A low rap at Mrs. Kenton's door. It is the hour after dinner, and

Dr. Kenton and Mr. Hartridge are in the library, alternately

discussing business and their meerschaums. There are two hours

yet before the ladies need dress for the evening. Mrs. Kenton is

sitting in her large chair before the grate, and the girls come

in quietly and draw up two low ottomans at her feet. The gas is

not yet lighted, and the twilight throws long, deep shadows from

the curtains and the quaint, old-fashioned high bedposts.

"Mother, we have seen Sister Simplicia to-day. Anita very much

wishes to hear her history, and you have never told it to me yet.

It is just the night to tell a story, just such a night as we

read of, 'without, the snow falling thick and fast, but within a

bright fire throwing its cheerful light around the room and

lighting up the countenance of the narrator,'" said Mary,

smiling.

"I imagine the fire you are quoting about was of hickory logs in

a great, wide fireplace; and this is only a city grate," said her

mother in the same tone; and then more seriously, "but I will

tell you the story, since you wish it, and all the more readily

as I was thinking of her at the moment you entered.

"Eight years ago Rose Harding was the belle of our circle. I

loved her as I would have loved a little sister of my own, had I

been blessed with one. She was the younger sister of my dearest

friend; and when Rachel died, she left Rose half in my care, for

their mother was dead and the father only too indulgent. But Rose

was not easily spoiled, and looking back now at this distance, I

think that I have never known another that was her equal. Mr.

Harding was wealthy, and she had all that heart could wish. Of

course she was much sought after and much loved; but few were

made unhappy through her, for she was far too generous and too

conscientious to be a coquette; and when one evening she came to

me, blushing and trembling, and told me that Willis Courtney

loved her--"

"Willis Courtney, the son of papa's old partner?" asked Anita.

"You have seen him?"

"Yes; he was my ideal when I was still a very little girl. But

then I was sent away to be educated, and never saw him

afterward."

"He was worthy of Rose, though very different. How proud he was

of her! I loved to watch them together. He was so gentle and

thoughtful of every little attention, and she trusted and honored

him so fully. It seemed there never could be a brighter future in

store for any than for these two, and surely there never could be

any more deserving of the choicest blessings of earth.

{117}

Mr. Harding was happy in his child's happiness, and Willis only

waited a visit from his father to give him the glad surprise. Mr.

Courtney was at that time the senior partner in your father's

firm, Anita! Willis was in the second year of his law studies,

and in less than a year he could look forward to establishing a

home; for his father was growing old, and had told him often that

he only wished to see him happily settled in life before he died.

And so the weeks passed in happiness, and tomorrow Mr. Courtney

should come. I shall never forget how anxiously Rose awaited this

coming--expectant, hopeful, timid. 'Willis says his father is a

stern man. I shall be so afraid of him. Perhaps he will not

approve of me'--with a half-frightened laugh; 'I do so want him

to like me. Willis honors him so, and yet says he always stood in

awe of him. _Do_ you think he will like me? I wish to-morrow

were past, I dread it so; and yet Willis says he is sure to love

me, and that he will be so glad to have a daughter.'

"And Willis was at the depot, impatient to see his father again,

and still more impatient to have the crowning seal of approval

set upon his choice.

"At length the shrill whistle of the distant train, a few anxious

glances through the darkness, and the bright red light of the

engine glides past slowly. Why is it that this red glare, shining

as it passes, seems to throw a sort of supernatural glare over

the platform and the waiting figures? A strange, weird feeling

comes over him. Is it himself standing there, or is he, too, only

some phantom of his own imagination? In a moment he lives over

his whole past life in one comprehensive flash, as people who are

drowning are said to do. But the train has stopped, and there is

his father's bald head among the crowd of rushing passengers.

Willis passes his hand quickly over his forehead, as if to brush

away the illusion, and advances to meet him.

"It is a glad meeting. Mr. Courtney looks at his son, and, as he

looks, the benignant smile on his face broadens and deepens. It

is something to have delved in the counting-house all these

years, and bent his shoulders over the dull ledgers, that these

shoulders may have no need to bend, and that this intellect shall

have the means of making the best of itself; and, as he walks

beside him to the waiting carriage, he says in his heart, 'There

is none equal to _my_ son.'

"And now they sit in their parlor at the '---- House,' and the

bottle of old port is almost emptied, for Mr. Courtney is fond of

good wine. The waiter has arranged the fire, and brought in a

fresh bottle, and father and son are alone.

"'And now, Willis, who is she, this divinest of her sex; and when

am I to see her?'

"'To-morrow, or this evening if you prefer. Mr. Harding is almost

an invalid, and so spends his evenings at home, and Rose seldom

leaves him.'

"'_Harding!_ What Harding is this? You always spoke of her

as "Rose," and I never thought to ask her family name,' said Mr.

Courtney, in ill-suppressed anxiety.

"'Thomas Harding, formerly of New-Orleans. Why, father, what is

it; are you ill? What can I do for you?' said Willis, rising from

his chair quickly, as Mr. Courtney arose and staggered toward the

mantle piece. He stood there, resting his folded arms on it, with

his head so buried in them that the son could see nothing of his

face.

{118}

John Courtney was not a man to be approached easily. Whatever the

joys or sorrows of his life might have been, his son was as

ignorant of them as the stranger who met him just an hour ago. So

Willis stood now at a little distance, not feeling sufficient

freedom to approach, and anxiously awaiting some word or movement

that should give him permission to speak. But none such came,

and, after a few moments, Mr. Courtney raised his head, saying,

'A glass of wine, Willis. I felt a little faint a moment ago.

Travelling is tiresome work for an old man.' And Willis filled

the glass silently; for there was a look in the white face that

chilled, while it awed him--a look of determination, and yet of

indecision at the same time.

"It seemed as if a cold, misty atmosphere had suddenly entered

the room; and the two men spent the remainder of the evening in a

vain effort to sustain a conversation upon all manner of general

subjects, which the son seemed always to succeed in shaping till

it just approached the subject in which alone he was then

interested, and the father always to turn it off just in time to

prevent its touching. At length Willis arose, saying:

"'But your journey has tired you very much, father. I will go

now, that you may have a long night's rest.'

"'Yes, yes. I am no longer so young as I was once.'

"But after his son had gone, he forgot his weariness, and spent

the night in walking up and down the length of the parlor, and

drinking wine, as the waiter said in the morning, 'like a

high-bred gentleman;' and when the morning came, the look of

indecision had passed away, and the determination alone remained.

"And Willis passed the long hours of darkness in a nightmare of

undefined dread, half asleep, but yet entirely conscious of all

around; a state that confused imagination and reality, till the

most frightful dreams became impressed with all the power of real

events--so real that only the morning, with the unchanged,

familiar face of the servant could make him feel certain that

they were all waking dreams, and that he had not lived a horrible

year. But the cold water, and the cheerful breakfast-table, and

all the invigorating morning influences served to restore him;

and he laughed at the absurd fancies, and went around to his

father's hotel, wondering that he should have felt so discouraged

and uncomfortable in his presence last evening, and mentally

resolving to let no such chill come over their intercourse this

morning.

"As he stepped into the hall, he noticed the well-known baggage,

with the initials, 'J. C.,' and said to the waiter:

"'What carelessness is this? You have never carried up my

father's baggage.'

"'As soon as you had gone last evening,' said the waiter, 'I went

up to his door, sir, and asked if I should send it up then; but

he said, "No," as he should leave early in the morning, sir.'

"Willis hurried up and found the old man at breakfast, or rather

sitting there beside it, for he had evidently eaten nothing,

although he said he had finished.

"'Why, father! your baggage--'

"'Yes, yes, a telegram. Must return immediately; and now sit down

a moment. There is half an hour yet before going to the train.

When do you finish your studies?'

"'In two months.'

{119}

"'So I thought--so I thought. There is no hurry about your

beginning to practise, and I need your assistance in my business

just at present. There are some speculations in the West that

must be attended to. There is money in them, but I can't trust

Stephens to go alone, and I want to send you with him. I shall

make all arrangements for you to start at the end of two months.'

"'But, father--Rose?'

"'Time enough. There's nothing will test your affections like a

little absence. Besides, you aren't either of you old enough to

know what you want yet. If in two years you both feel as you do

now, why, then we'll see about matters; and you know your means

don't depend on your practice; besides, you'll get along better

in that for seeing something of the world before you commence.

I'm getting to be an old man, Willis, and need my son's help a

little now. Surely he won't make any objections to doing what I

desire?'

"Filial respect and affection was a strong trait in Willis

Courtney's character. Disobedience to the father whom he had

always feared, and to whom he was really so much indebted, was a

thing of which he had never thought before, and thought of now

only to put away the idea as one unworthy of him; and Rose, who

loved her own father devotedly, respected him the more for his

duty to his; and so it came about that when the two months had

passed, he went to California with Stephens, the head clerk of

the firm, and Rose had only the long, tender letters; and Mr.

Harding, who had never been dissatisfied while Willis was here,

grew suddenly restless, and longed to travel.

"'As long as Rose was so happy, I was contented here,' he said,

'but now she is often sad, and I think a little change will be

good for both of us. I have travelled too much in my life to be

satisfied to settle down in one spot and remain there. I must see

Italy once again before I die.'

"And so their passage was taken, and one morning we stood on the

deck of an English steamer to bid them 'God speed;' and after we

had come on shore again, stood long watching the ship till it was

far down the bay.

"At first Rose wrote long, cheerful, descriptive letters. A

summer at a German watering-place had almost entirely restored

Mr. Harding's health, and in the early autumn they began their

tour, intending to visit Vienna, and, passing directly from there

to Venice, make a short stay in two or three cities of Northern

Italy, and then go on to Rome to spend the winter.

"Letters came seldom now--it was at the beginning of our civil

war--and when they came, there was no longer any mention of

Willis, nor of glad anticipations of return; and later, in a

letter dated at Brescia, she wrote: 'I am in the city of Angela

da Brescia. How was it possible for her to be what she was? I

cannot understand it. To rise up out of the shadow of a great

grief, and to go forth cheerfully into the world and work to do

good and make others happy. It needs more than human will. God

alone can give the strength to do this, and yet if he does it

sometimes, as he did for her, why not always?'

"And still there was no mention of any personal grief; but the

whole tone of her letter was sad, and I felt that something more

than a mere transient annoyance had occurred to thus destroy her

accustomed cheerfulness.

{120}

"At first, the genial climate and the revival of old

associations--for he had spent several winters there in his

youth--had seemed to give Mr. Harding a new life, and almost a

second youth, while they visited the familiar places, and he

pointed out to his daughter the glorious relics of past

architecture and the grand works of the old masters; but it was

only for a time, and when we heard again, his strength was

failing rapidly. At Rome they had met an old friend who was

staying there with his wife, so they joined company, and planned

their return together for the ensuing summer.

"And all this time we had only heard of Willis Courtney that he

had, without returning home, joined the Union army as a private,

and that his father, whose sympathies were entirely Southern, was

very much displeased; and, in addition, that he had sold out his

interest in the business, some said in order to retire and enjoy

his wealth, others, to avoid a financial crisis which he imagined

to be impending.

"In May came another letter from Rose. The time of their return

was uncertain; her father was feeble, and wished neither to leave

the mild climate, nor to risk the danger of a voyage, till he

should be stronger. And in reply to some question of mine--'I

have heard no word from Willis Courtney this winter, and even

last autumn his letters had changed and were no longer like him.

But I cannot write of this. I do not understand it all. ... I

have spent almost the entire day in St. Peter's. I do this often.

It is God's grandest monument on earth, and I never feel so near

him as here. I never truly felt the love of holiness before; but

here, under the influence of the inimitable grandeur of his

church, and in the presence of his earthly representative, I can

almost shut out the vanities of the world, and bow before God

alone, worshipping him in supreme love and reverence. I love the

beautiful rites of the church. Ah! how gladly I would lie down

beneath the shadow of her walls, and sleep the last sleep--or if

that may not be, take the vows which should make me the bride of

heaven alone, and shut out for ever the coldness and deceptions

of the world. But my poor father needs me so much, and is so

entirely dependent upon me, that I cannot leave him while he

lives. He is fearfully changed, and has grown so much older

within the last two months that you would scarcely recognize him

now. I hope he may soon be better, and am sure he must be, for he

is always so cheerful.'

"But this was not to be, and after lingering a few weeks longer,

he died amid the scenes he had loved so well, having first

exacted a promise from Rose that she would return to New York

with Mr. and Mrs. Rowland.

"They had a pleasant voyage, good weather and a smooth sea, and

the vessel glided along, making every day her full number of

knots, and making glad the hearts of the passengers, who were

returning to home and friends.

"Mr. and Mrs. Rowland spent much of the time on deck, and Rose

sat near them, always with a book lying open on her lap; to the

careless observer she appeared to be reading, but those who,

after a few days, began to notice the sad face, noticed, too,

that the leaves of the book were never turned and that her glance

rested always on the sea. These were days of rest. The slow

rolling of the waves lent her an artificial calmness. The events

of the last few months had stunned her, and this was the

transition state before reaction. A sort of veil seemed to have

been cast between her vision and the past, and the future seemed

a blank, a desert that she had no wish to explore, and before

which she shut her eyes.

{121}

She seemed to be falling into that dreamy melancholy which so

often precedes insanity, and Mrs. Rowland watched her anxiously,

and Mr. Rowland made every exertion to distract her attention,

making every little excuse to get her to walk on deck, and to

notice some peculiar cloud or singular fish. And so the days

passed till they were within two days of New York; then the pilot

came on board, and they began to realize, for the first time,

that they were almost home. He brought the last papers, three

days old now, and the hitherto quiet passengers were all

excitement, gathered here and there in little groups eagerly

discussing the news he had brought, for those were times full of

interest, and this news was the defeat at Bull Run.

"Mr. Rowland had put a paper into Rose's hands, and as she read,

she became first interested; then the quick blood mounted to her

face, and Mr. Rowland remarked:

"'You have not yet forgotten that you are an American, Miss

Harding.'

"She replied quickly and continued reading. Presently the paper

dropped from her hands; her face became deadly pale, and she

leaned heavily against the rail for support. Mr. Rowland took up

the paper and searched the page she had been reading; but in

vain; he saw nothing that should have startled her, and so turned

away, thinking he had been mistaken, thus leaving her alone to

accustom herself to the reality of what she had read.

"What she had read? It was only a name, and that the name of a

common soldier.

"In looking over the list of the names of those found dead on the

battle-field of Bull Run, she had found that of Willis Courtney.

"The next day they reached Sandy Hook. But it was already

evening, and they were obliged to anchor over night, and defer

running up to the city till the next morning. There were many

impatient at this detention, but none more so than Rose Harding.

What has come over her? her kind friends asked each other in

vain; but she was no longer indifferent, and her face expressed a

cheerful determination. It was a conviction of duty, and a

resolution to fulfil it. All the night after the news, she had

lain awake and pictured to herself the horrors of lying wounded

on the battle-field, and of dying alone in the cold and darkness.

She had loved Willis Courtney with the full depths of a first

matured affection, and she loved him now, despite the

indifference and coldness with which he had rewarded that love.

And now he was dead, and whatever had come between them on earth

had passed away; and, strange as it seemed to her, she felt that

he had come back to her, and that they were nearer together than

they had ever been. But he was dead, and he had died in a noble

cause, and she felt ashamed of her own selfish grief, that had

shut out the world and its cares and sorrows. The old words came

ringing in her ears:

'The noblest place for man to die,

Is where he dies for man.'

"Had he not died nobly? And then she contrasted her own life with

his. What had _she_ done to make any of God's creatures

better or happier! 'Nothing! nothing!' Then came bitter regrets,

and accusations against her destiny. Why had she not been

permitted to be near him in the last struggle? Had not her own

pride been perhaps somewhat to blame? He had suffered alone.

"Then suddenly he seemed to stand beside her, and pointing

upward, to repeat to her those words of Christ: 'Inasmuch as ye

have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have

done it unto me.'

{122}

"It was a revelation. What God had done for Angela da Brescia, he

had done for her. Darkness had passed away, and in its place was

light, and the warmth of renewed life. 'Unto the least of these.'

Willis was gone. On earth she could do nothing more for him; but

there were others, others who were laying down their lives as

nobly and in the same cause; for these she could work; and

whatever she could do 'unto the least,' she should be doing for

_him_ and for _Christ_.

"It was no mere momentary enthusiasm. She came home to join the

devoted band of the Sisters of Mercy, and among these she was one

of the bravest and truest. No duties were too arduous and no

dangers too great, for this child of luxury to encounter.

Herself, and the great wealth which she had inherited from her

father, she consecrated to the service of God. Like the noble

Paula of old, who went forth from pagan Rome to assemble around

her a community of sisters in Palestine, 'she was piteous to them

that were sick, and comforted them, and served them right

humbly,' and 'laid the pillows aright' with a tender hand; and

many a poor soldier thanked her for his life, and many more

blessed with dying lips the name of her who had robbed the grim

messenger of his terrors, and shown the light of God's love

gilding the horizon of the valley of the shadow of death.

"And when the war was ended, she came back to New York, to

continue, in another field, her labors of love. Here she visited

hospitals and prisons, carrying the promises of the Father's

forgiveness to the repentant, and words of comfort and

consolation to those who were sick and weary of life.

"One morning, about a year ago, as she was visiting prisoners in

company with an older sister, she noticed in the Tombs a new

prisoner, who attracted her attention by his dignified bearing,

and evident reluctance to speak to any of his companions; and as

he turned, and she caught a view of his profile, she was startled

with a feeling that it was familiar to her; and yet she had

surely never seen the man. But he seemed glad to talk of

religion; and when she left, she gave him a pocket Bible to read

until she should next visit the prison. But all that day the face

seemed to haunt her. It came between her and her prayers; it

visited her dreams in the night, and hung over her like an

incubus that would not away at her entreaties; and she found

herself looking forward to her next visit with a mixed feeling of

anxiety and curiosity. When at last she went again, the old man

recognized her, and asked suddenly, in a trembling voice:

"'Are you Rose Harding?'

"'I am Sister Simplicia. I _was_ Rose Harding,' she replied,

shocked at the suddenness and eagerness of the question.

"He looked at her wonderingly, and then said:

"'Are you happy? But what use to ask. Your face and voice show

it. See here,' he added, and handed her back the open Bible. It

was one that Willis had given her years ago, and on the fly-leaf

to which the man now opened was written--

'Rose Harding.

From Willis Courtney.'

{123}

"This was the one relic she had kept of her past life. She had

fastened those leaves together with thin white wafers, so that

the names should be invisible, and had felt still that _his_

book must be especially blessed, and so had given it often to

prisoners to read. She had intended to destroy everything that

should remind her of Rose Harding; but these names, written in

his hand, she could not destroy, but had thought to hide them

even from herself.

"And this man had torn them open. It was as if he had committed a

sacrilege; as if he had opened the grave of the dead; for were

these not buried long ago?

"But he was speaking hurriedly:

"'I am John Courtney. I have something to tell you; something

that has hunted me down for years, and driven me here at last.'

And she listened.

"He had been her father's confidential clerk years ago in New

Orleans. In an evil moment, he had allowed himself to take a

small sum from the drawer; for his salary, large though it was,

was not sufficient to meet the expenses of a young man who loved

gay company, drank much and gambled more. It was not discovered,

and so he had helped himself again, and Mr. Harding, who was

scarcely older than himself, and had absolute confidence in him,

had still made no discovery; but when it became time to balance

the yearly accounts, he knew it could be concealed no longer, and

so one night he took enough more to pay travelling expenses, and

to help him in starting into some business for himself, and left

on a night-boat for the North. He remained secreted in St. Louis

till he had discovered through the papers that Mr. Harding had no

intention of prosecuting him; then, after having adopted the

precaution of changing his appearance as much as possible, and

his name from James Rellerton to John Courtney, had come to

Baltimore and gone into business, in which he had prospered, and

had married into one of the first families in the place. His wife

had died while Willis was yet a child, and he had centered his

pride and affection upon this only boy. For his sake he had

worked untiringly, and had showered his wealth upon him, that he

might never know the temptation that had overcome his father. But

from making any acknowledgment to Mr. Harding his pride shrunk.

He had, indeed, sent back the money he had taken, but to see Mr.

Harding he had felt to be impossible. James Rellerton was dead,

and John Courtney must stand without reproach before the world,

and no man living must know that there was any connection between

the two.

"But when Willis had spoken the name of Thomas Harding as that of

the father of his affianced bride, it seemed that retribution,

from being so long delayed, had come upon him with double

harshness, as the interest of a debt that has run long is

sometimes greater than the principal itself. Should he destroy

the happiness of the son for whom he would have given his life,

or run the risk of being recognized by Mr. Harding?

"He could do neither; and besides, would Mr. Harding allow his

daughter to marry the son of James Rellerton?

"Then he had resolved to separate them, and let time and events

decide the future means to be employed. It had been a double

game. If Willis had been instructed to watch Stephens, Stephens

had been no less definitely instructed to watch Willis; and when,

after six months, he had reported that the correspondence between

him and Rose was undiminished, he had received instructions that

he must 'see to it that it should cease gradually;' and so the

letters had been intercepted, a few times changed, and then no

longer sent in any form. The father had said:

{124}

"'My son will blame her, and his pride will prevent his

suffering.'

"But when did pride prevent suffering? It may prevent the showing

of any sign, and it did here; but Willis had been one of the

first volunteers, and then he had fallen; and the old man had

been left desolate with a double crime upon his conscience. He

had no object in attending to business and making money now, so

had sold his interest, and tried to find in travel that

alleviation from thought which could alone make life endurable.

But he could not leave himself--the one thing he desired to

leave--and an attraction beyond his control had brought him back

to New Orleans. Here the necessity for excitement had again led

him into the old temptation of gambling. But he was not always

successful; and when the Mississippi was again open, he had

travelled on the boats, at first with better success, but at last

had become too well known, and in looking for a new field, had

fallen in with a band of counterfeiters, and so had come to New

York in their employ.

"And this was the end of it all.

"At first Rose had listened with an intense loathing for the man.

Had he not wronged her father, and blighted her own youth, and

even chased his own son to his death; and was he not a

counterfeiter and a gambler; an outcast before God and man?

"Then, as she turned her glance, it fell upon her cross, and it

brought back the scene on Calvary and the face of Him who had

prayed 'Father, forgive them.' Then she looked again at the old

man, and, trembling with emotion, he cast himself on the floor at

her feet, crying:

"'Merciful sister, pray for me!'

"And the peace of God came back to her, as she clasped her hands,

and raising to heaven her eyes filled with the tears of a gentle

pity, prayed aloud:

"'O Jesus! be merciful; and deal with me even as I deal with this

repentant man.'

"The Bible of his son first, and the labors of the appointed

ministers of God afterward, brought him again under the

benediction of the church. But she it was who stood beside him in

the last struggle, and closed the eyes with more tenderness than

a daughter; for hers was that holy love, born of heaven and

earth, which dwells only in the consecrated heart."

......

Mrs. Kenton had finished. The long shadows had grown longer and

mingled together, till it had become only darkness; and then the

moon had arisen and was shining with a pale light through the

masses of heavy clouds. They arose silently and went each to her

own room. But for Anita Hartridge this night was the

turning-point in life. The "butterfly" was such no longer, and in

its place grew up the noble woman.

Did Sister Simplicia, as she knelt at her prayers that night,

know the work she had done for her Master that day?

---------

{125}

The Merit Of Good Works

In a recent article we endeavored to explain the catholic

doctrine, that good works as well as faith are an essential

condition of justification. This implies, of course, that good

works are meritorious, and that eternal life is due to them as a

recompense. We wish to elucidate this point a little more fully,

and to show what is the nature of that merit which is ascribed to

good works proceeding from the principle of faith informed by

charity.

In the widest sense of the word, merit signifies any kind of

excellence or worthiness. In this sense, a picture is said to

have merit; and purely physical or intellectual perfections,

which are merely natural gifts, are said to merit admiration and

praise. In the strict sense of the word, merit signifies the

quality by which certain free, voluntary acts entitle the person

who performs them to an adequate recompense. It is in this sense

that merit is ascribed to the good works of a just man. These

works are said by Catholic theologians to deserve eternal life by

a merit of condignity and a title of justice.

What is meant by merit of condignity? It means that there is an

equality of dignity or intrinsic worth and value between the work

performed and the recompense bestowed. This is easily understood

in regard to merely human affairs. It is not easy to understand,

however, how a creature can deserve the reward of eternal life

from the Creator. Good works, however excellent they may be in

the finite order, and as measured by a human standard, appear to

be totally incommensurate with the infinite, and therefore

wanting in all condignity with an infinite recompense. So far as

the mere physical entity of the works is concerned, this is

really so. The gift of a cup of cold water to a person suffering

from thirst, the recital of a few prayers, a trivial act of

self-denial, evidently bear no proportion to eternal beatitude.

Neither does a life like that of St. Paul, filled with labors, or

a long course of penance and prayer like that of St. Romuald, or

a martyrdom like that of St. Polycarp. The mere extent or

duration of the labor or suffering, considered as something

endured for the sake of God, is nothing in comparison with the

crown of immortal life. The condignity of good works is not

derived from an equality or proportion between their physical

extent and duration and the physical extent and duration of the

recompense. It is derived from an equality in kind between the

interior principle from which good works proceed, and the

interior principle of beatitude. The interior principle of good

works is charity; not a merely natural charity, but a

supernatural, a divine charity, produced by the Holy Spirit. Good

works proceed from a supernatural principle, and are performed by

a concurrence of the human will with the divine Spirit. They

have, therefore, a superhuman, divine quality, and are elevated

to the supernatural order, the same order to which eternal

beatitude belongs. They are, therefore, equal to it in dignity in

this sense, that they are equally supernatural.

{126}

The principle of divine charity in the soul is, moreover, the

germ of the eternal life itself, which is promised as the reward

of the acts which proceed from charity. The life of grace is the

life of glory begun, and the life of glory is the life of grace

consummated. The germ is equal in grade and quality with the tree

which it produces, though not equal in extent and perfection. In

the same manner, a little act, like that of giving a cup of water

to another for the love of God, although trivial in itself,

contains a principle which is capable of uniting the soul to God

for all eternity. It is the principle of divine love, making the

soul like to God, imitating on a small scale those acts of the

love of God toward men which are the most stupendous, and

therefore, making the soul worthy to be loved by God with a love

of complacency similar in kind to that love which he has toward

himself.

Again, the value and merit of services rendered by one person to

another are estimated, not alone by the substance of the services

rendered, but by the quality of the person who renders them. An

article of small utility or cost is sometimes more valued as a

token of affection from a dear friend, or as a sign of esteem and

honor from a person of high rank, than a large sum of money would

be which had been accumulated by the industry of a servant. The

good works of a just man fall under this category. They are

estimated according to the quality and rank of the person who

performs them. The just man is the friend of God, and the

services he renders to God are valued accordingly, not as so much

work done, but as tokens of love and fidelity. As a friend of

God, the just man is a person of high rank in the scale of being.

He is a "partaker of the divine nature," as St. Peter distinctly

affirms. His human nature is exalted and sublimated to a certain

similitude with the nature of God; and the acts which proceed

from it have a corresponding dignity and elevation, proportioned

to their end, which is eternal life, or the consummation of the

union between human nature and the divine nature in eternal

beatitude. The just man is the adopted son of God the Father,

through his union with God the Son incarnate. This adoption into

a participation with Jesus Christ in his sonship reflects the

dignity and excellence of the person of Christ upon his person

and upon all his works. As a member of Christ and a son of God,

his person and his works are superior to the whole natural order,

and, therefore, there is nothing which has the relation of

condignity toward them except the supernatural order itself.

It is evident, therefore, that regenerate nature has condignity

with the state of glory, and that the good works which proceed

from it have condignity with degrees of splendor in this state of

glory. Regenerate nature bears the image of God, aspires after

union with God, is fitted to find its beatitude in the vision of

God, is made apt and worthy to be admitted into the kingdom of

heaven. It demands, therefore, as its last complement, the

_lumen gloriae_ which enables it to see God face to face.

The personal love of the soul to God as its friend and Father,

and the personal love of God to the soul as his friend and son,

require that they should have mutual vision of each other and

live together. This living with God is eternal life, which is,

therefore, the only fitting recompense for the love of God

exercised by the just man upon earth.

{127}

Theologians do not, however, regard the title in strict justice

to a supernatural reward, or the ratio of condign merit, as

consisting solely in the condignity of the meritorious works

themselves. They place it partially in the promise of God, or the

decree of his providence which he has promulgated, in which

special rewards are assigned as the recompense of good works

performed in the state of grace. Therefore, they say, the reward

of eternal life is due in strict justice, not by an obligation

arising _per se_ from the act of the creature, but by an

obligation of the Creator to himself to fulfil his own word. They

say that God may require, by virtue of his sovereign dominion,

any amount of service from the creature as his simple due,

without giving him any reward for it; that he may even annihilate

him if he pleases, and, moreover, that the holy acts of the

blessed in heaven, although they have a perfect condignity with

supernatural rewards, do not receive any. Therefore, they say, a

creature cannot merit a reward from God according to rigorous

justice, but only according to a rule of justice derived from the

free determination and promise of God. Scotus and some others

even hold that the condignity of meritorious works with the

promised reward is altogether extrinsic, and denotes merely that

they are conformed to the standard or rule which is laid down by

the divine law. It is, therefore, only required in strictness by

the definition of the church, that one should confess that the

good works of the just man entitle him to a supernatural reward

by virtue of a promise which God has given. Those who are so

extremely frightened at the sound of the phrase, "merit of

condignity," as applied to men, can adopt the opinion of Scotus

if they please. For our own part, we prefer the other and more

common doctrine of condignity which we have already explained. We

do not apprehend any danger to the glory of the Almighty from the

exaltation of his own works, or any diminution of the merits of

Christ from the glorification of his saints. On the contrary, the

power and glory of God are magnified the more, the more like to

himself the creature is shown to be which he has created. "God is

admirable in his saints;" and, the more excellent their works

are, the greater is the praise and homage which accrues to him

from these works which are offered up to him as acts of worship.

The only error to be feared is the attributing of something to

the creature which he derives from himself, as having

self-existent, independent being. To attribute to angel or man as

much good as is in a withered leaf, is equivalent to a total

denial of God, if this good is not referred to God as first

cause. But to attribute to created nature all possible good, even

to the degree of hypostatic union with the divine nature, does

not detract in the slightest degree from the truth that God alone

is good in himself, if the good of the creature is referred to

him as its source and author. No doubt all right to existence, to

immortality, to felicity of any kind, is derived from God, and is

originally a free gift to the creature from him. But the right is

a real right, of which the creature has just possession when God

has given it to him, one which may be an inalienable right in

certain circumstances, that is, a right which God cannot, in

consistency with his own attributes, withdraw. When God creates a

rational nature, in which he has implanted the desire and

expectation of immortal existence and felicity, he implicitly

promises immortality and felicity. We do not like to hear it said

that he can annihilate such a creature or withhold from it the

felicity after which it naturally aspires, unless it be as a just

punishment for sin.

{128}

So, when God creates man anew in the supernatural order, by

giving him the grace of regeneration, he gives him an implicit

promise of eternal beatitude. It is very true that he can exact

from him any amount of service he pleases, as a debt that is due

to his sovereign majesty; yet he cannot justly withhold from him

final beatitude, unless he forfeits it by his own fault. The

special reward annexed to every good work is undoubtedly due only

by virtue of the explicit promise which God has made, to reward

every such good work by an increase of grace and glory. It is

also true that God does confer some degrees of glory on the just

out of pure liberality and beyond the degree of merit. Moreover,

the period of merit is limited by the decree of God to this life,

because it is fitting that the creature should increase and

progress, during his probation, toward the full measure of his

perfection, and should afterward remain in that perfection when

he has arrived at his term. We think, therefore, that we have

made it plain enough that good works have a merit of condignity

in relation to eternal life, and nevertheless derive this merit

from the promise and appointment of God, subject to such

conditions as he has seen fit, in his sovereign wisdom and

liberality, to establish.

The doctrine we have laid down detracts in no way from the merits

of Christ. Christ alone has the principle of merit in his own

person as an original source. He alone has merited of condignity

grace to be bestowed on others. His merits alone are the cause of

the remission of sins, and the bestowal of regenerating,

sanctifying, saving grace. His merits merits of the saints as the

head is superior to the inferior members of the body. His

incarnation, life, and death are, in a word, the radical

meritorious cause of human salvation from the beginning to the

end; and, in their own proper sphere or order of causation, are

entirely alone. Christ is the only mediator of redemption and

salvation between God and man, in whom the Father is reconciling

the world to himself. His acts alone are referable to no

principle higher or more ultimate than his own personality. All

merely human grace, sanctity, or merit is, therefore, to be

referred to him as its chief author, and to merely human subjects

only as recipients or secondary and concurrent causes. It is easy

to understand, therefore, what is meant by presenting the merits

of the Blessed Virgin Mary and the saints before God as a motive

for bestowing grace. The saints have not merited anything over

and above that which Christ has merited, nor have they merited,

by a merit of condignity, even the application of the merits of

Christ to others. Through their personal merits, they have

obtained a kind of right of friendship to ask in a specially

efficacious manner for graces and favors to be conferred on those

for whom they intercede. Their mediation and merits are,

therefore, only efficacious by way of impetration and prayer, and

not by virtue of a right which they have obtained by a title of

justice. This is what is meant by merit of congruity, which

denotes a certain fitness in a person to obtain from God the

favors for which he asks. This merit of congruity is all that is

ascribed to the Blessed Virgin or the saints, as a groundwork of

their intervening power, by any Catholic theologian. It is the

same in kind with that which the just on earth possess, by virtue

of which they obtain, through their prayers, blessings and graces

for other persons. It is easy to see, therefore, how completely

the Catholic doctrine is misunderstood by those who imagine that

it either places man in the room of Christ, as his own Saviour,

or substitutes the mediation of the Blessed Virgin and the saints

for the mediation of Christ.

--------

{129}

Full Of Grace.

Flowers in the fields, and odors on the air,

The spring-time everywhere;

Music of singing birds and rippling rills,

Soft breezes from the hills;

So broke the sweetest season, long ago,

Far from this death-cold snow.

In that blest land which smiles to every eye,

Most favored from on high;

And in one town whose sheltering mountains stand

Broad breast-plates of the land;

So fair a spring-time sure was never seen,

Since Eden's walks were green.

A sudden glory flashed upon the air,

A face unearthly fair;

A beauty given but to those alone

The nearest to the throne;

The great archangels who upon their hair

The seven planets wear.

Lightly as diamonds--such the form that now,

With brilliant eyes and brow.

Paused by the humble dwellings of the poor.

Entered the humblest door,

Veiling his awful beauty, far too bright,

With wide wings, strong and white.

Within the dwelling where his flight was stayed

A kneeling woman prayed.

The angel bowed before that holy face,

And hailed her "Full of Grace."

No other title, not the kingly name

Which David's line can claim;

Not highest rank, though unto her was given

Queenship of earth and heaven;

Not as that one who gave life to the dead,

Bruising the serpent's head;

Not even as mother of the Sacrificed,

The world-redeeming Christ.

This thought might be a sermon, while yet we,

Heirs of eternity,

Walk this brief, sin-surrounded tract of life.

Wage this short, sharpest strife,

Which must be passed and won before the rest.

The triumph of the blessed.

And when the hour supreme of fate shall come,

And at our promised home

We wait in breathless and expectant dread

Between the quick and dead,

Then may the angel warders of the place

Welcome us, "Full of Grace."

--------

{130}

Translated From L'Economiste Belge.

How Our History Will Be Told

In The Year 3000.

In those days--our latest posterity _loquitur_--the people

were not entirely freed from the savage instincts of their

ancestors, the anthropophagi, those ferocious contemporaries of

the deluge and such great inundations of the world. True, they

did not still eat their enemies, nor break their skulls with

clubs; they did not pierce their bodies with arrows of bone and

flint; but they did the work more delicately, entirely according

to the rules of art, with the precision of a surgeon who cuts off

a limb, or the coolness of a butcher who bleeds a sheep. By dint

of inventions, calculations, and trials of every kind, they

fabricated, at last, most ingenious tools, very convenient and

very simple, and which they handled with equal dexterity. They

were not instruments of natural philosophy, chemistry, astronomy,

or mathematics; our fathers possessed, it is true, objects of

this kind, but they did not think it proper to put them in the

hands of the people. Their thermometers, microscopes, telescopes,

and electrical machines remained in the shade of libraries or the

cabinets of the learned. The people were ignorant of their names

and uses, while they well understood the management of the tools

of which I speak. So you will suppose these were very useful

articles, as they were so generally employed in every clime and

nation, and their object to moralize and instruct mankind, as

governments consented to their gratuitous distribution among

their subjects--went farther, even, and imposed their use. But

alas! no; they were only tools of death and carnage, worthy to

figure among the arms and instruments of torture of preceding

ages; for while some shot off bullets, others threw to enormous

distances balls of brass and steel, that made holes in human

walls, burnt up towns, and sunk ships.

{131}

The men of this time were called _"civilized"!_ Strange to

say, they had abolished torture, and wished to do away with the

pain of death. The scaffold horrified them, and the sight of the

gallows gave them a vertigo! They had journals and books filled

with beautiful phrases in honor of peace and civilization. But

they did not comprehend the sense of aphorisms which they

repeated incessantly and inscribed everywhere, on the fronts of

their temples, and the first page of their constitutions.

Their age to them was the age of light, and they seemed ready to

burst with pride when they considered their enormous riches, the

fame of their arts, and the extent of their sciences. And, in

appearance, one might have believed them wise, and as good as the

beings who inhabit the more favored planets of our solar system.

They had noble aspirations and a generous ardor.

In the penumbra in which they were plunged, a confused mass of

whirling and exasperated workers was alone distinguishable,

hungry, indefatigable, running up and down, like busy ants

seeking their subsistence. The ear heard only a deafening and

monotonous noise, like the buzzing of a hive. But in spite of

shocks and hurts, inevitable from such a clamorous multitude,

order and harmony seemed about being established, when suddenly

the same beings who until then had appeared so laborious and

active, were seized with a sort of rage, and set violently upon

each other. The red light of incendiarism and the thundering

brightness of battle thus demonstrated to the astonished gaze of

philanthropists and thinkers, that vices, sanguinary passions,

and brutal instincts, always alive and always indomitable, were

only hidden in shade, and awaiting the favorable moment to break

their bonds and annihilate civilization. By the artificial and

slightly tarnished light of their sciences, philosophers had

gathered round them men of policy and amiability, civilized and

peaceable, distinguished by good manners, and saying pretty

things about fraternity and progress; but the light that broke

upon them, the evidence that disenchanted them in this shock of

nations, showed them only coarse and ignorant crowds, capable of

committing, in their folly and cruelty, every crime and every

infamy. They had believed that the type of their epoch was the

man of business, industrial or negotiating, the sharp worker,

armed for competition, and prepared for the incessant struggles

of production; and behold! suddenly this personage quits the

scene, transforming himself into a fantastical being, clothed in

brilliant colors, his head ornamented with cock's feathers, his

step stiffened, his manners brusque, and his voice short and

sonorous. At the first boom of the cannon, the rolling of the

drum, or the sound of a warlike march, millions of men, clothed

in red, like the common hangman, marched out of the shade,

furnished with instruments suitable for bleeding, scorching,

disembowelling, crushing, burning, and stopping the breath of

their neighbors. And perhaps you think these men were the refuse

of society; that they came from low haunts and prisons; had

neither heart nor intelligence; that they were given up to public

execration. You never were more mistaken. Each one of these

auxiliaries of death was considered healthy in mind and body,

vigorous and intelligent, honest and disciplined.

{132}

To exercise his trade suitably, he was obliged to possess a crowd

of precious qualities, know perfectly how to behave himself, be

honorable, and of unimpeachable integrity!

As to the great generals, they were wise men, and men of the

world. They were expected to study mathematics, as it specially

teaches order and harmony; history, which proves that violence

and force have never established anything; and many other

sciences, which one would have imagined capable of directing

their thoughts from their impious career, and rendering them

pacific and humane.

Toward 1866 a great invention agitated the world. You are ready

to believe it was some means of aerial locomotion, or some

process for utilizing central heat, or placing our planet in

communication with the neighboring ones of Mars and Venus. Alas!

no. Such discoveries were not yet ripe; and besides, men of this

age had other preoccupations. A small province of the north of

Germany, with an erudite and philosophical people, had the honor

of giving to the world the celebrated _needle-gun_. Tired of

thinking, they relinquished their ideal, to move heavily and

noisily under the sun of reality, and set about acting; but

instead of inventing a philosophy, they considered a new engine

of destruction more creditable, and having tried it with the most

magnificent results, they offered to the public the instrument

which was entirely to change the map of Europe, break the

equilibrium of power, and annihilate all international right.

After having laid low several millions of men on the field of

battle, this comparatively insignificant people on the borders of

the Spree, who until then had won more academical laurels than

cannons, and more truths than promises, began to comprehend that

they could play a splendid _rôle_, and exercise a

preponderating influence in Europe. Formerly they had invented an

absolute philosophy; now they invented and practised an absolute

policy. And this was the union of the German people, the triumph

of Prussian institutions, the decay of the Latin and rise of the

Germanic races, and many other changes which only absolute power

can effect. These little people on the borders of the Spree awoke

to a new life, and determined to take all and absorb all; they

threatened Holland; coveted Alsace; were disposed to swallow up

Bavaria, the grand-duchy of Baden, and Würtemberg. Other nations

were troubled, and justly; for the power of the Germans seemed to

them very much like absolutism. So each of them, in great haste,

began to perfect their own instruments of death with the faint

hope, too, that they might very soon make use of them. Old

France, tired of conquests and interior struggles, wished only to

rest. Having disturbed the tranquillity of Europe so often, she

had come to that age when repose is the chief good; so she

feigned ignorance of the insolent aspect and gestures of defiance

of her young rival; but unhappily a few judicious men, and many

more of an intriguing nature, fools and ambitious ones, were at

the head of affairs. These loved war as a golden egg, and birds

of prey, we know, derive their sustenance from a field of battle.

Some already dreamed of wading through blood to conquer an

epaulette, others that they gained millions in supplies, and

became great dignitaries in the empire.

{133}

So they went about repeating that their country was degraded,

reduced to a second rank; that Germanic insolence must be

chastised, and the glorious tricolor planted on the left shore of

the Rhine. The journals commented on their words, and the rustic

in his hut, the laborer at his forge, and the financier in his

counting-house dreamed with terror of the dawning evil. Certain

politicians, meditating on the situation and the march of events,

declared war inevitable, necessary, providential, and alone able

to reëstablish the influence of the country and the

_prestige_ of the government. So they burst out in eloquent

discourses in favor of military armaments, while on their side

strategists, inventors, and administrators set to work, believing

they were the foundation of the future prosperity of their

country.

Their theory was very simple. The power of a nation, they said,

depended on the number of men capable of bearing arms, and on the

quantity and quality of the engines of destruction that they

possessed. That is, our country must be powerful in order to be

rich, prosperous, and free. _Ergo_, let us increase to every

extent the effectiveness of our troops and fabricate without

parsimony such arms as are unparalleled in Europe. Weak patriots

and economists, the _Sancho Panzas_ of these _Don

Quizotte_ politics, murmured a little, but they found

themselves obliged to be silent and bow their heads under the

taunts and reproaches with which they were loaded. "Utopists,"

cried the inventors, "you say our machines are not useful; but

look down there in the direction of Sadowa and Custozza, and tell

us afterward if we have not rapidly and economically fabricated

smoke and glory. Ask the surgeons, and they will describe to you

the gaping wounds, the deep rents they can produce; [Footnote 42]

ask statesmen, and they will tell you the services they render to

the ambitious, and the good livings they secure thereby."

"Miserable citizens! men without energy and honor," cry they to

others, "you lazily prefer well-being to glory, and the success

of your personal enterprises to that of the national glory; but

let the hour of danger come, and we will make you walk at the

point of the bayonet, notwithstanding your cries and menaces."

... And people who cared nothing for truth, and judged by

appearances, echoed the cry, and called them utopists, hollow

dreamers, theorists, and, after all, cowardly and egotistical.

[Footnote 42: _At Strasbourg the effects of the Chassepot

gun have just been certified by experiments on a corpse hung

at a distance of fifteen yards. The experiments were made by

M. Sarazin, and corroborated by the medical faculty. We will

hear the good doctor in his own words: "I am far from

exaggerating," said he modestly, "the practical value of my

experiences, and I well know the desiderata, easier to

distinguish than resolve, that they present from the point of

view in which the effect of the Chassepot gun is produced

according to distance and on the living being. However,

everywhere I have drawn the following conclusions:

"At a short distance, and on a corpse the projectiles have

not deviated in their course.

"1. The diameter of the orifice, as it enters, is the same as

that of the projectile.

"2. The diameter of the orifice, as it goes out, is enormous,

seven to thirteen times larger than that of the ball.

"3. The arteries and veins are cut transversely, drawn back

and gaping. The muscles are torn and reduced to the

consistency of pulp.

"4. The bones are shattered to a considerable extent, and out

of all proportion to the shock of the projectile.

"To sum up, the effects present a remarkable intensity, and

it is well to note that, after having traversed the corpse,

the projectile pierced two planks, each an inch thick, and

buried itself deeply in the wall."_]

So soon as such a river of ink flowed from the desks of the

journalists, dragging in its course these insults and injuries,

the workmen commenced their labors. They made rifled cannon of

steel; hammered coats of mail for their men-of-war; pointed their

sword-blades with steel and iron; made bullets, balls, bombs, and

howitzers, heaped up in their arsenals great quantities of

powder.

{134}

And one bright day the government announced with pride to the

country that it owned 9173 brass cannons, 2774 howitzer cannons,

of the same material, 3210 bronze mortars, 3924 small bronze

howitzers, 1615 cast-iron cannons, 1220 howitzers, 20,000

carriages for ordnance, 10,000 covered wagons, 4,933,688 filled

cannon-balls, 3,630,738 howitzer-balls, 18,778,549 iron bullets,

351,107,574 ball-cartouches, 1,712,693 percussion guns, 817,413

guns of flint, 10,263,986 pounds of powder--in short, enough to

exterminate the entire globe. Admirable litany, which the good

citizens were to recite mentally every time they thought of the

future of their country! Yet profound politicians said it was not

enough, and the great statesmen were not at all satisfied. "We

must have," said they, "some terrible invention that will strike

our enemies with terror. We would like a machine that would mow

them down like the scythe of the reaper in the harvest, with

movement so regular and continued that it would be impossible for

one to escape."

They did speak of a new apparatus, ornamented by its inventor

with the pretty name of the grape-gun, and which could send off,

twice a minute, a shower of fifty balls. But public opinion

demanded something better, and the mortified death-seekers

recommenced their labors.

In those days philanthropists and politicians tried to think of

the best means of establishing peace an Europe. So they met in a

town of Switzerland, on the borders of a beautiful lake, and in

presence of grand and lovely scenery--a place which ought to have

inspired them with high and holy resolutions. But, unfortunately,

they brought with them the bellicose thoughts of their own

countries; and so they concluded the only way to promote peace

was to destroy all bad and weak governments, abolish abuses,

upset society, and so unite all peoples. One might have suggested

that a state of peace could alone have produced such harmony; but

they did not so closely consider the question.

They were so-called democrats, and they sincerely believed the

aurora of justice would shine in the future on the field of

battle, and brighten the smoking ruins of its former society. ...

But let us pardon our ancestors: they were more ignorant than

wicked. Peace to their ashes! which, mingling now with the

elements, circulate in the universe.

Since their time, the globe has many times recommenced its

eternal evolutions; the sun has gone out of its orbit, and

carried with it the planets into the depths of space; science has

become the principal work of human existence, and order is

established everywhere; and we, the latest comers on the earth,

live happily, because we are free--free, because we are

united--united, because we are members of the same family, and

children of the same God.

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{135}

Plan For A Country Church.

At the request of several bishops and clergymen, we intend to

publish from time to time in this magazine, architectural plans

suitable for churches of moderate size and costliness. There are

many churches of this kind, especially in small country places,

required by the wants of the people, where an architect cannot be

found, and where the materials, furniture, and other necessary

parts or appendages of the sacred edifice must be of the cheapest

possible kind. Generally speaking, churches of this sort are

built and furnished without any regard to beauty or rubrical

propriety. It is, however, just as cheap and easy to make them

attractive, neat, and strictly ecclesiastical in their style and

proportions as the contrary, if only proper plans and directions

can be obtained. These we purpose to furnish after various styles

of architecture, and suitable to the different exigencies and

tastes of different places and persons. In so doing, we hope to

supply a want that has long been felt, and to assist a great

number of priests who are laboriously engaged in the meritorious

but difficult task of building churches with but limited means

for carrying out their plans.

Description.

The design which we have engraved in this number will give

accommodation to two hundred and fifty persons seated, the area

of the floor of the church being 41 x 25 feet in the clear, with

a sanctuary of 12 x 16 feet, a sacristy 12 x 15 feet, and a porch

to the front of the church sheltering the door against exposure.

The confessional is placed in such a position that the comfort of

the priest as well as the convenience of the people may be

secured.

The church should be framed with good, stout sills 8x12 inch

section, resting on a substantial wall of rubble masonry, where

stone can be obtained, or of brick where this material becomes

necessary, which wall should be carried deep enough to be

unaffected by the frosts of winter, and raised one foot at least

above the earth, a wall of rubble or brick being built along the

centre to bear the joists of the floor. The joists should be (3 x

10) framed into the sills so that the top of the floor, when

finished, may be twenty-eight inches, above the earth, giving

four steps to the church, the floor of the sanctuary and sacristy

being one step higher, and both on a level. The corner-posts

should be 8 X 8 pine timber, and four intermediate posts of 4 x

8. under each principal of the roof. The plate on the top should

be 4 x 8, and carried round the whole building except where the

chancel intervenes, and care should be taken that all the scarfs

of this piece of timber should be carefully made. The posts

should all be braced with 4x6 pieces, and the walls studded with

4x4, so that, should it be deemed necessary, in particular

localities, to render the building less susceptible to the

changes of temperature, the inner space may be filled.

The roof should be framed as high as shown on the elevation, with

a slope of 60° with the horizon, in order to obtain greater

height to the interior and greater strength to the truss, with a

collar about midway of the height, but not lower, and curved

braces, resting on hammer beams projecting from the side-walls at

the height of the plate, and a curved brace underneath this beam,

bringing the strain of the truss as low as possible on the

side-walls, but not incommoding the congregation.

{136}

[Image: Front Exterior image of church building.]

Elevation

{137}

[Image: Floor plan of church building.]

{138}

This simple roof should be framed of the best seasoned timber,

4x6 inches scantling, and should be dressed neatly, and, wherever

desired, may be moulded and have chamfered edges, and the

spandrels filled with two-inch tracery.

In the sanctuary should this more especially be done to mark the

distinction of this part of the church. The principals of the

roof should be 10 ft. 3 in. apart from the centres, with rafters

of 2 x 8 laid across the same 2 ft. 6 in. apart, and the plank

covering to be laid neatly with narrow tongued and grooved boards

where it may not be desired to plaster the under side of the

rafters; in case it may be thought advisable to plaster the

ceiling, the plaster should be colored a light blue. The chancel

arch should be struck with a curve from the same centre as the

roof-braces, with the edges of the jambs and soffit chamfered and

moulded.

The walls plastered up to the plate and floated with two coats

and finished a light, pleasing, and warm color. If means

sufficient warranted, a good cornice neatly moulded should finish

the side-walls and break against the principals of the roof, and

may be of wood or run in plaster.

A label moulding should be run around each door and window, and

in the sanctuary should be enriched whenever possible.

The window over the altar should be two lights wide or more,

filled with good geometrical tracery, like that in the front of

the pattern shown, the side-windows having pointed heads to the

frames and sashes enclosed in segmental heads on the inside. All

the windows should be glazed with plain diamond quarry glass of a

warm color, and where it may be possible, the chancel window

should have enriched borders and the tracery filled with

appropriate symbols.

The front of the chapel has been shown covered with shingles, the

timbers showing the framing prominently, and should be dressed

and the angles chamfered in the manner indicated; the corner-post

that carries the bell-cot should be made in one length, and the

bell-cot sheltered by a roof of considerable projection and

surmounted by a cross, which feature may not inappropriately be

transferred to the gable of the chapel at the option of the

priest. In structures like the one presented, it is a simpler and

at the same time better arrangement to allow the eaves of the

roof to project and to dispense with the gutter, the earth below

being protected by flagging, or a properly graded gravelled

slope. The chimney shown on the plan should be placed in the

position marked, to render the draught more equable; in general,

all other details of the church, such as pews, and a gallery if

needed, and the doors, must be made to accord with the style of

the building, and the painting should be the natural color of the

wood, stained, unless it be sought to grain the roof or color in

bright colors.

In presenting these directions for the builder, many details and

features are omitted which can only be supplied by

specifications.

This building can be executed for the sum of $3150, the work

being plain but substantial, in accordance with the description.

----------

{139}

Miscellany.

We learn with much regret that on the 12th of February the

printing establishment of the Abbé Migne, at Mont Rouge, in the

southern suburb of Paris, was totally destroyed by fire. No

particulars of the occurrence have yet been given. The

enterprise, conducted with extraordinary vigor and ability by the

abbé, was unique in the history of publishing. It was founded for

the purpose of supplying books for the Catholic clergy of France

and the whole world. Nearly two thousand volumes, in large

imperial octavo, comprising the whole of the Greek and Latin

fathers of the church, and writers on theology and ecclesiastical

history, were edited, published, and kept constantly in print,

employing a staff of several hundred persons, including literary

men, printers, binders, etc.--_London Publishers' Circular._

----

_Amaurosis from Tobacco-Smoking._--Mr. Hutchinson has

reported thirty-seven cases of amaurosis, of which he says

thirty-one were among tobacco-smokers. Mr. Hutchinson concludes:

1. Amongst men, this peculiar form of amaurosis (primary white

atrophy of the optic nerve) is rarely met, except among

smokers.

2. Most of its subjects have been heavy smokers--half an ounce

to an ounce a day.

3. It is not associated with any other + affection of the

nervous system.

4. Amongst the measures of treatment, the prohibition of

tobacco ranks first in importance.

5. The circumstantial evidence tending to connect the affection

with the habit of tobacco-smoking is sufficient to warrant

further inquiry into the matter on the part of the

profession.--_Popular Science Review._

----

_The New Laboratory at the Sorbonne._--This magnificent

establishment, which is to be devoted to the pursuit of chemical

investigation, seems to provide for the student's wants on even a

more liberal scale than its celebrated rival at Berlin. Besides

the various rooms for researches in chemistry, _pur et

simple_, there are numberless apartments exclusively intended

for investigation in optics, electricity, mechanics, and so

forth. Motive-power is provided for by a steam-engine of great

force, which is connected by means of bands with wheels in the

several laboratories. Again, besides the ordinary pipes carrying

coal-gas, there will be a series of pipes supplying oxygen from

retorts kept constantly at work. Indeed, altogether the new

laboratory will be a species of Elysium for the chemical

investigator.

----

_The Bessemer Steel Spectrum._--Father Secchi, who lately

presented to the French Academy his fine memoir on the Stellar

Spectra, compared the spectra of certain yellow stars with the

spectrum produced in the Bessemer "converter" at a certain stage

of the process of manufacture. The employment of the spectroscope

in the preparation of this steel was begun a couple of years

since; but the comparison of the Bessemer spectrum with the

spectrum of the fixed stars has not, so far as we can remember,

been made before. The Bessemer spectrum is best seen when the

iron is completely decarbonized; it contains a great number of

very fine lines, and approaches closely to the spectrum of

_a_ Ononis and _a_ Herculis. The resemblance, no doubt,

is due to the fact that the Bessemer flame proceeds from a great

number of burning metals. The greatest importance attaches to the

analogy pointed out by Father Secchi. Father Secchi suggests that

beginners could not do better than practise on the Bessemer flame

before turning the spectroscope on the stars. Difficult an

instrument to conduct investigations with as the spectroscope

undoubtedly is, the difficulty almost becomes perplexity when the

student tries to examine stellar spectra.

----

{140}

New Publications.

Count Lucanor; or, The Fifty Pleasant Stories of Patronio.

Written by the Prince Don Juan, A.D. 1335-1347.

First done into English, from the Spanish,

by James York, Doctor of Medicine, 1868:

Basil Montague Pickering, Piccadilly,

in the City of Westminster.

For sale at the Catholic Publication House,

126 Nassau Street, New-York.

Mr. Pickering seems to revel in literary oddities. His book on

the _Pilgrim's Progress_ was quaint enough, and this volume

is scarcely behind it in any of its queer qualities. A more

totally _foreign_ book we do not remember ever seeing. In

style, idiom, turn of thought, everything, it is remote, _toto

caelo_, from all the ideas and criteria of English and modern

criticism. Its publication strikes us as being a remarkably bold

stroke; we cannot imagine for what class of readers it could have

been intended. The only market we could conceive of for such a

work in this country, would be a class of Mr. George Ticknor's,

if he were to have one, in Spanish archaeology. In Spanish, and

as Spanish, we should think it would prove most interesting; even

though the translation is intensely Iberian, both in structure

and thought.

The "Fifty Pleasant Stories" are very simple as to the machinery,

so to speak, of the telling of them. "Count Lucanor" throughout

the book asks advice of his friend Patronio, stating his case,

and being responded to with a story. Who Count Lucanor may have

been is a mystery for ever. The book shows him to posterity only

as a Spanish gentleman of apparent consequence, whose forte, as

poor Artemus Ward would say, seems to have been to fall into

difficulties and ask advice of Patronio. This gentleman appears

as a sort of Don Abraham Lincoln, or Señor Tom Corwin, rather.

Every question instantly and irresistibly reminds him of "a

little story, you know," etc., etc. This is all of their history.

What the end of a man must have been who answered every question

with an anecdote, we can only shudderingly decline to conjecture.

Whether the gallant Count Lucanor sportively ran him through the

body after one story too many some roystering day; whether he

went mad when the stories gave out, or whether death interrupted

him in a sage narrative, with his sapient hand button-holing the

count's doublet, it is not said.

There is a world of dry, old-world, dusty, aged pithiness about

the stories. They are generally very fairly to the point, and

often full of the peculiar patness so characteristic of Sancho

Panza. The most remarkable thing about the book, though, is the

really large number of apparent originals it contains. In it are

gems of all manner of precepts and principles that others have

amplified into poetry, and tragedy, and novels, and almost

everything. Still, we cannot call this more than a seeming

originality, because directly alongside of a tale we are

surprised to trace in Shakespeare, or La Fontaine, (a principal

debtor to Count Lucanor,) or some other admired author, we are as

likely to find some story so aged, so thread-bare, so worn and

torn and sapless with the use of centuries, that one is tempted

to refer it back to the year 1. Several of the tales are taken

from the _Arabian Nights_, and Don Juan Manuel generally

modernized them (?) to suit the enlightened Castilian and

anti-Moorish tastes of A.D. 1335, The old, old story of

Alnaschar, for instance, is dished up as "What happened to a

Woman called Pruhana," and the note to the story quietly goes on

to the original original, (skipping old Alnaschar with a word as

a mere junior copy,) namely, "the fifth part of the _Pantcha

Pantra_," which, all will be charmed to learn, is entitled

"Aparickchita Kariteva," which latter an Irish friend translates,

"Much good may it do ye," and our annotator "Inconsiderate

Conduct."

{141}

We will not quote the intensely thrilling narrative of this

Hindoo classic, but content ourselves with assuring our readers,

on our honor as a Brahmin, that the point is identically the

same.

One of the best examples of the characteristic aptness of the

book is Chapter vii.--"The Invisible Cloth." Count Lucanor's

quandary is all of a man who offered the count great advantages

if he would trust absolutely in him and in no one else. Three

impostors (we condense the good Patronio mercilessly) come to a

king as weavers of a peculiar cloth that no man but a legitimate

son of his father could see; to any one with even a secret taint

upon his authenticity it was utterly invisible. The king,

delighted with this test of so interesting and gossipable a

matter, shuts them up in his palace to make the cloth, furnishing

them rich raw material of all sorts. After some days the king is

invited alone to see the wonderful woof. King-like, the king

sends his chamberlain first. The chamberlain, trembling for his

pedigree, opens his mind's eye, sees the cloth distinctly, and

returns full of its praises. The king goes next, can't see it

either, is terrified for his title to his throne, and decides to

see it also; does see it, and admires it extravagantly. Finding

it still rather puzzling, he sends his Superintendent Kennedy

(_alguacil_) to work up the case. This functionary, likewise

failing to see it, and fearing supersedure by the senior

inspector of police, makes up his mind that the king's eyes are

good enough for him, and, through them, sees it too. Next a

councillor goes to report, and, like a true councilman as he is,

honors his father and mother by seeing it in the same light as

the powers that be. Finally, for some one of the three hundred

and sixty-five extraordinary feast-days of Spain, the king orders

a suit of the invisible cloth, doesn't dare not to see it, and

rides forth among his leal subjects in a costume strikingly like

that famous fatigue uniform of the Georgia cavalry, that we used

to hear so much of during the war. His people generally, out of

respect to their parents, submit to the optical illusion, till,

finally, a Spanish citizen of African descent, "having (says

Patronio--not we) nothing to lose, came to him and said: 'Sire,

to me it matters not whose son I am; therefore, I tell you that

you are riding without any clothes.'" The result is a general

opening of eyes, a sudden change of tailors, it is hoped, by the

king, and the disappearance of the weavers with the rich raw

material. Moral (slightly condensed from one page of

Patronio)--"Don't Trust."

"James York, Doctor of Medicine," has wasted valuable medical

time in translating this, with a good deal of fidelity to the

spirit of the Spanish. His style really does render much of its

quaintness; as much, perhaps, as today's English will hold in

solution. He is also very fairly fortunate with certain small

mottoes, or couplets, which close each story, prefaced thus, with

slight variations: "And Don Juan, (another utterly mystical

character, who does nothing but what follows,) also seeing that

it was a good example, wrote it in this book, and made these

lines, which say as follows:

'Who counsels thee to secrecy with friends,

Seeks to entrap thee for his own base ends.'"

(Chapter vii., above given.)'

The notes appended to each story are as odd, many of them, as the

stories. Generally, they are little more than notes of

admiration, but often brief _excursuses_, showing quite a

varied range of reading, and full of all manner of reconditeness.

These would seem to be mainly Mr. York's, and they do him credit

in spite of their ludicrously high praise now and then.

In the mechanical execution of the volume, Mr. Pickering, we

observe, cleaves to his chosen model, the Aldine press, and so

gives us in great perfection that accurate and studious-looking

print which we all feel we ought to like, and which none of us do

like. For our own part, we frankly own our preference for the

short _s_, and all the modern improvements.

{142}

Still, one must bear in mind a thing very obvious in all this

line of publications, that it is expressly to meet and foster a

kind of taste almost unknown in this country, and that the

publisher is evidently carrying out with consistency and energy a

peculiar policy of his own, whose success must at last be the

test of its own merit.

The general American reader will find this a thoroughly curious

book; the lover of cheap learning, a perfect treasure-house of

rather uncommon commonplaces; and the Spanish scholar, "a

genuine, if rugged, piece of ore from that rich mine of early

Spanish literature which yet lies hidden and unwrought."

----

Peter Claver: A Sketch of his Life and Labors

in behalf of the African Slave.

Boston: Lee & Shepard. 1868.

For sale at the Catholic Publication House,

126 Nassau street, New York.

This little book is a brief compendium of the life of a great

saint, who was the apostle of the negro slaves in South America.

Its publication is very timely, as it shows to the

philanthropists of New-England and of the country at large, who

interest themselves so much in behalf of the African race, what

Catholic charity has done and can do in their behalf. We

recommend it to their attention. The Catholic religion, and it

alone, can really and completely meet the wants of this

much-to-be-compassionated portion of mankind. The striking

vignette of this little volume, representing St. Peter Claver

supporting the head of a dying negro, who holds a crucifix

clasped to his dusky bosom, is an expressive emblem of this

truth. It would be an excellent thing if our philanthropists, in

Congress and out of Congress, would get a copy of this very

suggestive photograph framed and hung up in some place where they

are accustomed to say their prayers.

----

The Book of Moses; or, The Pentateuch in its

Authorship, Credibility, AND Civilization.

By the Rev. W. Smith, Ph.D.

Volume I. London: Longman, Green & Co. 1868.

For sale at the Catholic Publication House, New York.

Dr. Smith has given us in this volume the first instalment of an

extensive work on the Pentateuch. The authorship alone is treated

of in this portion of the work. Dr. Smith happily combines

orthodoxy of doctrine with a scientific spirit. He has evidently

studied Egyptology, geology, comparative philology, and other

sciences bearing on sacred science. He has also made himself

familiar with Jewish and Protestant, as well as Catholic

commentators. From a cursory examination, we are inclined to

judge that his great and useful task has been thus far very well

and thoroughly performed, and to expect that it will be completed

in a satisfactory manner. The volume is brought out in the best

style of English typographical art, with fac-similes of ancient

pictures and inscriptions, which add much to its value. We

recommend it to all students of the Holy Scriptures as one of the

most valuable aids to their researches which has yet been

published in the English language.

----

Life of St. Catharine of Sienna.

By Doctor Caterinus Senensis.

Translated by the Rev. John Fen, in 1609,

and Reëdited, with a Preface, by Very

Rev. Father Aylward.

New York: Catholic Publication Society. 1868.

This biography is a charming one, translated in the inimitable

English idiom of the 17th century. Father Aylward has very

successfully imitated the antiquated style in his valuable

preface. The biography leaves nothing to be desired as a history

of the private, interior life of the saint, though her wonderful

public career is but slightly touched upon. The sketch of it in

Father Aylward's preface induces us to wish that he would add to

the history of Saint Catharine's private life by Caterinus, an

equally complete history of her public life, with translations of

her letters, from his own graceful and devout pen, which would

furnish the English public with one of the best and most valuable

biographies of a truly great and heroic woman to be found in any

language.

----

{143}

Prayer the Key of Salvation.

By Michael Müller, C.S.S.R.

Baltimore: Kelly & Piet. 1868.

This book is an expansion of the excellent work of St. Alphonsus

Liguori on Prayer. The object of it seems to be, to explain the

saint's doctrine and illustrate it by examples, so as to bring it

more within the comprehension of the mass of the people. But we

are sorry to be obliged to say that the execution of the work

does not come up to the idea. Without commenting on the matter,

which is, in general, very good, we are compelled to say that the

style is faulty in the extreme; the sentences are mostly

un-English in their construction, and sometimes so long and

involved that they are hard to understand. It also abounds in

grammatical errors. In short, it is a pity it was not first

thoroughly overlooked and revised by a competent hand before

being allowed to go to press. However much we may desire to

commend this book, we cannot in conscience do so, so long as it

continues in its present dress.

----

La Reforme en Italie, les Precurseurs:

Discours Historiques de César Cantu.

Traduits de l'Italien par Aniset

Digard et Edmond Martin.

Paris: Adrien le Clere, 29 Rue Cassette. 1867.

Caesar Cantu is the author of the best universal history extant,

and of other historical works of the first class. He has

undertaken the task of crushing the destructive pseudo-reformers

of Italy under the weight of his massive historical erudition.

The first volume of the present work, which is the only one yet

published, brings down the subject to the 16th century, and will

be followed by three others. The author is a sound and orthodox

Catholic, yet, as a layman and as a historian, his work has not

the distinctively professional style and spirit which are usually

found in the works of ecclesiastical authors. He is fearless and

free in speaking the historical truth, even when it is

discreditable to ecclesiastical rulers and requires the exposure

of scandals and abuses in the church. His spirit is calm and

impartial, and the theological and ascetical elements are

carefully eliminated. He has gone back to the very origin of

Christianity, in order to trace the course of events from their

beginning, and has traced the outlines of the constitution of

historical Christianity. Church principles and dogmas are,

however, exhibited in a purely historical method, and as

essential portions of the history of facts and events. Such a

writer is terrible to parties whose opinions and schemes cannot

bear the light of history. The whole class of pseudo-reformers,

whether semi-Christian or openly infidel, are of this sort. Cantu

sweeps them off the track of history by the force and weight of

his erudition, as a locomotive tosses the stray cows on the track

of a railway, with broken legs, to linger and die in the meadows

at each side of it. It is only Catholic truth, either in the

supernatural or the natural order, which can bear investigation,

or survive the crucial test of history. The so-called Reformation

retains its hold on the respect of the world only through

ignorance. When history is better and more generally known, it

will be universally admitted that it was not only a great crime,

but a great blunder, a _faux pas_ in human progress.

----

The Infant Bridal, and other Poems.

By Aubrey De Vere. London: MacMillan & Co.

We are glad to see this book, rather for the memories than the

novelties it brings us. Almost all its contents have been

published in the author's other volumes, and there is nothing in

this to alter the opinions, either good or ill, that we took

occasion to express in a former review of them at large. The most

remarkable about the book is the selection of the republished

pieces.

{144}

It only verifies anew the observation that authors, no more than

we of the world, have the giftie to see themselves as others see

them. Some of the best poems are there, and some of the worst.

_The Infant Bridal_ and _The Search for Proserpine_ are

perhaps the very two poorest of all the author's longer

productions. Still, perhaps the many faults we fancy we see in

the tact of the compilation, only come to this--that we ourselves

would have compiled differently, and possibly worse.

But we meet, all over these elegant tinted pages, lines and

beauties that we fondly remember loving of old--fine blank verse,

wonderful descriptions, delicious idyls. These latter, by the

way, are equally remarkable and unremarked. They are from the

same fount with Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus. We cannot resist

giving one extract, from _Glance_, p. 64:

"Come forth, dear maid, the day is calm and cool,

And bright though sunless. Like a long green scarf,

The tall pines, crowning yon gray promontory,

In distant ether hang, and cut the sea.

But lovers better love the dell, for there

Each is the other's world. How indolently

The tops of those pale poplars, bending, sway

Over the violet-braided river brim!

Whence comes this motion? for no wind is heard,

And the long grasses move not, nor the reeds.

Here we will sit, and watch the rushes lean

Like locks, along the leaden-colored stream

Far off; and thou, O child, shall talk to me

Of Naiads and their loves."

One more sample of the contents of this volume, and we have said

all there is to say. It is an unusual vein for De Vere, but one

in which, like Tennyson, he engages never lightly and always with

telling success. It is the close of _A Farewell to Naples_,

p. 255:

"From her whom genius never yet inspired.

Or virtue raised, or pulse heroic fired;

From her who, in the grand historic page.

Maintains one barren blank from age to age;

From her, with insect life and insect buzz.

Who, evermore unresting, nothing does;

From her who, with the future and the past,

No commerce holds--no structure rears to last.

From streets where spies and jesters, side by side.

Range the rank markets and their gains divide;

Where faith in art, and art in sense is lost.

And toys and gewgaws form a nation's boast;

Where passion, from affection's bond cut loose,

Revels in orgies of its own abuse;

And appetite, from passion's portals thrust.

Creeps on its belly to its grave in dust;

Where vice her mask disdains, where fraud is loud.

And naught but wisdom dumb, and justice cowed;

Lastly, from her who planted here unawed,

'Mid heaven-topped hills and waters bright and broad,

From these but nerves more swift to err has gained

And the dread stamp of sanctities profaned;

And, girt not less with ruin, lives to show

That worse than wasted weal is wasted woe--

We part; forth issuing through her closing gate.

With unreverting faces, not ingrate."

Cannot this book speak better for itself than our good word?

----

Folks and Fairies. Stories for little children.

By Lucy Randall Comfort.

With engravings. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1868.

Judging, not, however, from perusal,

but from hearsay, we think the pleasure

of Mrs. Comfort's juvenile readers would

be increased if she had given them more

"Folks" and less "Fairies." On the

same high authority we also protest

against some of the engravings, for example,

"Otho returning home," as illustrations

of the text.

----

Books Received.

From Leypoldt & Holt, New York:

Mozart. A Biographical Romance.

From the German of Heribert Ran.

By E. R. Sill, 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 323.

Easy French Reading: Being selections of historical tales and

anecdotes, arranged with copious foot-notes, containing

translations of the principal words, a progressive development

of the form of the verb, designations of the use of

prepositions and particles, and the idioms of the language. By

Professor Edward T. Fisher. To which is appended a brief French

grammar. By C. J. Delille. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 232.

From Kelly & Piet, Baltimore:

A Catechism of the Vows.

For the use of persons consecrated to

God in the religious state.

By the Rev. Father Peter Cotel, S.J.

From Samuel R. Wells, New York:

Oratory, Sacred and Secular: or, The Extemporaneous Speaker.

With sketches of the most eminent speakers of all ages. By

William Pittenger, author of Daring and Suffering. Introduction

by Hon. John A. Bingham, and appendix containing a Chairman's

Guide for conducting public meetings according to the best

parliamentary models, 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 220.

Life in the West; or, Stories of the Mississippi Valley.

By N. C. Meeker, Agricultural Editor

of the New York Tribune, 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 360.

From Lee & Shepard, Boston:

Red Cross; or, Young America in England and Wales.

A story of Travel and Adventure.

By Oliver Optic,

1 vol. 12mo, pp. 336.

--------------

{145}

The Catholic World.

Vol. VII., No. 38.--May, 1868.

Tennyson In His Catholic Aspects.

For a poet eminently modern and English in his modes of thought,

Tennyson is singularly free from the spirit of controversy. His

native land is distracted by religious feuds, yet he who has been

called "the recognized exponent of all the deeper thinkings of

his age," takes no active part in them, and seldom drops a line

that bespeaks the school of theology to which he belongs. At long

intervals, indeed, devout breathings escape him. Once now and

then he extracts a block of dogma from the deep quarry within,

and fixes it in an abiding place. He never scatters doubts

wantonly; he is always on the side of faith, though not perfect

and Catholic faith. He alludes to Christian doctrines as

postulates. For his purpose they need no proof. It would be idle

to prove anything if they were not true. They are the life of the

soul, and the vitality of verse.

"Fly, happy, happy sails, and bear the press,"

he cries; but he adds this apostrophe likewise:

"Fly happy with _the mission of the cross_."

_The Golden Year._

He looks for the resurrection of the body, and bids the dry dust

of his friend (Spedding) "lie still, _secure of change_."

(_Lines to J. S._) When the spirit quits its earthly frame,

he follows it straight into the unseen world and the presence of

its Creator and God. He points to "the grand old gardener and his

wife" in "yon blue heavens," smiling at the claims of long

descent, (_Lady Clara Vere de Vere;_) and he speeds the soul

of the expiring May Queen toward the blessed home of just souls

and true, there to wait a little while for her mother and Effie:

"To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast--

Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest."

_The May Queen_.

Intensely as he loves nature, Tennyson is no Pantheist. Though

like the wild Indian, he "sees God in clouds and hears him in the

wind," he does not therefore confound matter with its Maker, nor

lose sight of the personality of the Being whom he adores. He is

no disciple of fate or chance, but recognizes in all human

affairs the working of a divine and retributive providence, whose

final judgment of good and evil is foreshadowed and begun during

our mortal life.

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To His presence and promptitude in reply to prayer, he refers

more than once in pathetic and pointed language. He tells us how

Enoch Arden, when cast away on a desert island, heard in his

dream "the pealing of his parish bells," and

"Though he knew not wherefore, started up

Shuddering, and when the beauteous, hateful isle

Returned upon him, had not his poor heart

Spoken with that, which, being everywhere.

Lets none who speak with Him seem all alone,

Surely the man had _died of solitude_."

_Enoch Arden._