deposited at the Gresham Hotel,

Sackville street, Dublin, in high good humor, and quite ready for

a good dinner.

As I had only that evening and the following day to remain in

Dublin, I was obliged to content myself with a superficial view

of the city, and a visit to a few places of particular interest.

In its general features, Dublin is at least equal to our finest

American towns of the same class, although more quiet, and

showing signs of stagnation in commercial prosperity. Its

agreeable climate makes it a delightful place of residence at all

seasons of the year, especially in the summer.

My first visit was made to the scene of the life and labors of

the saintly Catherine McAuley, foundress of the Sisters of Mercy,

the convent in Baggott street, where also repose her mortal

remains--a lovely spot for the cradle of a religious order, and

suggestive of the time, I hope not far distant, when Ireland

shall once again be full of these sacred homes of the monastic

life, as she was before the spoliation of her holy places by the

ruthless minions of Henry and Elizabeth. I visited also Clontarf,

the scene of Brian Boru's decisive victory over the Danes, and

death, and went to see what is said to have been his harp, and is

undoubtedly a relic of very ancient times, at the museum of

Trinity College. The college is a most attractive place, and

delightfully situated, on ground of course originally stolen from

the Catholic Church, and endowed out of the spoils of

monasteries. Quite in keeping with its origin is the fact that

its library contains a large number of valuable manuscript

records, originally stolen from the papal archives. The learned

body which rules within its classic halls has also made itself

remarkable by sustaining a claim, perhaps the most absurd ever

advanced by persons professing to be scholars, namely, that the

Protestant Church of Ireland is the lineal and legitimate

successor, in a direct, unbroken line, of the ancient church of

Saint Patrick. This is adding insult to injury. As if it were not

enough to rob the Irish people of their property, to persecute,

torture, exile, and massacre them by millions, on account of

their fidelity to their hereditary faith, their title to the very

name of Catholic must be denied to them, and arrogated for the

intruders who have forced themselves into their heritage by the

point of the bayonet and the violation of treaties. Two terrible

antagonists have arisen, however, out of their own camp to smite

these pretenders; Dr. Maziere Brady, an Irish Protestant

clergyman, and Froude, the English historian. The former

gentleman, in several learned and unanswerable works, has

demonstrated the regular, unbroken succession of the present

Catholic hierarchy and people of Ireland, from the bishops and

faithful who preceded the reign of Henry VIII., and has shown

that the Irish Protestant Church is nothing but an English

colony. The learned and accomplished Dr. Moran, also, whom I had

the pleasure of meeting, has written with great ability and

research upon the same topics.

Stephen's Green, which is near by Trinity College, witnessed the

burning of the heroic martyr Archbishop O'Hurley, tortured and

put to death, at the instigation of the infamous Loftus,

archbishop of Dublin. A few days later, I saw in the private

chapel of Archbishop Manning, at London, a cloth stained with the

blood of Archbishop Plunkett, another illustrious martyr, who was

publicly executed by the English government on false charges.

{744}

I venerate the relics of the older martyrs, and the places made

sacred by the hallowed memories of other countries and ages far

remote; but nothing stirs my blood like the holy mementoes of the

men who suffered in Ireland and England, for the faith, under the

tyranny of the apostate sovereigns and bishops of Great Britain.

These men are our fathers in the faith, the heroes who fought our

battles, from whom we have received the precious heritage we

enjoy in comparative peace. Their memory ought to be kept alive

and honored among us, in every possible way, as a powerful

incitement to imitate their example, and a means of endearing to

our people that religion which has been handed down, bathed in

the blood of so many noble Christians.

St. Patrick's Cathedral is the most interesting and venerable

monument of antiquity in Dublin. My fellow-travellers were

astonished at seeing a Protestant St. Patrick's, with a statue of

the great apostle over the principal door. Probably most

Americans who have not made themselves specially familiar with

Irish history fancy that most of the fine churches of Dublin are

Catholic churches. Perhaps many of them are not aware that every

church, graveyard, glebe-house, abbey, every rood of land, every

building, and every farthing of revenue belonging to the Catholic

Church in Ireland, has been confiscated by the English

government. In Dublin, out of eighty-four churches, forty

belonged to the English church, and only twenty to the Catholics,

in 1866. At the close of the last century there was not a

Catholic church in Dublin, nor could there be one according to

law. All the churches and other institutions in Dublin are

therefore the creation of the present century, the fruit of the

free-will offerings of the poor people, and a few wealthy

persons, such as Catherine McAuley, who consecrated her handsome

fortune entirely to religion.

St. Patrick's dates from the year 1190, though the spire was

added in the fourteenth century. It has been thoroughly repaired

and renovated, at a cost of one hundred thousand pounds, which

was given by the well-known brewer, Mr. Guinness. It contains one

of St. Patrick's holy wells, which is visible through an opening

in the floor, and guarded with great respect. Tradition says that

the saint baptized the first Irish convert in this fountain. This

is probably not true; but it is very likely that he did use it

for baptism, and perhaps baptized in it the first converts in

that part of the country. There are some ancient monuments of

bishops and knights, and some modern ones of persons who have

figured during the Protestant ascendency--Brown and Loftus,

Swift, Stella, and the late Dr. Whately, who was Dr. Trench's

immediate predecessor. It is painful enough to see the old

churches and abbeys of England in the hands of aliens from the

faith, although the mass of the people have fallen away and

cannot appreciate the fearful loss they have suffered, in the

substitution of a creature of parliament in the place of the

spouse of Christ. In Ireland, where the people remain fervently

and devoutly Catholic, it is a far more painful sight to witness

their ancient shrines and holy places in the hands of the

descendants of their spoilers, who are unable to make any use,

even for Protestant worship, of the greater part of them.

{745}

While the respectable sexton, whose appearance was that of a

faded dean, was showing me the church for the consideration of a

shilling, I was busily occupied in my own mind invoking St.

Patrick to take his own again, bring back the altars, restore the

unbloody sacrifice, and cause the chants of High Mass to resound

once more within the walls of the venerable cathedral dedicated

to his honor. It is a great consolation to reflect that since

then the death-blow has been levelled at the state church by the

same power which created it. And although justice has not yet

been done to the Catholic people of Ireland, or any step taken to

restore to them the sacred property of which they have been

robbed, there is the greatest reason to hope that, in the course

of events, they will yet regain it by fair and peaceable means,

without violence or revolution.

Two other objects which interested me greatly, were the chamber

of the Irish House of Lords, preserved still in the same state as

when the last session was held in it, and the tomb of O'Connell,

at the beautiful cemetery of Glasnevin.

The next morning I bade adieu to Ireland from the deck of the

Kingstown and Holyhead steamer, and although it was only a

passing glimpse I had obtained of this fair island, I shall

always be thankful to have had even this glimpse.

Ireland has the strongest claims on the love and gratitude of all

Catholics throughout the English-speaking world. Her Celtic race,

although distinct in character, language, and history from the

people whose mother tongue is English, has been brought into such

close relations with it, and is now blending with it to such a

remarkable extent in this country, and other British colonies,

that its history becomes as interesting to us as the early

history of England. Moreover, although a handful of English and

Scotch remained true to the faith during the revolution of the

sixteenth century, it is to Ireland that is due the honor of

holding aloft the banner of religion, around which are now

grouped one fifth of the bishops owning allegiance to St. Peter.

American converts are especially bound to gratitude to that Irish

people who, above all others, have been the founders of the

Catholic Church throughout the largest portion of our republic.

For fourteen centuries, that people has handed down and witnessed

to the faith which St. Patrick brought from France and Rome in

the fifth century, when St. Augustine was yet scarcely cold in

his grave. Without disparaging the great services which other

nationalities have rendered to religion in our country, it is

undoubted that, in our portion of it, it is through the Irish

succession chiefly that we communicate with past ages, and

through their rich life-blood that our Catholicity has become

vigorous. As Catholics and as Americans, we are the natural

friends of Ireland and the Irish. One very good and pleasant way

of showing this friendship is, for those who have money enough to

travel, to spend a portion of their time and money in Ireland.

The advantage will be mutual. Those who are in search of health,

pleasure, and improvement, cannot spend a month or two more

delightfully or beneficially than on such a tour. On the other

hand, the money spent, whether in purchases or in alms to the

poor, will do great good, and the sympathy, kindness, respect for

their religion and themselves, manifested toward the people so

long borne down by the _peine forte et dure_ of oppression

and contempt, will be fully appreciated by their warm hearts, and

encourage them to hope for the full coming of that better day

whose dawning already appears in the horizon.

{746}

It is much to be desired that the good beginning already made by

several excellent writers, in publishing books on the religious

history of Ireland, should be actively followed up. A

well-written, popular history, with illustrations, of all the

principal places of interest in the secular and ecclesiastical

history of the country, with sketches of the monastic

institutions formerly flourishing; of the old churches, and

episcopal sees; and lives of the saints and great men who have

flourished, especially the martyrs, would be of the greatest

service to religion. Such a volume would enable the Catholic

tourist to visit the country with the greatest possible advantage

and pleasure, beside the more important help it would give in

strengthening the faith and devotion of the rising generation in

Ireland, and the countries to which she has sent her colonies.

The richest and most abundant field is open to literature of all

kinds, both of the lighter and the more solid character, and it

is to be hoped that it will be thoroughly explored and well

worked by those who are true and faithful to the ancient,

valiantly defended faith of the Island of Saints.

----------

Primeval Man.

[Footnote 196]

[Footnote 186: _Primeval Man_. An Examination of some

Recent Speculations. By the Duke of Argyll. New York:

Routledge & Sons. 1869. 16mo, pp. 210.]

There are few more active or able members of the English House of

Lords or of the British ministry than the Scottish Duke of

Argyll, and, if we could forget the treason to the Stuarts and

the Scottish nation of some of his ancestors, there are few

scholars and scientific men in the United Kingdom whom we should

be disposed to treat with greater respect. He is at once a

statesman, a scientist, and a theologian; and in all three

capacities has labored earnestly to serve his country and

civilization. In politics, he is, of course, a whig, or, as is

now said, a liberal; as a theologian, he belongs to the Kirk of

Scotland, and may be regarded as a Calvinist; as a man of

science, his aim appears to be to assert the freedom and

independence of science, without compromising religion. His work

on the _Reign of Law_, reviewed and sharply criticised in

this magazine for February, 1868, was designed to combat the

atheistic tendencies of modern scientific theories, by asserting

final causes, and resolving the natural laws of the physicists

into the direct and immediate will of God.

In the present work, quite too brief and sketchy, he treats of

the primeval man, and maintains man's origin in the creative act

of God, against the developmentists and natural selectionists,

which is well, as far as it goes. He treats, also, of the

antiquity of man, and of his primeval condition. He appears

disposed to allow man a higher antiquity than we think the facts

in the case warrant; but, though he dissents, to some extent,

from the theory of the late Anglican Archbishop of Dublin, we

find him combating with great success the savage theory of Sir

John Lubbock, who maintains that man began in the lowest form of

barbarism in which he can subsist as man, and has risen to his

present state of civilization by his own spontaneous and

unassisted efforts--a theory just now very generally adopted in

the non-Catholic world, and assumed as the basis of the modern

doctrine of progress--the absurdest doctrine that ever gained

currency among educated men.

{747}

The noble duke very properly denies the origin of species in

development, and the production of new species by "natural

selection," as Darwin holds, and acceded to by Sir Charles Lyell

and an able writer in _The Quarterly_ for last April. The

duke maintains that man was created man, not developed from a

lower species, from the tadpole or monkey. But, while he asserts

the origin of species in the creative act of God, he supposes God

supplies extinct species by creating new species by successive

creative acts; thus losing the unity of the creative act, placing

multiplicity in the origin of things, and favoring that very

atheistical tendency he aims to war against. His _Reign of

Law_, though well-intended, and highly praised by our amiable

friend, M. Augustin Cochin, of _Le Correspondant_, showed us

that the noble author has failed both in his theology and

philosophy. In resolving the natural laws into the will of God

enforcing itself by power, he fails to recognize any distinction

between first cause and second cause, and, therefore, between the

natural and the supernatural. God does all, not only as first

cause, or _causa eminens_, as say the theologians, but as

the direct and immediate actor, which, of course, is pantheism,

itself only a form of atheism. Yet we know not that his grace

could have done better, with Calvinism for his theology, and the

Scottish school, as finished by Sir William Hamilton, for his

philosophy. To have thoroughly refuted the theories against which

he honorably protests, he must have known Catholic theology, and

the Christian view of the creative act.

We have no disposition, at present, to discuss the antiquity

either of man or the globe. If the fact that God, _in the

beginning_, created heaven and earth, and all things therein,

visible and invisible, is admitted and maintained, we know not

that we need, in the interest of orthodoxy, quarrel about the

date when it was done. Time began with the externization of the

divine creative act, and the universe has no relation beyond

itself, except the relation of the creature to the creator.

Considering the late date of the Incarnation, we are not disposed

to assign man a very high antiquity, and no geological or

historical facts are, as yet, established that require it for

their explanation. We place little confidence in the hasty

inductions of geologists.

But the primitive condition of man has for us a deeper interest;

and we follow the noble duke with pleasure in his able refutation

of the savage theory of Sir J. Lubbock. Sir John evidently holds

the theory of development, and that man has been developed from a

lower species. He assumes that his primitive human state was the

lowest form of barbarism in which he can subsist as man. With

regard to man's development from lower animals, it is enough to

say that development cannot take place except where there are

living germs to be developed, and can only unfold and bring out

what is contained in them. But we find in man, even in the lowest

form of savage life, elements, language or articulate speech, for

instance, of which there are no germs to be found in the animal

kingdom. We may dismiss that theory and assume at once that man

was created, and created man. But was his condition in his

primitive state that of the lowest form of barbarism? Is the

savage the primitive man, or the degenerate man?

{748}

The former is assumed in almost every scientific work we meet; it

is defended by all the advocates of the modern doctrine that man

is naturally progressive. Saint-Simon, in his _Nouveau

Christianisme_, asserts that paradise is before us, not behind

us; and even some who accept the Biblical history have advanced

so little in harmonizing their faith with what they call their

science, that they do not hesitate to suppose that man began his

career, at least after the prevarication of Adam, in downright

savagism. Even the learned Döllinger so far falls in with the

modern theory as to make polished gentilism originate in

disgusting fetichism.

The noble duke sufficiently refutes the theory of Sir John

Lubbock, but does not seem to us to have fully grasped and

refuted the assumptions on which it is founded. "His two main

lines of argument," he says, (page 5,) "connect themselves with

the two following propositions, which he undertakes to prove,

First, that there are indications of progress even among savages;

and second, that among civilized nations there are traces of

barbarism."

The first proposition is not proved or provable. The

characteristic of the savage is to be unprogressive. Some tribes

may be more or less degraded than others. The American Indian

ranks above the New Hollander; but, whether more or less

degraded, we never find savages lifting themselves by their own

efforts into even a comparatively civilized state. Niebuhr says

there is no instance on record of a savage tribe having become a

civilized people by its own spontaneous efforts; and Heeren

remarks that the description of the tribes eastward of the

Persian Gulf along the borders of the Indian Ocean, by the

companions of Alexander, applies perfectly to them as we now find

them. No germs of civilized life are to be found among them, or,

if so, they are dead, not living germs, incapable of development.

The savage is a thorough routinist, the slave of petrified

customs and usages. He shows often great skill in constructing

and managing his canoe, in making and ornamenting his bow or his

war-club; but one generation never advances on its predecessor,

and the new generation only reproduces the old. All the arts the

savage has have come, as his ideas, to a stand-still. He is

stern, sad, gloomy, as if oppressed by memory, and exhibits none

of the joyousness or frolicsomeness which we might expect from

his fresh young life, if he represented the infancy or childhood

of the race, as pretended.

Even in what are called civilized heathen nations we find a

continual deterioration, but no indication of progress in

civilization, or in those elements which distinguish civilized

from barbaric or savage life. Culture and polish may be the

concomitants of civilization, but do not constitute it. The

generations that built the pyramids, Babylon, Nineveh, Thebes,

Rome, were superior to any of their successors. No subsequent

Greek poet ever came up to Homer, and the oldest of the Vedas

surpass the powers of the Indian people in any generation more

recent than that which produced them. The Chinese cannot to-day

produce new works to compare with those of Confucius. Where now

are the once renowned nations of antiquity whose ships ploughed

every sea, and whose armies made the earth tremble with their

tread? Fallen, all have fallen, and remain only in their ruins,

and the page of the historian or song of the bard.

{749}

If these nations, so great and powerful, with many elements of a

strong civilization, could not sustain themselves from falling

into barbarism, how pretend that the lowest and most degraded

savages can, without any foreign assistance, lift themselves into

a civilized state?

The second proposition, that civilized nations retain traces of

barbarism, proves nothing to the purpose. These traces, at most,

prove only that the nations in which we detect them have passed

through a state of barbarism, as we know modern nations have; not

that barbarism was, in any form, the primitive condition of the

race. It is not pretended that no savage tribe has ever been

civilized; what is denied is, that the race began in the savage

state, or that, if it had so begun, it could ever have risen by

its own natural forces alone to civilization. There is no

evidence that the cruel and bloody customs, traces of which we

find in civilized nations, were those of the primeval man. The

polished and cultivated Romans were more savage in their customs

than the northern barbarians who overthrew their civilization,

much to the relief of mankind. When the late Theodore Parker drew

a picture of the New Zealander in order to describe Adam, he

proceeded according to his theory of progress, but without a

shadow of authority. We find a cruelty, an inhumanity, an

oppression, bloody and obscene rites, among polished nations--as

Rome, Syria, Phoenicia, and modern India--that we shall look in

vain for among downright savages; which shows that we owe them to

cultivation, to development, that is, to "development," as the

noble duke well says, "in corruption."

But these traces of so-called barbarism among civilized nations

are more than offset by remains of civilization which we find in

savage tribes. Sir J. Lubbock and others take these remains as

indications of progress among savages; but they mistake the

evening twilight deepening into darkness, for that of the morning

ushering in the day. This is evident from the fact that they are

followed by no progress. They are reminiscences, not promises. If

germs, they never germinate; but have been deprived of their

vitality. To us, paganism bears witness in all its forms that it

has degenerated from its _normna_, or type; not that it is

advancing toward it. We see in its incoherence, its incongruities

and inequalities, that it is a fall or departure from something

higher, more living and more perfect. Any one studying

Protestantism, in any of its forms, may see that it is not an

original system of religion; that it is a departure from its

type, not an approach to it; and, if we know well the Catholic

Church, we see at once that in her is the type that Protestantism

loses, corrupts, or travesties. So paganism bears unmistakable

evidence of what we know from authentic history, that, whether

with polished gentiles or with rude savages and barbarians, its

type, from which it recedes, is the patriarchal religion. We know

that it was an apostasy or falling away from that religion, the

primitive religion of the race, as Protestantism is an apostasy

or falling away from the Catholic Church. Protestantism, in the

modern world, is what gentilism was in the ancient; and as

gentilism is the religion of all savage or barbarian tribes, we

have in Protestantism a key for explaining whatever is dark or

obscure in their history. We see in Protestant nations a tendency

to lose or throw off more and more of what they retained when

they separated from the church, and which before the lapse of

many generations, if not arrested, will lead them to a hopeless

barbarism. The traces of Catholic faith we find in them are

reminiscences, not prophecies.

{750}

We find with the lowest and most degraded savages, language, and

often a language of great richness, singular beauty and

expressiveness. Terms for which savages have no use may sometimes

be wanting, but it is rare that the language cannot be made to

supply them from its resources. In the poorest language of a

savage tribe, there is always evidence of its having been the

language of a people superior in ideas and culture to the present

condition of those who speak it. Language, among savage tribes,

we take to be always indicative of a lost state far above that of

barbarism; and it not only refutes the theory of natural

progress, but, as far as it goes, proves the doctrine of

primitive instruction by the Creator, maintained by Dr. Whately,

and only partially accepted by his Grace of Argyll.

Language is no human invention, nor the product of individual or

social progress. It requires language to invent language, and

there is no individual progress out of society, and no society is

possible without language. Hence, animals may be gregarious, but

not sociable. They do not, and never can, form society. Max

Müller has disposed of the bow-wow theory, or the origin of

language in the imitation of the cries of animals, and also of

the theory that supposes it to originate in the imitation of the

sounds of nature, as buzz, rattle, etc.; for if a few words could

originate in this way, language itself could not, since there is

much more in language than words. The more common theory, just

now, and which has respectable names in its favor, is that God is

indeed the author of language, but as _causa eminens_, as he

is of all that nature does; that is, he does not directly teach

man language, but creates him with the power or faculty of

speaking, and making himself understood by articulate speech. But

this theory will not bear examination.

Between language and the faculty of using it there is a

difference, and no faculty creates its own object. The faculty of

speaking could no more be exercised without language, than the

faculty of seeing without a visible object. Where there is no

language, the faculty is and must be inoperative. The error is in

supposing that the faculty of using language is the faculty of

creating language, which it cannot be; for, till the language is

possessed and held in the mind, there is nothing for the faculty

of speech to operate on or with. To have given man the faculty of

speech, the Creator must have begun by teaching him language, or

by infusing it with the meaning of its words into his mind. We

misapprehend the very nature and office of language, if we

suppose it can possibly be used except as learned from or taught

by a teacher. Man, as second cause, can no more produce language

than he can create something from nothing. If God made us as

second causes capable of creating language, why can we not do it

now, and master it without a long and painful study? Since the

faculty must be the same in all men, why do not all men speak one

and the same dialect?

We will suppose man had language from the first. But there is no

language without discourse of reason. A parrot or a crow may be

taught to pronounce single words, and even sentences, but it

would be absurd to assert that either has the faculty of

language. To have language and be able to use it, one must have

knowledge, and the sense of the word must precede, or at least be

simultaneous with the word. Both the word and its meaning must be

associated in the mind.

{751}

How then could the Creator give man the faculty of language,

without imparting to him in some way the ideas and principles it

is fitted to express, and without expressing which it cannot be

language? He must do so, or there could be no _verbum

mentis_, and the word would be spoken without meaning.

Moreover, all language is profoundly philosophical, and conforms

more nearly to the reality of things than any human system yet

attained to, not only by savages, but by civilized and cultivated

men; and whenever it deviates from that reality, it is when it

has been corrupted by the false systems and methods of

philosophers. In all languages, we find subject, predicate, and

copula. The copula is always the verb _to be_, teaching

those who understand it that nothing existing can be affirmed

except by being and in its relation to being, that is God, who is

QUI EST. Were ignorant savages able distinctly to recognize and

embody in language the ideal formula, when no philosopher can

ever apprehend and consider it unless represented to him in

words? Impossible.

We take language, therefore, as a reminiscence among savages of a

previous civilization, and a conclusive proof that, up to a

certain point at least, the primeval man, as Dr. Whately

maintains, was and must have been instructed by his Maker. As

language is never known save as learned from a teacher, its

existence among the lowest and most degraded barbarians is a

proof that the primeval man was not, and could not have been an

untutored savage. The Anglican archbishop, having, as the

Scottish duke, no proper criterion of truth, may have included in

the primitive instruction more than it actually contained. An

error of this sort in an Anglican should surprise no one. Truth

or sound philosophy from such a source would be the only thing to

surprise us. We do not suppose Adam was directly instructed in

all the mechanic arts, in the whole science and practice of

agriculture, or in the entire management of flocks and herds, nor

that he had steam-engines, spinning-jennies, power-looms,

steamboats, railroads, locomotives, palace-cars, or even

lightning telegraphs. We do not suppose that the race, in

relation to the material order, received any direct instructions,

except of the most elementary kind, or in matters of prime

necessity, or high utility to his physical life and health. The

ornamental arts, and other matters which do not exceed man's

natural powers, may have been left to man to find out for

himself, though we have instances recorded in which some of them

were taught by direct inspiration, and many modern inventions are

only the reproduction of arts once known, and subsequently lost

or forgotten.

It is not difficult to explain how our modern advocates of

progress have come to regard the savage as the primeval man, and

not as the degenerate man. Their theory of natural progress

demands it, and they have always shown great facility in

accommodating their facts to their theories. They take also their

starting-point in heathenism of comparatively recent origin, and

study the law of human development in the history of gentilism.

They forget that gentilism originated in an apostasy from the

patriarchal or primitive moral and religious order, and that,

from the first, there remained, and always has remained, on earth

a people that did not apostatize, that remained faithful to

tradition, to the primitive instruction and wisdom.

{752}

They fail to consider that, language confounded and the race

dispersed, those who remained nearest the original seats of

civilization, and were separated by the least distance from the

people that remained faithful, became the earliest civilized or

polished gentile nations, and that those who wandered further

into the wilderness--receding further and further from light,

losing more and more of their original patrimony, cut off from

all intercourse with civilization by distance, by difference of

language, and to some extent, perhaps, by physical changes and

convulsions of the globe, degenerated gradually into barbarians

and savages. Occasionally, in the course of ages, some of these

wandering and degenerate tribes were brought under the influence

of civilization by the arts, the arms, and the religion of the

more civilized gentile nations. But in none has the gentile

civilization, in the proper sense of the term, ever risen above

what the gentiles took with them from the primitive stock, when

they apostatized. Protestant nations are below, not above, what

they were at the epoch of the Reformation. The reformers were

greatly superior to any of their successors.

But our philosophic historians take no account of these things,

nor of the fact that history shows them no barbaric ancestors of

the Egyptians, Indians, Assyrians, Babylonians, Syrians,

Phoenicians, etc. They find, or think they find, from the Greek

poets and traditions, that the ancestors of the Greeks and

Romans, each a comparatively modern people, were really savages,

and that suffices them to prove that the savage state is the

primeval state of the race! They find, also, that a marvellous

progress in civilization, under Christianity has been effected,

and what hinders them from concluding that man is

_naturally_ progressive, or that the savage is able, by his

own efforts, to lift himself into civilized life? Have not the

northern barbarians, who overthrew the Roman empire of the west,

and seated themselves on its majestic ruins, become, under the

teachings and the supernatural influences of the church, the

great civilized nations of the modern world? How, then, pretend

to deny that barbarians and savages can become civilized by their

own spontaneous efforts and natural forces alone?

Whether any savage tribe was ever civilized under gentilism is,

perhaps, doubtful; but if the philosophers of history would take

the right line, instead of a collateral line or bastard branch of

the human family, and follow it from Adam down, through the

patriarchs, the synagogue, and the Catholic Church, they would

find that there has always been a believing, a faithful, an

enlightened, and a civilized people on earth, and they never

would and never could have imagined any thing so untrue as that

man began "in the lowest form of barbarism in which he can

subsist as man." We have no indication of the existence of any

savage or barbarous tribes before the flood; nor after the flood,

till the confusion of language at Babel, and the consequent

dispersion of the human race; that is, till after the gentile

apostasy, of which they are one of the fruits. Adam, by his fall,

lost communion with God, became darkened in his understanding,

enfeebled in his will, and disordered in his appetites and

passions; but he did not lose all his science, forget all his

moral and religious instruction, and become a complete savage.

Besides, his communion with God was renewed by repentance and

faith in the promised Messiah, or incarnate Son of God, who

should come to redeem the world, and enable man to fulfil his

destiny, or attain his end.

{753}

We do not by any means deny progress. We believe in it with St.

Paul, and struggle for it in individuals and in society. We only

do not believe in progress or perfectibility by the simple forces

of nature alone, or that man is naturally progressive. Existences

have two movements or cycles: the one, their procession, by way

of creation, from God as first cause; the other, their return,

without absorption in him, to God as their final cause or

beatitude, as we have on several occasions very fully shown. In

the first cycle, man is explicated by natural generation, and his

powers are determined by his nature, or the physical laws of his

existence. In the second cycle, his explication is by

regeneration, a supernatural act; and his progress is directed

and controlled by the moral law prescribed by God as final cause,

and is limited only by the infinite, to which he aspires, and, by

the assistance of grace, may attain. The first cycle is initial,

and in it there is no moral, religious, or social progress; there

is only physical development and growth. It is under the natural

laws of the physicists, who never look any further. The second

cycle is teleological, and under the moral law, or the natural

law of the theologians and the legists. In this teleological

cycle lies the whole moral order, as distinguished from the

physical; the whole of religion; its means, influences, and ends;

and, consequently, civilization, in so far as it has any moral or

religious character, aims, or tendency.

Civilization, we are aware, is a word that has hardly a fixed

meaning, and is used vaguely, and in different senses. It is

derived from a word signifying the city--in modern language, the

state--and relates to the organization, constitution, and

administration of the commonwealth or republic. It is used

vaguely for the aggregate of the manners, customs, and usages of

city life, and also for the principles and laws of a well ordered

and well-governed civil society. We take it chiefly in the latter

sense, and understand by it the supremacy of the moral order in

secular life, the reign of law, or the subjection of the passions

and turbulent elements of human nature in the individual, the

family, and society to the moral law; or, briefly, the

predominance of reason and justice over passion and caprice in

the affairs of this world, and therefore coincident with liberty,

as distinguished from license. The race began in civilization,

because it began with a knowledge of the law of human existence,

man's origin and destiny, and of the means and conditions of

gaining the end for which he exists; and because he was placed in

the outset by his Maker in possession of these means and

conditions, so that he could not fail except through his own

fault. Those who reject, neglect, or pervert the moral order,

follow only the natural laws, separate from the communion of the

faithful, and remain in the initial cycle, gradually become

barbarians, superstitious, the slaves of their own passions,

cruel and merciless savages, even if still cultivated, refined,

and mild-mannered.

We place civilization, then, in the second cycle or movement of

existences, under the moral law, and must do so or deny it all

moral basis or moral character. What is not moral in its aims and

tendencies, or is not in the order of man's return to God as his

last end, we exclude from civilization, as no part of it, even if

called by its name. There is no civilization where there is no

state or civil polity; and there can be no state or civil polity,

though there may be force, tyranny, and slavery, out of the moral

order.

{754}

The state lies in the moral or teleological order, and is under

the moral law--the law prescribed by God as final cause. It

derives all its principles from it, and is founded and governed

by it. Its very mission is the maintenance of justice, freedom,

and order; and, as far as it goes, to keep men's faces towards

the end for which they are created. And hence the concord there

is, or should be, between the state and the church.

Most of those things, it will be seen from this, after which the

gentiles seek, and which the moderns call civilization, may be

adjuncts of civilization, in the sense of our Lord, when he says,

"Seek first the kingdom of God and his justice, and _all these

things shall be added_ unto you;" but they do not constitute

civilization, are not it, nor any part of it. Here is where

modern gentilism errs, no less than did the ancient. Take up any

of the leading journals of the day, and you will find what with

great emphasis is called modern civilization is in the initial

order, not the teleological; and is only a development and

application of the natural laws of the physicists, not the

natural or moral law of the theologians and legists. The press

and popular orators called, a few years ago, Cyrus W. Field, who

had taken a leading share in laying a submarine telegraph from

the western coast of Ireland to the eastern coast of

Newfoundland, a "second Messiah." When, after much urging and

some threats, President Lincoln proclaimed, as a war measure, the

emancipation of the slaves in certain States and parts of States

then at war with the general government, the press and orators

that approved, both at home and abroad, forthwith pronounced him

also a "second Messiah," and without stopping to inquire whether

the emancipation would be any thing more than the exchange of one

form of compulsory physical labor for another, perhaps no better.

Now, when a new Atlantic cable is laid from France to

Massachusetts, we are told in flaring capitals and lofty periods

that it is another and a glorious triumph of modern

civilization--of mind over matter, man over nature. If our San

Francisco friend succeeds in constructing an aerial ship, with

which he can navigate the air, it will be a greater triumph still

of modern civilization, and the theologians and moralists will

have to hide their heads. All this shows that civilization, by

the leaders of public opinion in our day, is placed wholly in the

physical order, and consists in the development and application

of the natural laws to the accomplishment of certain physical

ends or purposes of utility only in the first cycle of our

existence, and without the least moral significance. So

completely have we become devoted to the improvement of our

condition in the initial order, that we forget that life does not

end with it, or that the initial exists only for the

teleological, and that our development and application of the

physical laws of nature imply no progress in civilization, or the

realization of a moral ideal.

But whatever success we may have in developing and applying to

our own purposes the physical laws of man and the globe he

inhabits, we must remember that no success of that sort initiates

us into the second cycle, or the life of our return to God. To

enter that life we must be regenerated, and we can no more

regenerate than we can generate ourselves. Here, we may see why

even to civilization the Incarnation of the Word is necessary.

The hypostatic union of the divine and human natures in the

divine person of the Word carries the creative act to its summit,

completes the first cycle, and initiates the second, into which

we can enter only as we are reborn of Christ, as we were born in

the first cycle of Adam.

{755}

Hence, Christ is called the second Adam, the Lord from heaven.

Civilization, morality, salvation, are in one sense in the same

order and under one and the same law.

Progress being possible, except in the sense of physical

development, only in the movement of return to God as final

cause, and that movement originating in the Incarnation only, it

follows that those nations alone that are united to Christ by

faith and love, either united to him who was to come, as were the

patriarchs and the synagogue, before the Incarnation, or to him

in the church or the regeneration, as are Catholics since, are or

can be progressive, or even truly civilized nations. They who

assert progress by our natural forces alone, confound the first

cycle with the second, generation with regeneration, and the

natural laws, which proceed from God as first cause, with the

natural or moral law which is prescribed by God as final cause.

It is a great mistake, then, to suppose, as many do, that the

mysteries of faith, even the most recondite, have no practical

bearing on the progress of men and nations, or that it is safe,

in studying civilization, to take our point of departure in

gentilism.

In accordance with our conclusion, we find that gentile nations,

ancient or modern, are really unprogressive, save in the physical

or initial order; which is of no account in the moral or

teleological order. We deny not the achievements of Protestant

nations in the physical order; but, in relation to the end for

which man exists, they not only do not advance beyond what they

took with them from the church, but are constantly deteriorating.

They have lost the condition of moral and spiritual progress,

individually and collectively, by losing communion with Christ in

his church; they have lost Christ, in reality, if not in name;

and by losing the infallible word preserved by the church alone,

they have lost or are losing the state, civil authority itself,

and finding themselves reduced to what St. Paul calls "the

natural man." They place all their hopes in physical success,

always certain to fail in the end, when pursued for its own sake.

We have raised and we raise here no question as to what God might

have done, or how or with what powers he might have created man,

had he chosen. We only take the plan he has chosen to adopt; and

which, in his providence and grace, he carries out. In the

present decree, as say the theologians, he has subjected the

whole teleological order to one and the same law; and

civilization, morality, and Christian sanctity are not separable

in principle, and depend on one and the same fundamental law.

Gentilism divorces religion and the state from morality; and

modern heresy recognizes no intrinsic relation between them. It

tells us religion is necessary to the stability of the political

order; that Christianity is the basis of morality, and that it is

the great agent of progress; but it shows us no reason why it is

or should be so, and in its practical doctrine it teaches that it

is not so. Every thing, as far as it informs us, depends on

arbitrary appointment, and without any reason of being in the

system of things which God has seen proper to create. Hence,

people are unable to form to themselves any clear view of the

relation of religion and morality, of morality and civilization,

or to arrive at any satisfactory understanding of the purpose and

law of human existence; and they either frame to themselves the

wildest, the most fanciful, or the most absurd theories, or give

the whole up in despair, sink into a state of utter indifference,

and say, "Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die."

{756}

They simply vegetate in vice or crime, or, at best, only take

themselves to the study of the physical sciences, or the

cultivation of the fine arts. We have shown that their

difficulties and discouragements are imaginary, and arise from

ignorance of the divine plan of creation, and the mutual relation

and dependence of all its parts. One divine thought runs through

the whole, and nothing does or can stand alone. We study things

too much in their analysis, not enough in their synthesis.

----------

Translated From The German

Of Conrad Von Bolanden.

Angela.

Chapter III.

Quod Erat Demonstrandum.

On the following day, Richard went to the weather-cross. He did

not meet Angela. She must have been unusually early; for the

flowers had evidently just been placed before the statue.

He returned, gloomy, to the house and wrote in his diary:

"May 14th.--She did not meet me today, and probably will not

meet me again. I should have left the book where it was; it

might have awakened her gratitude; for I think she left it

purposely, to give me an opportunity to make her acquaintance.

"How many young women would give more than a book to get

acquainted with a wealthy party. The 'Angel' is very sensitive;

but this sensibility pleases me, because it is true womanly

delicacy.

"She will now avoid meeting me in this lonely road. But I will

study her character in her father's house. I will see if she

does not confirm my opinion of the women of our times. It was

for this purpose alone that I accepted Siegwart's invitation.

Angela must not play Isabella; no woman ever shall. Single and

free from woman's yoke, I will go through the world."

He put aside the diary, and began reading Vogt's Physiological

Letters_.

At three o'clock precisely, Richard with the punctual doctor left

Frankenhöhe. They passed through the chestnut grove and through

the vineyard toward Salingen. The doctor pushed on with long

steps, his arms swinging back and forth. He was evidently pleased

with the subject he had been reading. He had, on leaving the

house, shaken Richard by the hand, and spoken a few friendly

words, but not a syllable since. Richard knew his ways, and knew

that it would take some time for him to thaw.

They were passing between Siegwart's house and Salingen when they

beheld Angela, at a distance, coming toward them. She carried a

little basket on her arm, and on her head she wore a straw hat

with broad fluttering ribbons. Richard fixed his eyes attentively

on her. This time, also, she did not wear hoops, but a dress of

modest colors. He admired her light, graceful movement and

charming figure. The blustering doctor moderated his steps and

went slower the nearer he came to Angela, and considered her with

surprise. Frank greeted her, touching his hat. She did not thank

him, as before, with a friendly greeting, but by a scarcely

perceptible inclination of the head; nor did she smile as before,

but on this account seemed to him more charming and ethereal than

ever. She only glanced at him, and he thought he observed a

slight blush on her cheeks.

{757}

These particulars were engrossing the young man's attention when

he heard the doctor say,

"Evidently the Angel of Salingen."

"Who?" said Richard in surprise.

"The Angel of Salingen," returned Klingenberg. "You are surprised

at this appellation; is it not well-merited?"

"My surprise increases, doctor; for exaggeration is not your

fashion."

"But she deserves acknowledgment. Let me explain. The maiden is

the daughter of the proprietor Siegwart, and her name is Angela.

She is a model of every virtue. She is, in the female world, what

an image of the Virgin, by one of the old masters, would be among

the hooped gentry of the present. As you are aware, I have been

often called to the cabins of the sick poor, and there the quiet,

unostentatious labors of this maiden have become known to me.

Angela prepares suitable food for the sick, and generally takes

it to them herself. The basket on her arm does service in this

way. There are many poor persons who would not recover unless

they had proper, nourishing food. To these Angela is a great

benefactor. For this reason, she has a great influence over the

minds of the sick, and the state of the mind greatly facilitates

or impedes their recovery.