The glass paintings found at the same place are a finished

representation of the education of young Christians in those

days. On a chalice made of glass there is a child, whom the

father and mother are teaching to read the Scriptures. Another

one represents two little children, Pompeianus and Theodora, with

their parents, under the trees. They are holding a copy of the

Gospel, and Pompeianus points to the monogram of Christ which is

erected in the midst of this Christian family. Their father is

discoursing and explaining to them the precepts of their faith.

But once torn from the bosom of their family, who received

children into the world of souls, which they entered astonished?

The epitaphs recommend them to the saints in heaven to attend

them on their entrance into paradise. The mother of Aurelius

Gemellus, who died at the age of eight years, added to the

inscription engraved upon his tombstone the following: "O Saint

Basilla! we recommend to you the innocence of Gemellus!"

[Footnote 90] In former times this was to be found in the

cemetery of Saint Basilla, now of Saint Hermes.

[Footnote 90: "Commendo Basilla, innocentiam Gemelli."]

A similar prayer was addressed to this saint in the same

catacomb, but for another child: "O Saint Basilla! we commend to

thy care Crescentinus, and our daughter Crescentia, who lived ten

months." [Footnote 91]

[Footnote 91: Domina Basilla, commendamus tibi Crescentinum

et filiam nostram ... quae vixit menses x." ...]

More frequently it was to God they directed the loved soul, "Lord

Jesus, remember our child," said a Grecian inscription reported

by Northcote.

Is there not a remembrance of the stammering of a child in

prayer, in the first pronunciation, and in the orthography of the

last word of the epitaph on a little girl?

"Regina, bibas (vivas) in Domino Zezu!" "Regina, live in the Lord

Jesus!"

If life is only a pilgrimage for us, is not this particularly

true of those who have only passed a few days in this world? This

idea has been rendered in the epitaph of a young Christian; and

few have made so great an impression upon me as the following,

simple and short as it is:

"_Peregrina, vixit annos viii., menses viii., dies x. Decessit

de corpore_." "Peregrina lived eight years, eight months, ten

days, then departed from the body."

Did this name of Peregrina, pilgrim, passenger, allude to her

rapid voyage upon the earth, which she hastened to leave? I

incline to this beautiful idea, which a similar inscription

authorizes, not far from there, carved upon the tomb of a

Christian: "Viator!"

Upon the grave-stones of children of the first centuries, it is

not uncommon to see a white dove, carved upon an antique cup,

drinking from the border. Those who repose beneath that stone had

drunk of the cup of life, and taking a taste, not wishing more,

had spread their wings and returned to heaven.

In that better land they become intercessors for their kindred on

the earth. What family has not theirs? And who has not prayed to

those young elect, yesterday our brothers and sons, to-day our

defenders in that place from which they behold us and will prove

their love for us? The following can be read in the Lateran

Museum:

"Matronata matrona, intercede for thy parents! She lived one

year, fifty-two days." [Footnote 92]

[Footnote 92: "Pete pro parentes tuos, Matronata Matrona,

quae vixit an. i. di lii."]

{406}

And upon another stone:

"Anatolius has made this grave for his dear son, who lived seven

years, seven months, twenty-two days. May the soul repose in

happiness with God. Pray for thy sister!" [Footnote 93]

[Footnote 93: "Anatolius filio benemerenti fecit, qui vixit

annis vii. mensis vii. diebus xxii. Spiritus tuus bene

requiescat in Deo. Petas pro sorore tua."]

III.

I must confess that we have preserved little of the architectural

simplicity in the inscriptions upon tombs. It is just to say that

they are of a poor style, laden with lengthy common epitaphs,

emphatic declamations, and warm protestations, contradicted by

the neglected and solitary aspect of those almost forgotten

places. I make an exception of the sepulchres of children. If you

find in a cemetery a grave which is preserved with love, invested

with crowns, and dressed with fresh flowers, you can recognize

the place of a child. In all countries of the world, a delicate

worship is devoted to the mortal remains of innocence. The Indian

graves have become celebrated, since Chateaubriand described them

so charmingly. Now that Christianity has been established in

those parts of the globe, mothers no longer suspend the cradles

of their sons upon branches of trees, but their funerals have

retained much of the simple grace of the time of Chactas.

A missionary has written: "I had to attend the burial of a little

child five or six months old. They brought it to the church,

laying it upon a mat, with garlands of flowers for a

winding-sheet. We should have thought that it was sleeping

sweetly, and notwithstanding its color, I admired its angelic

beauty. After the prayers, which the church addresses to the good

God, they dropped it gently into the grave, as if it had been its

cradle, without covering even the face. Flowers were given in the

place of earth, to throw upon the body. All the assistants did

likewise, and some commenced to weep. It was sad to see the earth

close over this little body so sweetly adorned, and cover that

young face which appeared to smile upon us. It was to become food

for worms; but the beautiful soul was already in heaven with the

angels. I then united with the heavenly spirits to sing praises

to God at the happiness of his little creature. I hope that this

child will not forget the young missionary who celebrated its

deliverance from this world of misery." [Footnote 94]

[Footnote 94: Vie de M. l'Abbé Chopart, p. 188.]

This scene recalls to me a similar one which I witnessed in the

village of Beauvoisis. I met in the street the funeral procession

of a little girl who was being carried to the cemetery. In

advance of the coffin, a child of ten years, concealed under a

floating drapery, was carrying a basket of white flowers. Thus

she walked, gathering and smiling, happy with her part, until

their arrival at the sepulchre; then throwing her basket into the

grave, she disappeared among the trees, delighted at having

prepared this flowery bed for her playmate, who was to sleep

there the long night of death.

Menander said in a celebrated verse, "He whom the gods love dies

young." And Sophocles said before him, "It is good not to be

born; but if once born, the second degree of happiness is to die

young." The ancients considered it fortune to be delivered from

mortal misery. What would they have said if those who left them

had appeared upon the bosom of God in a beatitude and glory

without end? _Bene in pace!_

------------

{407}

Harem Life in Egypt and Constantinople. [Footnote 95]

[Footnote 95: _Harem Life in Egypt and Constantinople_.

By Emeline Lott. 4th edition. 12mo, pp. 312. Richard Bentley.

New Burlington Street, London. 1867.]

This volume has run through several editions in England within

the last three years. It is destined from its popularity to run

through as many more; but as yet, it has found no publisher on

this side of the Atlantic, although its merits are

well-established in British literature. Observing a new edition

announced by Bentley, it reminds us that the neat, unpretending

little work has not received any recognition from our republic,

nor has any attention been called to it. In truth, the American

public, deeply interested in travellers and travelling in the

east, or in whatever comes from the press illustrating scriptural

scenes and events, have strangely overlooked this production,

which furnishes a better insight into oriental domestic life than

any account published for many years.

Egypt is now what it was in the days of the crucifixion and of

Julius Caesar; it is unchanged, it is unchangeable, in its social

structure, as the pyramids in their architecture, or the sands of

the desert in their external aspect. To understand the condition

of the people now, is to understand their condition when the

Israelites under the direction of Moses went out from among them.

To enter the family circle in the valley of the Nile for the

purpose of learning their present mode of life, is at once an

introduction to all their progenitors who ever dwelt in the same

region in the reign of the ancient Pharaohs. In order to see what

a Roman city was in the first century, it is requisite to put

aside the ashes from a submerged Pompeii, or to remove the

superincumbent earth from a buried Herculaneum. But in Egypt, to

comprehend what was the moral, social, intellectual, religious

appearance of the country when Cleopatra sailed upon the river,

all that need be done is to push aside the mat which serves for a

door to the first mud hovel met with, or pass within the first

portal where heavy hinges grate upon the ear an uncordial

reception.

The same Egypt can be seen which Alexander of Macedon, Sesostris,

and the shepherd-kings beheld. Egyptian institutions were never

buried; or, if buried, their sepulchre is above ground. A living

death is visible on all sides; it is a palsy that struck the land

long before the dawn of history, and may remain as it now is,

when the history of the present century has passed into oblivion.

Although the Egyptian mind and morals will not die in their body,

still no motion is in its limbs, no quickening vitality in its

joints, no trembling in its nerves; the blood is stagnant; a

black pool as destitute of national animation as the waters of

the Dead Sea. Progress is a term never heard of near the

habitation of the Sphinx; and the period of ruins has gone by.

Everything seems running rapidly to demolition; but nothing is

demolished; decay has in that mysterious soil a perennial

existence, a species of recuperation, that renews itself like the

integuments of neighboring snakes, lizards, and toads, which bury

themselves in the same rich slime.

{408}

A book, therefore, on modern harem life in Egypt, is in one sense

a hand-book for historians in their explorations after the

vanities and household troubles of good King Solomon, when his

domestic peace and quiet, his comfort and felicity, were invaded

by many more spinsters than the Levitical law allowed to any one

wise man. This dame Emeline is the very woman to aid them in

their archaeological researches. Her volume furnishes important

hints and information; and if on the title-page nine centuries

before the Christian era were substituted for the date of

publication, instead of nineteen centuries after it, the change

would be so unimportant in a chronological point of view, that no

annalist would be aware of the anachronism. It would look like a

second edition of Herodotus, revised and improved, for the

benefit of the ladies, and far surpassing in truth the first

impression of that ancient Halicarnassian, full of his old

gallinaceous and bovine stories.

Mrs. Lott, an English school-teacher, was engaged in London to

proceed to Egypt in 1862-3, to take charge of the education of

his highness the Grand Pasha Ibraim, five or six years old, the

son of Ismail Pasha, the viceroy, and the grandson of the

renowned and illustrious Ibraim. The lady in due time arrived at

the port of Alexandria, consigned to the delicate consideration

and tender mercies of the viceroy's agent, like any other bale of

valuable and perishable drygoods. Her first glimpse of the land

in the culinary and creature-comfortable line of development was

not favorable. She next proceeded to the city of Cairo by rail,

and was invited to the house of the vice-regal commercial

partner, a German in lineage and language, but with principles

and refinement somewhat neglected from want of proper planting

and propagation in his youthful European culture. At the

residence of this gentleman she was perpetually served with the

same dishes at breakfast, noon, and dinner--boiled and roast

mutton, stringy and dry, vermicelli soup, tomatoes stuffed with

rice, chicory, spinach, and "the whole of the dishes were

swimming in fat;" oranges and coffee followed after. Considering

that the thermometer was raging above 100°, Fahrenheit, this

oriental feed was rather oleaginous, and the lady longed for the

wings of a dove to devour her provender elsewhere. So far she had

learned one important lesson, and thus paints it. She says:

"I can endorse the veracity of the statement made by a

contributor to _Once a Week_, who most naively and

truthfully asserts that 'the land of Egypt is ruled over by

twenty princes: one of whom is the viceroy, eighteen of the

others are known as consuls-general of European nations; but

the twentieth is the most powerful of all, and his name is

Baksheesh, (gift, present, bribery.')"

To the high and mighty Prince Baksheesh, in duty bound we render

all due homage; we bow our lowest salaam, and are pleased to make

his acquaintance. He is not wholly unknown to fame in this

hemisphere; for a popular superstition prevails in the rural

districts that his majesty has many loyal subjects and followers

in our own dearly beloved and dearly governed model republic.

Prince Baksheesh is a power in our institutions, and a party to

much of our legislation. The misfortune of the unprotected female

was, that she did not propitiate the potentate; the superabundant

fat would have been speedily withdrawn from the bill of fare.

{409}

At last the day arrived for her to remove to the harem of the

viceroy on the other side of the river; and she was destined to

leave the hands of the agent in the same sort of consignment in

which she had come into them, that is, amid bales, barrels, and

boxes of merchandise. The dame, therefore, had no opportunity to

take a look into the royal market-basket, to ascertain how Ismail

Pasha provided for his little private family of three hundred

females of different colors, ages, sizes,--and sexes of the

feminine and neuter gender. Although the English governess has an

eye for the ornamental and beautiful, it is nevertheless only one

eye; the other throws its dark splendor upon the useful and

substantial. Sometimes she endeavored to close both against

sights which were neither the one nor the other. The truth of

history, however, compels her to supply her readers with

specimens of all these. She observes:

"The vice-regal standard, the everlasting crescent, floated at

the stem and stern. On they rowed most vigorously, and in less

than ten minutes I was landed at the stairs of the harem. The

building is a very plain structure, the interior of which is

painted like the trunks of the trees of the Dutch model village

of Broeck. In appearance it resembles the letter E, and is a

large pile, composed of five blocks of buildings. Proceeding to

the one which faced the Nile, I entered the _harem_,

('sacred,') passed through a small door--the grating sound of

whose huge hinges still seems to creak in my ears like the

grinding of the barrel-organ of an itinerant Italian or

Savoyard--which led into a court-yard, at that time lined, not

with a corps of the Egyptian infantry, with their shrill brass

bands playing opera airs, but with a group of hard-working

Fellahs and Arabs, toiling away like laborers in the London

docks, and rolling into the immense space hundreds of bales of

soft Geneva velvets, the costliest Lyons silks, rich French

satins, most elegant designed muslins, fast gaudy-colored

Manchester prints, stout Irish poplins, the finest Irish

linens, Brussels, Mechlin, Valenciennes, Honiton, and imitation

laces, Nottingham hose, French silk stockings, French and

Coventry ribbons, cases of the purest Schiedam, pipes of

spirits of wine, huge cases of fashionable Parisian boots,

shoes, and slippers, immense chests of _bon bons_ in

magnificent fancy-worked cases, boxes and baskets, bales of

_tombeki_, and the bright, golden-leaved tobacco of

Istambol, (Constantinople;) Cashmere, Indian, French, and

Paisley shawls of the most exquisite designs; baskets of

pipe-bowls, cases of amber mouth-pieces, cigarette papers, and

a whole host of miscellaneous packages too various to

enumerate, of other commodities destined for the use of the

inmates of that vast conservatory of beauty, all supplied by

his highness's partners. For, be it known to you, gentle

reader, that the Viceroy of Egypt may most appropriately be

styled _par excellence_ the Sinbad of the age, the

merchant-prince of the terrestrial globe.

"Here I was received by two eunuchs, one of whom was attired in

a light drab uniform. ... I was then ushered through another

door, the portals of which were guarded by a group of eunuchs,

similarly attired, but whose uniforms were most costly

embroidered. Their features were hideous and ferocious, their

figures corpulent, and carriage haughty,

"They also salaamed me in the most oriental style. Thence,

passing along a marble passage, I entered a large stone hall,

which was supported by huge granite pillars which led me to the

grand staircase, where I was received by the chief eunuch, who

is called _kislar agaci_, 'the captain of the girls.'

"This giant spectre of a man ... advanced toward me, made his

salaam, and ushered me, the _hated_, despised Giaour, into

the noble marble hall of the harem, which was then for the

first time polluted by the footsteps of the unbeliever. The

scene around me was so singular and strange that I paused to

contemplate it. The hall was of vast dimensions, supported by

beautiful porphyry pillars, and the marble floor was covered

with fine matting. I was now handed over to the lady

superintendent of the slaves, a very wealthy woman, about

twenty-four years of age, with fine dark-blue eyes, aquiline

nose, large mouth, and of middle stature.

"She was attired in a colored muslin dress and trousers, over

which she wore a quilted lavender-colored satin paletot. Her

head was covered with a small blue gauze handkerchief tied

round it, and in the centre of the forehead, tucked up under

it, a lovely natural dark-red rose. She wore a beautiful large

spray of diamonds arranged in the form of the flower

'forget-me-not,' which hung down like three tendrils below her

ear on the left side. Large diamond drops were suspended from

her ears, and her fingers were covered with numerous rings, the

most brilliant of which were a large rose-pink diamond and a

beautiful sapphire.

{410}

Her feet were encased in white cotton stockings, and

patent-leather Parisian shoes. Her name was Anina: she had been

formerly an Ikbal 'favorite.' ... The lady superintendent now

took me by the hand, led me up two flights of stairs covered

with thick, rich Brussels carpet of a most costly description,

and as soft and brilliant in colors as the dewy moss of

Virginia Water. The walls were plain. Then we passed through a

suite of several rooms, elegantly carpeted, in all of which

stood long divans; some of which were covered, with white, and

others with yellow and crimson satin. Over the doorways hung

white satin damask curtains, looped up with silk cords and

tassels to correspond, with richly gilded cornices over each.

... Against the walls were fixed numerous silver chandeliers,

each containing six wax candles, with frosted colored glass

shades made in the form of tulips over them. On each side of

the room large mirrors were fixed in the wall, each of which

rested on a marble-topped console table supported by gilded

legs. The only other articles of furniture that were scattered

about the apartments were a dozen common English cane-bottom

_Kursi_-chairs."

She is next conducted further on to some dormitories, where

bedsteads are wanting, being an article of furniture unused by

the Gypsies. Against the walls were piled up beds in heaps,

covered over with a red silk coverlet. On the divan was placed a

silver tray--both toilet-tables and wash-hand-stands being

unheard-of comforts--containing the princesses' toilet

requisites. In her general inspection the governess is led to the

apartments of the Princess Epouse, the mother of the little boy

for whom Mrs. Lott is engaged. This princess is dressed--but let

dame Emeline describe the scene, as only a lady can do it:

"The Princess Epouse, attired in a dirty, crumpled,

light-colored muslin dress and trousers, sat _à la

Turque_, doubled up like a clasp-knife, without shoes or

stockings, smoking a cigarette. ... Her feet were encased in

_babouches_, 'slippers without heels.' ... In front of the

divan, behind and on each side of me, stood a bevy of the

ladies of the harem, assuredly not the types of Tom Moore's

'Peris of the East,' as described in such glowing colors in his

far-famed _Lalla Rookh_, for I failed to discover the

slightest trace of loveliness in any of them. On the contrary,

most of their countenances were pale as ashes, exceedingly

disagreeable, flat and globular in figure; in short, so rotund,

that they gave me the idea of large full moons; nearly all were

_passé_. Their photographs were as hideous and hag-like as

the witches in the opening scene in Macbeth, which is not to be

wondered at, as some of them had been the favorites of Ibrahim

Pasha. ... Some wore white linen dresses and trousers. Their

hair and finger-nails were dyed with _henna_. ... They had

handsome gold watches ... suspended from their necks by thick,

massive gold chains. Their fingers were covered with a

profusion of diamond, emerald, and ruby rings; in their ears

were ear-rings of various precious stones, all set in the old

antique style of silver. ... Behind stood half-a-dozen of white

slaves, chiefly Circassians."

The mother leaves a favorable impression on the mind of the

governess, who, being finally dismissed from the interview,

pursues her explorations and makes a great discovery neither

complimentary to the princess nor cleanly, where water is

abundant, but where ablutions seem to be abnormal; for it is

written in her journal that

"Thence we passed along a stone passage which leads to her

highness's bath-room. ... The marble bath is both long and

wide, with taps for hot and cold water. The water actually

boils into which their highnesses enter. This only occurs when

they have visited the viceroy, and not daily, or even at any

other time. The bath of the poets is a myth."

The governess at last reaches her own chamber, where she is

destined to sleep and seclude herself in her leisure hours. The

prospect at first is not inviting, nor does a second view afford

more encouragement; an evident sense of disappointment, if not of

dismay, is experienced; and thus she pours forth her vexation:

{411}

"On the right-hand side of the first room was the small

bed-room which was assigned to me as my apartment. It was

carpeted, having a divan covered with green and red striped

worsted damask, which stood underneath the window, which

commanded a fine _coup-d'ceil_ of the gardens attached to

the palace of the viceroy's pavilion. The hangings of the

double doors and windows were of the same material. The

furniture consisted of a plain green painted iron bedstead, the

bars of which had never been fastened, and pieces of wood, like

the handles of brooms, and an iron bar, were placed across to

support the two thin cotton mattresses laid upon it. There were

neither pillows, bolsters, nor bed linen, but as substitutes

were placed three thin flat cushions; not a blanket, but two

old worn-out wadded coverlets lay upon the bed. Not the sign of

a dressing-table or a chair of any description, and a total

absence of all the appendages necessary for a lady's bed-room;

not even--"

Well, well, Mrs. Lott, the "not even" was, in your civilized

opinion, certainly very odd to be sure. But don't mind trifles;

let it be forgotten; let us ramble elsewhere. You were saying

just now something about four broad steps; go on; that's right.

"Four broad steps led down into the garden, close to a plain

white marble-columned gate, on the top of which stood out in

bold relief the statues of two huge life-sized lions. ... Here

and there were scattered rose-trees, the brilliancy of whose

variegated colors and the perfumes of their flowers were

delightfully refreshing; geraniums of almost every hue;

jessamines, whose large white and yellow blossoms were thrice

the size of those of England, and a variety of indigenous and

eastern plants, shrubs, and flowers, which were so thickly

studded about that they rendered the view extremely

picturesque, and perfumed the air, grateful to the senses.

Verbena trees, as large as ordinary fruit-trees; other plants

bearing large yellow flowers, as big as tea-cups, with most

curious leaves; cactuses, and a complete galaxy of botanical

curiosities, whose names the genius of a Paxton would be

perhaps puzzled to disclose, ornamented those Elysian grounds."

This is only one sketch of only one spot in the many gorgeous and

luxurious localities. Space forbids copying more; but the book

states:

"Leaving these neglected scenes of amusement, we proceed along

a path to the right, through a superb marble-paved hall, the

ceiling of which is in fresco and gold. It is supported by

twenty-eight plain pink-colored marble columns, surmounted by

richly-gilded Indian wheat, the leaves of which hang down most

gracefully, on each side of which, and also above ... are some

very handsome lofty rooms, the ceilings of which are also in

fresco, with superb gilded panels. ...

"The grounds of Frogmore, the Crystal Palace, St. Cloud,

Versailles, the Duke of Devonshire's far-famed Chatsworth, and

our national pride, Kensington Gardens and Windsor Home Park,

exquisite, beautiful, and rural as they are ... all lack the

brilliant display of exotics which thrive here in such

luxuriance. The groves of orange-trees, the myrtle hedges, the

beautiful sheets of water, the spotless marble kiosks, the

artistic statuary, are all so masterly blended together with

such exquisite taste, that these gardens ... completely outvie

them."

The princesses were sometimes as highly adorned as the halls of

marbles and frescoes, and as ornamental as the gardens of

blooming exotics. On the festival of the Great Bairam, or on

state occasions, when lady visitors made formal calls to compare

complexions and cashmeres, their highnesses are spoken of with

the highest delight:

"They wore the most costly silks, richest satins, and softest

velvets; adorned themselves with the treasures of their jewel

caskets, so that their persons were one blaze of precious

stones. That crescent of females (for they always ranged

themselves in the form of the Turkish symbol) was then a

parterre of diamonds, amethysts, topazes, turquoises,

chrysoberyls, sapphires, jaspers, opals, agates, emeralds,

corals, rich carbuncles, and rubies. In short, the profusion of

diamonds with which the latter adorned their persons from day

to day became so sickening to me that my eyes were weary at the

sight of those magnificent baubles, to which all women are so

passionately attached."

{412}

But weary as were her British eyes, still she gazed in rapture

when the darling gems were on exhibition; moreover, in the

journal the impressions were faithfully recorded. On another

occasion, when some princesses were coming,

"The Princess Epouse, the mother of my prince, was attired in a

rich, blue-figured silk robe, trimmed with white lace and

silver thread, with a long train; full trousers of the same

material, high-heeled embroidered satin shoes to match the

dress. On her head she had a small white crape handkerchief,

elegantly embroidered with blue silk and silver, and round it

placed a tiara of May blossoms in diamonds. She wore a necklace

to correspond, having large sapphire drops hanging down the

neck. Her arms were ornamented with three bracelets, composed

of diamonds and sapphires, and an amulet entirely of sapphires

of almost priceless value. ... At times my eyes, when looking

at the Peris arrayed in all their gems, have become as dim as

if I had been fixing them on the noonday sun."

What young lady of an enterprising turn of mind would not be

willing, after reading these glowing descriptions, to pack up her

Saratoga trunks, to engage the Adams Express Company, and to

charter the Cunard line of steamers, to aid her on to a glorious

future near the base of the pyramids? Certainly not one of the

ambitious and strong-minded. But they need not ask the English

governess to go with them. She has been there; she will

respectfully decline going again--not she, as Shakespeare's other

old lady in Henry the VIII. exclaims, "not for all the mud in

Egypt." For another part of the story remains to be told; another

side of the picture to be presented; and dame Emeline tells it

truthfully, she paints it lifelike; the rose is beautiful, but

beware the serpent under it.

Mrs. Lott is apparently a gentlewoman, refined, accomplished,

intellectual, with an appreciation of the difference between

civilized society and barbarism. But in the vice-regal harem,

education was not to be found; ignorance was universal,

superstition reigned supreme. None could read, or write, or

sketch, or converse on a rational subject. No one could sing or

perform on a musical instrument; none cared for to-morrow or for

a hereafter. Their daily routine had all the monotony of the

desert with its burning sands, destitute of variety in incident

or shade of change; it was equally unproductive and utterly

worthless. They had nothing to expect with pleasing anticipation;

they had nothing to remember with delight. Physically, morally,

mentally they were unclean and debased. Their passions, when

aroused, were ungovernable; their greatest joy was revenge upon a

rival; and their revenge was deadly, by suffocation or

submersion, poison or the bow-string. Their amusements were all

sensual; their weary hours of listless idleness were passed in

indulgence of some enervating vice alike deleterious to health,

comfort, and color.

The servants were steeped in only a lower depth of dirt and

depravity. The princesses had the power of life and death over

them, and it was a power often exercised; they would put them to

the torture for a trivial fault, the breaking of a plate or the

falling of a cup; and cheeks and arms seamed with parallel rows

of the red-hot iron, attested how often and how unmercifully

cruel had been their punishment. The food of the menials was not

prepared for them, nor given to them; but they purloined by

stealth from the dishes on their way to the princesses'

apartments; and after their repast was ended, the refuse of

chicken and pigeon bones, of mutton, of soup, of rice, of

vegetables, and the rinds of fruit were tossed into a basket in

one loathing mess, mixed up, around which the servants flocked

like carrion birds, and, squatting on the floor, inserted

ravenously their reeking hands to pick out disgusting morsels

with their dripping, unwashed fingers.

{413}

The laundry did not require much water; for the volume informs

us,

"Those who performed the duties of washerwomen were occupied

daily in their avocation, except on the Sabbath, (Fridays.) But

that was not very laborious work, since neither bed, table, nor

chamber linen are used. Thus they were engaged until twelve,

when their highnesses partook of their breakfast separately. It

was served up on a large green-lackered tray, _minus_

table-cloth, knives and forks, but with a large ivory

tablespoon, having a handsome coral handle, the evident emblem

of their rank as princesses. It was placed upon the

_soofra_, a low kind of stool, covered with a handsome

silk cloth. The repast occupied about twenty minutes. Then

pipes, in which are placed small pills of opium, or more often

cigarettes and coffee, were handed to them, and each princess

retired to her own apartment. Thus they became confirmed

opium-smokers, which produced a kind of intoxication." ...

Their common indulgence in opium, with a profuse supply of

European wines and Schiedam gin, produced its natural results,

and is thus depicted:

"Oftentimes after the princesses had been indulging too freely

in that habit to which they had became slaves, their

countenances would assume most hideous aspects; their eyes

glared, their eyebrows were knit closely together; no one dared

to approach them. In fact, they had all the appearance of mad

creatures, while at other times they were gay and cheerful.

"They only combed their hair (which was full of vermin) once a

week, on Thursdays, the eve of their Sabbath, (Friday,

_Djouma_;) when it was well combed with a large

small-tooth comb; and pardon me, but 'murder will out,' the

members of the vermin family which were removed from it were

legion. It was afterward well brushed with a hard hair-brush,

well damped with strong perfumed water. Their highnesses never

wore stockings in the morning, nor did they change any of their

attire till afternoon."

When the summer heats set in, the harem was transferred to the

coast at Alexandria, to inhale the fresh breezes from the sea.

The preparation for flight was attended with some rich scenes and

ludicrous exhibitions. But their transit on the railroad, boxed

up like pigs or poultry on a cattle-train, is indescribable in a

decent print. The prelude to the trip will bear repeating; it is

an amusing contrast with the festal robes on the day of the Great

Bairam; the cutaneous sensation it excites is the penalty to pay

for the knowledge imparted; the company is right regal.

"As soon as orders had been given to the grand eunuch to hasten

the departure of the vice-regal family to Alexandria, ... there

was bustle all day long. One morning when I returned from the

gardens, ... I entered the grand pasha's reception-room; ...

there were their highnesses, the princesses, squatted on the

carpet amidst a whole pile of trunks. They were all attired in

filthy, dirty, crumpled muslins, shoeless and stockingless;

their trousers were tucked up above their knees, the sleeves of

their paletots pinned up above their elbows, their hair hanging

loose above their shoulders, as rough as a badger's back,

totally uncombed, without nets or handkerchiefs, but, pardon

me, literally swarming with vermin! No Russian peasants could

possibly have been more infested with live animals. In short,

their _tout ensemble_ was even more untidy than that of

washerwomen at their tubs; nay, almost akin to Billingsgate

fisherwomen _at home_; for their conversation in their own

vernacular was equally as low. They all swore in Arabic at the

slaves most lustily, banged them about right and left with any

missile, whether light or heavy, which came within their

reach."

At last the governess lost her health. The food was too

unsuitable for a Christian woman, and the atmosphere, redolent of

the overpowering rich perfumes of the gardens mingled with

sickening, stupefying opium smell and smoke, along with other

odors, almost intolerable. After visiting Constantinople with the

harem, she threw up her engagement and returned to England.

This abasement of woman is not to be wondered at; for wherever

the Christian idea of marriage is lost or subverted, woman

becomes the mere object of passion, and degradation is sure to

follow.

-----------

{414}

Translated From Etudes Religieuses, Etc.,

Par Des Peres De La Compagnie De Jesus.

The Flight Of Spiders.

A Paper Read Before The French Academy Of Science,

March, 1867.

About fifteen years ago, I was sitting in an arbor of my garden,

reading, when a little spider fell on my book, whence I could not

tell, and commenced to run over the very line I was reading. I

blew hard to chase him away, but he would not go. He lifted

himself strangely up, and I cannot explain how, but he lodged on

a sprig of verdure just above my head. "Well," said I, "for a

little animal like that, this is a wonderful feat! How has he

accomplished it?" To satisfy myself, I took him up again,

balanced him on my book, and, after assuring myself that he had

no invisible thread to aid him, I blew again, and again the

little fellow did the very same thing. With redoubled curiosity,

I tried him once more, and, to see better, I sat down in the

bright sunlight. Again I balanced him on the book, looked at him

as closely as possible, and, when I felt assured no precaution

could have escaped me, I blew once more. ... Resuming the same

inclined position, the spider as quick as lightning darted the

finest possible thread out of him, raised himself in the air, and

disappeared.

I confess I was stupefied. Never had I imagined these little

animals could fly without wings; so I consulted several works on

zoology, but I was astonished to find there was no mention made

of the flight of spiders, nor of the ejaculatory movement of

which I had witnessed so curious an example. [Footnote 96]

[Footnote 96: In M. Eugène Simon's _Natural History of

Spiders_, the most recent work of the kind, he says,

speaking of the manner in which _l'épéire diadème_

constructs its web: "Several authors suppose that the spider

darts its thread like an arrow, others imagine it throws it

upward in the air while flying as a fly would; but neither of

these explanations rests on observation, and they are, after

all, simple hypotheses." Then, describing his own observation

as to how a spider acts to make fast its great threads, he

says, "It seems to take a horizontal position, and moves

contrary to the wind." M. Simon's work gives us nothing else

to lead us to suppose he has observed the wonders spoken

of.--Tr.]

So there was a new question presented to me, and my vocation to

study the habits of these little animals--which hitherto had

given me no concern--decided for me. I immediately lost all

repugnance, all distaste, and threw away all the unjust

precautions of which the spider is too often the object, and of

which I was as culpable as any one else. And from that time I

welcomed its appearance; was most happy to meet with it, looked

for it, indeed, and studied its habits almost with _furor_.

And I can say that, thanks to this hearty preoccupation, which

never left me, I found every opportunity to follow my

inclination, and knew where to find spiders in all sorts of

unheard-of places.

Such are the singular effects of curiosity once excited, and

still another proof that, in order to study nature well, we need

only a mysterious glimpse of the unknown to redouble all our

energies to explain it thoroughly.

And as in this study, trifling as it may appear, I seem to have

met with facts not known hitherto, but which deserve to be

understood, I here resume the principal ones: those that treat of

the flying of spiders; of the habitation of some species in the

air; and of the gossamer or air threads--a singular phenomenon,

for a long time discussed in vain, but which I believe I have

definitively solved.

{415}

I only ask the naturalists to judge one fairly, not by theory,

but by facts. And I am persuaded, if they will take the pains to

verify what I advance, they will find me exact; and, if they

begin doubtingly, I hope, after they have read my observations,

they will conclude as others to whom I have communicated them.

Mocking and incredulous at first, they have ended by believing

their own eyes, and testifying to the evidence presented to them.

May my labor prove useful, and, above all, contribute to the

glory of the great God, whose just title is, _Magnus in magnis,

maximus in minimis_.

I.

Threads Thrown Out By Spiders.

The first thing that I perceived, and that put me on the track of

the rest, was, as I have just said, that the greater part of

_aranéides_, especially certain varieties of _thomises

lycoses_, etc., besides the thread that they always draw with

them, have the power of darting one or more of extraordinary

length, and of which they make use to accomplish distances, to

fasten their webs from one point to another, and even, as we

shall see further on, to raise themselves in the air and there to

seek their prey. The spider always points his abdomen to the side

where he wishes to go. The thread shoots like an arrow, fastens

itself by the end to the place destined, and the spider passes as

under a suspended bridge. If this thread is cut, it is

immediately replaced by another; and the ejaculation is so

prompt, so rapid, the thread so straight, so tenuous, so

brilliant, that it might be taken, if I may so express myself,

for the jet of an imperceptible ray of light. To perceive this

clearly, the spider must be held on a level with the eyes, which

should be shaded, and examined with one's back to the sun.

The best time for such an observation is in the morning or

evening, when the sun is low in the horizon and the temperature

is mild; for without this latter condition the torpid spider is

more inclined to creep along the earth than to throw out new

threads.

Sometimes, to excite them, they may be held by their ordinary

thread and gently shaken or blown upon--just a few puffs of

breath--which they detest.

I have thus been able to scan closely, while watching their

development, this instantaneous jet of thread, which could not be

less than five or six yards long, that is, fifteen hundred or two

thousand times the length of the spider. What a tremendous

apparatus must be necessary to these little animals for so rapid

an ejaculation, and one so disproportioned to their size! And

especially if we consider that this thread, inasmuch as it

adheres to the animal, has not the appearance of an independent

organ, but seems solely to obey its will. Thus I have seen

spiders, who seemed to miss the end desired with the first

stroke, continue to hold the thread in the same direction, and

actually _palpitate_, if I may so say, while striving to

make it adhere.

But a truly interesting sight, and one obtained at a very

trifling expense, is that which the _thomises bufo_ offer,

described by Walckenaer, in the first volume of his _History of

Insects_, page 506. In truth, these araneides do not only

throw out one thread, but an entire bundle of them, and are

seemingly guided by the smaller threads, just as a peacock

unfolds by degrees his splendid plumage.

{416}

And even in one's own room this sight may be enjoyed. It is only

necessary to collect these _thomises_ and keep them in

separate boxes, and nourish them in winter with one fly or so a

month. Then take the boxes out, put them on a table in a very

warm room, and sit a little in the shade and watch them. Very

soon from each box will appear a multitude of threads, of extreme

freshness and fineness, which the spider throws into the air with

inexhaustible profusion. At certain seasons of the year we can

enjoy this spectacle again, and at even less expense.

II.

Flight Of Spiders.

Another property not less remarkable that these araneides possess

(_thomises bufo, lycoces voraces_, etc.) is that of flying;

that is to say, of elevating themselves in the air, there

sustaining themselves, and travelling about horizontally and

vertically, with or without a thread; in a word, acting exactly

as if in their own element. This fact I have witnessed a thousand

times, and it has been certified to by a great number of people,

who, at first incredulous, and alarmed for the laws of

gravitation, were compelled to confess the reiterated testimony

of their own eyes.

I had some pupils under my charge, and to them this study became

a continued source of amusement. During their recreation, they

found suitable spiders for me, and, when they brought them to me,

I rested them on my fingers and made them mount upward in the

air; and invariably, after having watched them for some moments,

they were entirely lost to sight. But when I made the

discovery--of which I will speak later--of the general migration

which some species make yearly toward certain regions of the

atmosphere, I had no longer any trouble to enjoy this performance

to my heart's content.

The flight of spiders is sometimes very rapid, particularly when

they start. They often escape from one's hands while they are

carefully watched. This happened to me one day with a

_voracious lycose_ that I had for a long time importuned

without success. Just as I was going to give him up as entirely

stupefied, he suddenly escaped from me by a lateral movement, so

rapid that for a moment I lost sight of him; but, when I found

him a moment afterward, he was suspended quietly in the air. I

also remarked that he set out without throwing any thread, and

this was not the only time I made the same observation. I was

experimenting one day with some amateurs in the interior court of

the college where I live, and, having started a _lycose_, we

saw him occupy himself at first with the neighboring galleries,

running up and down for about twenty yards, about a tenth of a

yard from the arch, against which he knocked himself from time to

time, and groped about to look for a passage; not finding one, he

threw himself back into the court, raised perpendicularly, and

disappeared toward the clouds. His thread, if he had one, could

not have been longer than a tenth of a yard. Ordinarily, however,

before they ascend, they throw out a thread which they follow for

a short time; then, arriving at a certain height, they break it,

in order to navigate more easily. If any is left before them,

they wind it rapidly with their feet, throw it aside, and form

those pretty little crowns of white silk in form of

_cracknels_, that we often see flying in the air in time of

gossamers. Again, they balance themselves quietly with a thread

which rises perpendicularly above them, and gives them the

appearance of floating.

{417}

But a peculiarity still more remarkable in the flight of spiders

is the attitude that they take in flying. They generally swim

_backward_, that is to say, the back turned from the earth,

the feet folded on the corselet, and perfectly immovable. How can

such a flight be explained, for they are already heavier than the

air? Plunged into alcohol, they sink quickly; but in the air they

seem to possess an ease, a liberty, a facility of transport, so

admirable that I have never been able to see in them the

slightest motion, nor even an apparent increase of weight. Does

not this fact present an interesting question for the skilful to

contemplate?

III.

How Long They Can Remain In The Atmosphere?

At this portion of my history I have to relate facts the most

curious and unexpected; and, unfortunately for me, more true than

probable. I acknowledge I was loath to publish them, or assume

concerning them any responsibility. But I was firmly convinced,

and therefore hoped to be believed, especially by this generation

of fearless naturalists, who are astonished at nothing in nature,

and who, having often been surprised in the relation of almost

incredible marvels, must certainly make allowances for a few more

in another quarter.

Let us look at, for instance, the wonderful things related of the

_argyronete_, or aquatic spider. [Footnote 97]

[Footnote 97: The _argyronete_ is a spider that lives in

the water where she constructs a charming little edifice that

appears surrounded with a silky mortar. The down that covers

her contains a certain quantity of air for respiration. This

gives her in swimming the appearance of a ball of

quicksilver, from which we have her name.]

I could not tell anything more unlikely, so I will only exact for

the atmosphere a companion to what the Père de Lignac discovered

in the last century for the water. Yes, I pretend there are

spiders that live in the air as well as those living in water,

and that every year, from the earliest days of spring, there is,

unknown to us, a general migration of spiders toward the

atmosphere, where they pass their best season, form their nets,

chase their prey, and only return to earth in the first fogs of

autumn to find their quarters for the winter. I add, also, that

this ascent and descent give rise to the curious phenomenon,

still so badly explained, of the gossamer. And as it was to the

study of this phenomenon that I owe my knowledge of the rest, may

I be permitted here, by way of demonstration, to relate briefly

the path I have followed and the proofs which have led to the

conviction I express?

Attracted, as I was, by all that concerns spiders, I could not

remain indifferent to a fact so important and interesting as the

periodical apparition of those threads which in spring and autumn

we see flying about in long white skeins, clinging to trees, to

hedges, and to the vestments of the passers-by, carpeting the

country in a few hours with more silk, and finer and whiter, than

could be spun in a year by all the reels in the world. Admirable

netting, glistening in the light of the setting sun, and

reflecting the sweetest, softest tints of gold, vermilion, and

emerald, and receiving the pretty and poetical name of "_fils

de la Vierge_." Was there not between this phenomenon and my

preceding observations a secret tie, some mysterious relation? I

seemed to foresee it, and, setting to work immediately, rejected

from the very beginning the usual explanation of this phenomenon.

{418}

How, indeed, can we admit these floating gossamers as merely the

refuge webs of spiders, torn by the violence of the wind from the

trees and forests and carried capriciously through the air? Will

not the slightest observation convince us that they never appear

but in the calmest moments, on days foggy in the morning, but

afterward beautiful, and not preceding a storm; never in summer,

often in the spring and autumn, and sometimes even in winter? If

the winds carry them, why do they not appear in summer? Are

violent winds and spider-webs both wanting? And who has ever seen

one of these webs carried by a hurricane, especially in quantity

sufficient to produce such a phenomenon? For the fall of

gossamers sometimes lasts for almost entire days, and in certain

countries during the middle of the day the fields are covered

with them. Add, too, that violent winds are generally local,

while this phenomenon is universal, and so periodical that in the

same climates it appears at the same epochs, and, when one knows

what produces it, it is easy to predict the time and day of the

apparition.

Discontented, then, on this point with books and their

explanations, I turn completely to the side of nature, and

present all I observed.

From the first appearance of these threads in autumn, I was

struck with the immense multitudes of new spiders met with

everywhere, and which I had not seen during the summer. Little

brown _lycoses_ filled the air, so that it seemed as if it

had rained them. If one walked in the fields, the meadows, the

gardens, on the borders of the woods, among heaps of dried

leaves, scattered all through the forest everywhere, could be

seen myriads of these little brown spiders, jumping up and flying

before me in every direction, and exactly such as I had already

recognized as such excellent swimmers. After having passed the

winter in the earth, in the holes of worms that they completed

with a little silk, they reappeared after the cold in great

numbers, to disappear again entirely in the first bright days of

spring, and as if by enchantment. If one is seen again during the

summer, we may be sure it is some female retarded by laying her

eggs, and dragging laboriously her cocoon after her. Now, what

has become of the others?

For several months I could not satisfy myself on this point,

when, on the 21 St of October, 1856, in the enclosure of the

little seminary of Iseure, near Moulins, I came to a positive

decision, I was observing the fall of a large quantity of

gossamers, which were falling on that day in large white flakes,

when I perceived close to me in the air one of those little black

spiders descending gradually, and as if she were jumping. She

held by an invisible thread to a large flake, which came down

slowly about seven or eight yards above her; but, keeping outside

of it, she hung by the end of the long thread, like an aeronaut

underneath his balloon. My attention once attracted, I noticed so

great a number that I was astonished I had not taken care sooner;

for there was scarcely a flake underneath which there were not

one or two, and this sometimes even before the flake itself was

visible. [Footnote 98]

[Footnote 98: There is an observation which confirms my own.

We read in _Darwin's Journal_, page 159: "Mr. Darwin saw

a large number of gossamers on the ship Beagle, when she was

about 60 miles from the mouth of the Rio de la Plata. It was

the first of November, and these gossamers were carried by a

very light breeze, and on each were found an immense number

of little spiders, similar in appearance, about the twelfth

of an inch in length, and in color a deep brown. The smallest

were a deeper shade than the others. None were found on the

white tufts, but all on threads." _Journal of Researches

into the Natural History and Geology of the Countries visited

during the Voyage of his Majesty's Ship, the Beagle,_

1845.]

{419}

Each one was separated by a slender thread, and followed the

motion of its balloon. If they met a tree or a bush, they landed

upon it; if not, coming close to the earth, they ran along and

were lost in the verdure. If I approached them too quickly or

made a noise, they remounted rapidly by their threads and went to

disembark somewhere else.

I also examined some of the flakes. They were all shining white

mats, appearing as if they had been washed. Several contained

wings and feet of flies, fragments of the case of little

coleoptera, and other remnants of their aerial festivities.

This encounter was for me a revelation. I knew where the spiders,

whom I had seen disappear so brusquely, took refuge, and, however

rash my judgment may appear, I felt assured I had solved an

interesting problem.

But to establish seriously and give to science an opinion so new

and original as that the atmosphere may be peopled with spiders,

I soon felt that more proof was necessary in order to sit down

calmly under my personal conviction. So I concluded I should not

be doing too much if I added to the verification of their descent

that of their ascension, and could surprise them in this new

migration. I waited, therefore, impatiently for the spring.

But that spring, and for five or six that followed it, great was

my disappointment; for, though I perceived several isolated

ascensions, yet nothing in the proportion I had imagined or that

could justify my hypothesis. I began then to doubt seriously my

success, when an incident occurred that relieved my

embarrassment, and proved how trifling sometimes are the causes

which lift the veil from nature. I was looking straight upward,

but sitting close to the earth, and so as to be able as much as

possible to exclude the sun from my eyes. And here, by the way, a

fact is made palpable, by no means microscopic, but which has

escaped so long not merely the observation of the crowd of vulgar

observers, but of those even who are wide awake and study

carefully; namely, that it is not necessary to carry one's nose

always in the air, if I may so express myself, to examine

closely, to investigate, or to render a faithful account of

phenomena.

On looking upward--as an ascension only takes place on very

beautiful days, succeeding generally to bad weather--spiders

cannot be distinguished from the multitude of other insects which

fill the air. But if, on a beautiful day, mild, calm, and

brilliant in sunlight, succeeding as nearly as possible to a rain

warm with the south wind, at about nine or ten o'clock in the

morning, a post is chosen on an eminence of a meadow or an

avenue, and there, as near the ground as may be, and crouching

low, the observer will look horizontally, he will perceive a

series of fire-works, formed of innumerable threads launched from

every direction and inclined toward the sky. This is the prelude.

Soon the spiders detach themselves and mount slowly by their

threads. The most conspicuous are the _thomises bufo_,

because they are the largest, and because they only ascend with

an entire bundle of threads, which gives them the appearance of

small comets.

{420}

Thus have I decided

1st. That there is not only one ascension every year, but

several, at least partial ones; that they do not always take

place in spring, but often in the autumn, and sometimes even in

the winter; and in general, from the descent which has taken

place in the beginning of autumn until the definitive ascension

in the spring, there are but few favorable days of which the

spiders do not profit to make an aerial journey, or at least to

throw out a large number of threads. Thus, in the Beaujolais,

where I have lived for several years, there were partial

ascensions on the 1st, the 19th, and the 28th of November, 1864;

the 21st, the 23d, and especially the 25th of October, the 9th of

November, and the 6th of December, 1865. In 1866, the 18th and

the 30th of January, the 3d of February, the 3d, 14th, and 31st

of October, and the 17th of December. In 1867, the 10th of

February, ... the last, however, less considerable than might

have been predicted by the beauty of the day. The day previous

was so mild, though cloudy, that many of the spiders may have

embarked _incognito_. Many, also, may not have judged it

_a propos_ to fly away, for a great number still remained on

the ground. I forgot to observe the temperature of all the days I

have noted. The director of the Normal School of Villefranche

having had the kindness to show me the meteorological register

which he had kept with great care, I was able to prove that in

calm weather only ten or twelve degrees of heat were necessary to

induce them to mount upward. The least exposed begin; then

immediately the others, so soon as the heat reaches them; but

after three or four o'clock in the afternoon no more ascensions

are perceived, unless they are provoked; and this does not always

succeed,

2d. Before taking their flight, they generally cling to some

elevated object that they meet with easily, such as shrubs,

bushes, props of vines, or blades of grass escaped from the

scythe. To these they affix their threads and warm themselves

well in the sun before commencing their excursion. This is the

happy moment for amateurs to make their observations, for there

is scarcely a blade of grass that does not contain one or more;

and, if the branches of young trees are suddenly struck with a

slight blow, a great number are detached, suspended at the end of

their threads; and very often rare specimens are thus found not

discoverable elsewhere.

IV.

To What Height Do They Raise

Themselves in the Atmosphere?

On this point I have not been able to make any direct

observation. Perhaps I have dreamed of offering objections to the

concourse of intrepid human navigators who undertake such

perilous excursions in the air, and for my interest in the study

I have found two excellent reasons. The first, that it would be

well for them to know that, if they have not had rivals, they

have had precursors, who, for 6000 years, have executed silently

and noiselessly what they have claimed for themselves by every

effort of puffs and publicity. The second, and a still more

serious objection and that I believe will truly interest the

future in this young industry, is that if the argyronete and its

bell has given to science the instrument with which the divers

explore the depths of the sea, why may not the study of aerial

spiders furnish for aeronauts--these divers in air--the complete

apparatus which they require to raise themselves to any height,

direct their movements, and maintain themselves at will? Have not

these little animals resolved this problem for centuries? Yet the

present state of aerostation does not afford ground sufficient

for comparison.

{421}

We are, therefore, reduced to conjecture; and, if I may be

permitted to express mine, this is what I think:

I believe that spiders rise to the same height where on the fine

days of summer one can see the swallows and martins hover, almost

lost to sight, in pursuit of gnats that people these regions of

the atmosphere. I found this belief on the webs of spiders seen

falling in autumn, that seem to come at least from nearly such

heights. They begin to be seen at a hundred or a hundred and

fifty yards, and there is no great temerity in affirming that

they have already traversed a good part of their course. An

observation made in 1864, if conclusive, would tend to make

remoter still the habitation of spiders; for the fog that

determined the fall that year was a _high_ fog, that is to

say, one of those uniform mists that hide the sky for several

days together, and seem to extend to a great height. But, I

repeat, this is all conjecture. One good observation would have

been worth far more.'

V.

Conjectures On The Mode Of Building

Of Spiders In The Air.

Perhaps here I should stop, and, having stated facts, leave to

others their explanation. How do spiders sustain themselves in

the air? How can they so long brave the winds, the rains, the

storms; arrange their webs in emptiness and without apparent

means of support? Prudence counsels me to avoid these questions,

but my _rôle_ of simple observer permits them. However, in

waiting for better things, I decide still to hazard some

conjectures, were it only to prove that a fact once admitted, it

would not be absolutely impossible for the wisest to explain it.

The first idea that came to me was that these spider-webs raise

themselves in the air as the kites of children, and, made fast to

the tops of trees and edifices by long threads, they are

sustained by their own lightness. This idea was suggested to me

by a sight I was witness to one day at the Seminary of Vals, near

Le Puy. From a corner where I was in shadow, I perceived

distinctly on each high ridge of the roof, lightened by the rays

of the sun, long threads which rose perpendicularly in the air,

like large cords, balancing themselves slowly right and left,

without ever going out of a certain field of oscillation. But I

soon gave up this idea. How admit, in truth, that on two or three

threads, and without any other means of support, spiders could

weave their true webs? Would not some of these aerial

constructions tumble down every day, ruined by their own weight?

while it is acknowledged they only fall in autumn, and always

together.

I therefore rather incline to believe that the spiders are

sustained in the air by the distention of an interior vesicle,

analogous to that of fish, and that they ejaculate by their

threads, which are numerous, and pierced with an infinity of

little tubes, large bundles of threads, by which are taken the

insects that serve for their prey; that they resist the winds as

fish do the tossing of the sea, and their threads, being

glutinous, are not dampened by the rain; and also being excellent

conductors of caloric, as is proved by the abundant drops of dew

which they pearl near the earth, on the hedges, etc.; and if

after a calm night they are touched by an autumn fog, these heavy

and moistened threads weaken and fall one over the other, and

form the silky flakes that are seen from ten to eleven o'clock in

the morning, flying about in cloudy days with the spiders who

inhabited them during the summer.

{422}

This, hoping for better, is the explanation I hazard, and I

submit it with the rest to the appreciation of competent men. If

only these pages attract attention to a merited subject, and

provoke numerous observations, which alone can ever fully

elucidate it, the author will be more than repaid for the few

researches he has presented in this article.

--------

Translated From The "Revue Du Monde Catholique."

John Tauler.

By Ernest Hello.

History has an astonishing memory. She records the day and hour

of battles with exact fidelity. She knows a thousand things. She

has recently discovered, if I do not mistake, the name of Julian

the Apostate's cook. She remembers everything of little

importance. The names of celebrated mistresses who have amused or

poisoned renowned personages, are transmitted from age to age.

Erudition has been making strides during the last hundred years,

as if she had seven-leagued boots. To deserve the admiration and

gratitude of mankind, however, she should not have degraded

herself, but taken a higher sphere in her progress. Her memory

indicates greatness of genius; but she is like calumny, she

increases in size as she advances through the centuries. In her

labors, researches, and exploits, she has been mostly busied with

soldiers, and frequently forgotten God and man. She could not

think of everything at once; the hidden history of humanity is

yet to be written; the greatest events of the world are secret to

this very day; and those who reflect on them are men of a special

caste.

If there were question of the battle of Marathon, or of Antony

and Cleopatra, our contemporaries would be found well instructed;

but do they know John Tauler, the German Tauler, of the Dominican

or preaching order?

Master Tauler was a great preacher--powerful and popular. One

day he gave a learned discourse, in which he taught the way of

perfection, with all his characteristic assurance. To become

perfect, he enumerated twenty-four conditions, which he developed

before an attentive and brilliant audience. After the sermon, a

layman, one of the poorest and most ignorant of his hearers, came

to him. History, by one of those distractions so usual for her to

have, when there is question of God, has forgotten the name of

this individual. This simple layman said to Tauler:

"Master, the letter kills, and the spirit gives life; but you are

a Pharisee."

Doctor Tauler: "My son, I am now old, and no one has ever spoken

to me in this manner."

The Layman: "You think I speak too bluntly to you; but it is your

own fault; and I can prove that what I say to you is true."

Doctor Tauler: "You will do me a favor, for I have never loved

the Pharisees."

{423}

Then the layman, probing into the doctor's mental condition,

showed him that he was held captive by the mere letter of the

evangelical law, and devoid of its spirit.

"You are a Pharisee," proceeded the layman, "but not a

hypocritical Pharisee. You are not on the road to hell, but on

that which leads to purgatory."

Doctor Tauler embraced the man, and said to him: "I feel at this

moment as the Samaritan woman must have felt at the well; you

have revealed to me all my faults, my son; you have told all that

was most secret in my soul. Who, then, has told you? It is God; I

am convinced it must be so. I entreat you, my son, by the death

of our Lord, to be my spiritual father, and I, a poor sinner,

will become your son."

The Layman: "Dear master, if you speak thus contrary to order and

reason, I shall not remain with you any longer, but straightway

return to my own house."

Doctor Tauler: "Oh! no. I beg you, in the name of God, to stay

with me, and I promise not to speak thus again."

The docility of Tauler is sublime and touching. His great good

will, which broke the pride of science, led him into the paths of

spiritual contemplation.

"Tell me, I conjure you, in the name of God," said Tauler, "how

you have succeeded in arriving at the contemplative state?"

The Layman: "You ask me a very odd question. I confess to you

frankly that, if I should recount or write all the wonderful

things which God has been doing to me, a poor sinner, for twelve

years, there would be no book large enough to contain them."

The layman then recounted how he had been deceived in his

spiritual life; how, influenced by Satan, he had practised

imprudent austerities, which would have injured both his body and

soul; and how, warned by God, he had returned to the paths of

wisdom.

Both Tauler and the layman were then lifted up to the regions of

contemplation. The unknown monitor then said: "If the God whom we

worship could be comprehended by reason, he would not be worthy

of our service."

But before his great illumination, Tauler suffered during two

years frightful temptations. Abandoned, poor, suffering, that man

of iron was shaken like a reed. The layman comes to his

assistance, and sustains in his time of misery him whom he had

crushed in his period of pride.

"For the first time," said the layman, "God has touched your

superior faculties."

At the end of two years, the doctor again ascended the pulpit.

The crowd which came to hear him was large. Tauler cast his eyes

over the expectant multitude, then drew his cowl over his eyes

and prayed.

The crowd awaited him; but he spoke not a word. Tears filled his

eyes and rolled down his cheeks. Tauler wept bitterly.

What a scene! The audience become impatient. Some one asks Tauler

if he will preach. Tauler continues weeping. He wept and wept;

and the multitude, anxious to hear his inferior oratory, and

incapable of appreciating the higher eloquence of tears, could

not comprehend the doctor's conduct. At last Tauler dismissed the

assembly; for his sobs choked his utterance. He asked pardon of

the people for having kept them uselessly waiting; and they went

home. "Now," said some of them, "we see that he has become a

fool."

{424}

But after five days' silence, Tauler preached before the friars

of the convent, and he was sublime. One of the friars went to the

pulpit and addressed the congregation as follows: "I am requested

to make known to you that Doctor Tauler will preach here

to-morrow; but if he acts as he did last time, remember not to

blame me." "How will he succeed?" said one to another. "I do not

know," was the answer; "God knows."

This time Tauler could control his voice, and _silence_ was

his theme. He had built his eyrie in silence, as an eagle on the

summit of a cliff. His language, worked out in silence, seemed to

long after it; to return to its home, and die away in the high

sombre clouds of complete solitude. Silence is the doctrine of

Tauler; his secret, his food, his substance and his slumber.

Absolutely free from all oratorical finery, his sermons go right

to the mark, without respect for conventionality or the cant of

ordinary discourses. He utters what he wishes to express; praises

solitude, and returns into it. This is the reason why his

external word takes nothing away from his interior recollection.

His words do not betray his soul. Silence is the guardian angel

of strength.

It was doubtless this profound doctrine of silence which gave to

the eloquence of Tauler an extraordinary virtue. This man, who

seemed to come out of a tomb, appeared with a thunderbolt in his

hand. Fifty men, after the sermon, remained in the church as if

transfixed by an invisible hand. Thirty-eight of them were able

to move during the half-hour which followed; but the twelve

others could not stir. Tauler said to the unknown layman, his

adviser: "What shall we do with these people, my son?" The layman

went from one to the other and touched them, but they were as

immovable as rocks.

Tauler was frightened at the paralysis which he had caused. "Are

they dead or alive?" said he to his friend. "What do you think?"

"If they are dead," replied the layman, "it is your fault, and

that of the Spouse of souls."

This fact, which is historical, seems like a legend.

This picture would be magnificent, if an artist should sketch it.

The place where Tauler had just preached was a cemetery, and the

twelve men who were lying on the ground in ecstasy resembled

those who slumbered in death beneath. The orator, walking with

his friend through the audience, who had become almost his

victims; feeling the pulse and the face of his hearers, to detect

in them after the sermon, as after a battle, some sign of life;

passing through the ranks of the vanquished and healing the

wounded, must have seemed something superhuman. At last the

friend of Tauler found that the thunderstruck hearers breathed

still, "Master," said he, "those men still live. Request the nuns

of the convent to take them away from here; for this cold floor

will injure them." One of the nuns, who was a listener to the

fearful discourse, had to be carried to her bed, where she lay

motionless.

The biography of John Tauler, which serves as prologue to his

sermons, says nothing of his exterior life; but dwells specially

on his unhistorical and legendary character. Those who wrote

about him have not deigned even to inquire in what century he

lived. This strange man has dispensed history from its ordinary

inquiries, as if eternity had been the sole theatre of his

terrestrial existence.

{425}

His friends are as strange as himself. The astonishing layman,

who tells his name to nobody, and gives us no means of

discovering it, was not the doctor's only teacher. Another of his

instructors was a beggar, just as extraordinary.

Tauler, according to Surius, petitioned God during eight years

for a master capable of teaching him the truth. One day when his

desire was more than usually strong, he heard a voice saying to

him, "Go to the door of the church. Thou wilt find there the man

whom thou seekest." He obeyed, and met at the appointed spot a

beggar, whose feet were soiled with mud, and whose rags were not

worth three half-pence. They began a dialogue, of which the

following is a portion:

Doctor Tauler. "_Good_ day, my friend."

The Beggar. "I do not remember ever to have had a _bad_ day

in my life."

Tauler. "May God grant thee prosperity."

The Beggar. "I know not what adversity is."

Tauler. "Well, may God make thee happy!"

The Beggar. "I have never been unhappy."

Urged for an explanation, the mendicant affirms that, "by means

of silence, he had arrived at perfect union with God; never being

able to find pleasure in anything less than God."

Tauler. "Whence comest thou?"

The Beggar. "From God."

Tauler. "Where hast thou found God?"

The Beggar. "Where I have left all creatures."

Tauler. "Where is God?"

The Beggar. "In men of good will."

Tauler. "Who art thou?"

The Beggar. "I am a king."

Tauler. "Where is thy kingdom?"

The Beggar. "In my soul."

We need often recall to our minds, in reading Tauler's life, that

he was really a man of flesh and bone, an historical personage.

Surius, Fathers Echard and Touron, have written his real life

circumstantially. He was born in 1294. He was an Alsatian. He

lived at Cologne, and died probably at Strasburg. We cannot fix

the date of his death. It happened May 17th, 1361, says Father

Alexander. Father Echard places it in the year 1379. Another

historian, M. Sponde, puts it in 1355.

Let us now speak of his doctrine.

II.

The doctrine of Doctor Tauler is the practice of divine union.

This union, transcending human thoughts and hopes, is the secret

of his life and the leading principle of his work. His sermons

are full of instruction regarding this union.

His _Institutions_ also teach it. Some writers hostile to

Tauler pretend to have found in his writings the foreshadowing of

quietism. This mistake can be refuted in three ways: by the works

of Tauler, which always affirm human activity to the most

contemplative soul, thus clearly separating the doctrine of the

quietists from that of the German thinker. Secondly, Bossuet,

whom no one will suspect of any leaning toward quietism, says of

Tauler: "He is one of the most solid and exact of the mystical

theologians." Thirdly, Tauler himself predicted quietism in a

remarkable monograph, blaming strongly all that Molinos, Madame

de Guyon, and Fenelon afterward asserted.

A close study of the Alsatian doctor shows that he always gives

to both internal and external activity all the reality and all

the rights which they possess.

{426}

"If any one," says he, "ascends to such a height of contemplation

as Saints Peter and Paul reached; and he perceives that a sick

beggar needs his help to warm his soup, or for any other service,

it would be much better for him to leave the repose of

contemplation, and aid the poor man, instead of remaining in the

sweetness of contemplative life." (_Institutions_, p. 195.)

Here is the plain truth and no illusion. And elsewhere he writes:

"Men should not pay so much attention to what they do, as to what

they are in themselves; for if the core of their heart be good,

their acts will be so also without difficulty; and if their

conscience be just and right, their works cannot be otherwise.

Many make sanctity [to] consist in action; but action is not the

chief element in it. Holiness must be judged in its principle as

well as in its acts. In other words, we must be interiorly saints

before we can perform exterior holy actions. No matter how good

may be our works, they do not sanctify us as works. It is we, on

the contrary, who make them meritorious, in virtue of inner

sanctity which is their producing principle. It is in the bottom

of the soul that we find the essence of a just man."

(_Institutions_, p. 156.)

Here is the truth again. Collate those two passages, after having

studied them separately, and you will find that they throw

complete light on the nature and value of human acts.

The almost continual ecstatic state in which Tauler lived, never

made him forget his smallest duties.

It has been often remarked that grace adapts itself to the

natural qualities of the individual whom it sanctifies. This is

as true of nations as of individuals. In Italy, asceticism has

the color of the sun. Italian ascetics shout, burn with ardor,

and seem full of exaggerated transports to the nations of cooler

blood. The landscape of Italian asceticism presents you a burning

sky, an ocean of fire, and a scorching earth. Sadness is

generally wanting. In Spain, the hue is more sombre. The same

ardor is there; but ardor tempered with jealousy. There is

interior disquietude in Spanish mysticism, and even adoration in

it examines itself as if suspicious of its truth. In Germany,

profound gravity and stern austerity lead the soul into a

horrible place. In Italy, images come crowding together, and

divine love, instead of rejecting them, embraces them. The soul

of the Italian saint holds garlands of flowers in his hands,

offering them joyously to the blessed sacrament. Familiarity and

adoration unite, like the two species of electricity before the

thunder-clap. Familiarity, wedded to adoration, appeared in St.

Francis of Assisi. The greatness of that strange man, who saw

brothers and sisters in everything, and conversed with water,

fire, the birds, and his monks, in the same tone and spirit, is

not immediately manifest to superficial minds. Plain good nature

veils his wonderful character. In Germany, those images which

poetry presents to love are accepted with great precaution.

Adoration is sober in thought and expression; and aspires to

something sublime, whose form and name are intangible. German

adoration is philosophical, meditative, broad, comprehensive,

austere, silent, wrapped up in herself, and self-sufficing. She

borrows only what is strictly necessary from persons and things.

The world is a servant which she employs only with regret. She

holds aloof from all creatures, and her words sound like

concession. She says to no one, "My brother," or "My sister." If

she had a brother. he would be silence. Her sister would be the

mist which surrounds God.

{427}

Tauler is one of the most majestic representatives of Teutonic

asceticism.

A disciple of St. Dionysius the Areopagite and of that layman of

whom we have written, in the wake of those two great characters

he follows, with eye and wing of eagle, into the region of

translucent darkness. He does not flutter there, he _soars_;

or, if he flies, his motion is so high and rapid, that it seems

like the active repose of a sublime and fruitful immobility.

Tauler seems to desire obscurity. The remarkable effects of his

preaching on his audience are less like thunder pealing in his

language, than like the awful presence of the sacred cloud where

the thunder is reposing.

Every man is a universe in himself. Unity and variety are the two

terms of the antinomy, without which there is no life. But

perfection consists in equilibrium between those terms. Such

perfection is very rare. In general the antinomy of life is

replaced by the contradictory, which is death. Man is divided

between good and evil, always attempting an impossible

reconciliation between them. Contradiction is a dead force which

tries to serve two masters. An antinomy is a living force which,

having chosen a master, and obeying but him, desires to serve him

in a thousand different ways always useful. Nothing better

displays the unity of a landscape than the variety of colors

which it presents to the eye at the same time. The lights and

shades, the undulations of the soil, and the accidents of sun,

clouds, villages, forests, and spires, all are harmonized in the

eye of the spectator; and the more numerous, varied, and

unexpected are the details, the more does he experience delight

and a certain dilation of mind and heart in the contemplation of

their unity. If he takes away some of the circumstances, he mars

the effect of the whole; for he cannot even destroy a shadow

without diminishing the sunshine. What is true of a landscape is

also true of a book or a man. But Tauler lost the balance between

unity and variety, for he gave all to one and nothing to the

other. Few individuals, even among the greatest saints, have been

so ardent in the sentiment, love, pursuit, and conquest of unity.

He seeks after it incessantly, and it haunts him. He never seems

to look at the road he is travelling. He fixes his eyes solely on

the goal ever present to his soul. He turns neither to the right

nor the left. He knows not whether there be flowers or thorns on

the borders of his pathway. Do not ask him to imitate St. Antony

of Padua, and preach to the fishes of the streams. He minds

neither fishes nor birds. He seems to regard creation as a

stranger, of whom he had heard tell long ago, but whose

remembrance is now but faintly glimmering in his mind.

His love of unity, his call to unity, his transports for it,

always take the same shape, the same key and accent; and produce

in the end a certain monotony, which is not a question of

doctrine, but an affair of nature and temperament.

Tauler somewhere relates the history of a hermit, from whom a

troublesome visitor begged something that was lying in the cell.

The hermit went in to find the required object, but forgot at the

threshold what was wanted, for the image of external things could

not remain in his head. He went out, therefore, and asked the

visitor what he sought. The visitor repeated his petition.

{428}

The hermit re-entered his cell, but again forgot the request; and

was at last obliged to say to his guest: "Enter and find yourself

what you seek, for I cannot keep the image of what you ask for

sufficiently long stamped on my brain to do what you desire."

Tauler, in narrating this story, unintentionally describes his

own character. In every one of his sermons, he chooses a text and

a subject. This was required by circumstances and by his

audience. But the moment he enters the cell of his contemplation,

he forgets text and everything else, and mounts into the realms

of sublimity where he loses himself in that supreme unity after

which his heart is always aspiring. The moment he begins to fly,

he forgets the course he must take. With one stroke of her wings,

his intellect finds her love, and then soars in her natural

element, with plumes unruffled. Far above modes and forms of

earth, she stretches out her broad wings in the cerulean vault of

her beloved repose. If any should then ask him about some

ordinary detail, he would certainly answer like the recluse above

mentioned: "Enter yourself, and find what you are inquiring

after. I cannot keep the image of material or minor things long

enough in my mind to fulfil your request."

Tauler is continually citing Saint Dionysius the Areopagite. In

fact, these two great men are at home in the same latitudes. The

sermons of Tauler are to the works of the Areopagite what a

treatise of applied mathematics is to one on theoretical

mathematics. Tauler, like St. Dionysius, dwells in the interior

of the soul, that secret and deep abode, the name of which he is

ever seeking without finding, and which he ends by calling

ineffable as God himself.

"It is in this recess of the soul," he preaches, "that the divine

word speaks. This is why it is written, 'In the midst of silence,

a secret word was spoken to me.' Concentrate then, if thou canst,

all thy powers; forget all those images with which thou hast

filled thy soul. The more thou forgettest creatures, the more

thou wilt become fit and ready to receive that mysterious word.

Oh! if thou couldst of a sudden become ignorant of all things,

even of thy own life, like St. Paul, when he said, 'Was I in the

body or out of the body? I know not, God knows it.'" ... "Natural

animation was suspended in him, and for this reason his body lost

none of its powers during the three days which he passed without

eating or drinking. The same happened to Moses when he fasted

forty days on the mountain, without suffering from such long

abstinence, finding himself as strong at the end as at the

beginning."

The desire of Tauler that his hearers should become _Christian

children_, ignorant or forgetful of everything in sublime

ecstasy, shows plainly the nature of his charity. He wished for

them absolute perfection, contemplative and active,

transfiguration, transport, exactness, total accomplishment of

truth, and the plenitude of all heavenly things. The atmosphere

in which he lived favored his hopes and helped the efficacy of

his teaching. He declares that in the monastery when a soul is

suddenly called to some interior consideration, it can leave the

choir in the midst of the exercises, and plunge itself unseen

into the abyss of meditation to which God draws it. He also

affirms that when friars pass several days in ecstasy, they have

no reason to be disturbed at any irregularity of theirs which may

result from such an accident, provided they obey the rule again,

when they become masters of themselves.

{429}

Thus the prodigious transports of true asceticism are ever

strengthening; while those of false mysticism enervate the soul.

Hence it is that Tauler, though he is always speaking of

ravishments, never loses the character of force, and of that

austerity which is the sign of God and the test of true

contemplation.

"Where then does God act without a medium? In the depths, in the

essence of the soul? I cannot explain; for the faculties cannot

apprehend a being without an image. They cannot, for instance,

conceive a horse under the species of a man. It is precisely

because all images come from without to the soul, that the

mystery is hidden from it; and this is a great blessing.

_Ignorance plunges the soul into admiration_. She seeks to

comprehend what is taking place in her; she feels that there is

something; but she knows not what it is. The moment we know the

cause of anything, it has no longer any charm for us. We leave it

to run after some other object; always thirsting for knowledge,

and never finding the rest which we seek. This knowledge, full of

ignorance and obscurity, fixes our attention on the divine

operations within us. 'The mysterious and hidden word' of which

Solomon writes, is working in our minds." (_Sermons_.)

Many men of genius, from the beginning of the world, have studied

the human soul, and many are illustrious for the profundity of

their psychological researches. Yet compared to the great

mystical writers, those philosophers are mere children. Merely

human psychology skims over the surface of the soul, only

analyzing its relations to the interior world. They are ignorant

of the phenomena which take place in the secret recesses of the

mind. The great light, the incarnate Word, alone can throw its

rays into those abysses. It is remarkable that those who study

the soul for curiosity, merely to find out, and consecrate their

life to such investigations, discover very little. While those

who care nothing for simple science, but who act virtuously, obey

and glorify the Lord, see all things properly. Instead of aiding

vision to peer into the soul's _penetralia_, curiosity dims

the light. _Simplicity_ is the best torch in those

catacombs. _Simplicity_, commissioned by God, penetrates

into the abysses of the soul, with the audacity of a child sent

by its father.

The interior and extraordinary efforts by which Tauler rose to

the height of contemplation, gave him, though he knew it not, an

astounding knowledge of the resistance which man makes to man and

to God; of our combats, defeats, and victories; and of those

artifices by which we veil from ourselves our true situation

during the battle. The rounds by which the soul ascends are

counted, and yet the ladder of perfection has no summit.

The gospel, so merciful to sinners, vents all its wrath on the

Scribes and Pharisees. All its charity is for external enemies;

all its severity for interior enemies. Jesus Christ used the whip

once in his life to show men in what direction his indignation

was turned. We have Magdalen and the woman taken in adultery on

the one hand; the money-changers of the Temple, the Scribes and

Pharisees on the other. _There is a line of fire separating

sinners from the accursed_. All Catholic doctrine, all

ascetical tradition, is but the echo of Christ's mercy and

Christ's anger. Tauler teaches like all the great doctors, in

this respect.

He reprobates exterior practices which are devoid of charity, as

the works of hell, most hateful to the Holy Spirit. The fixedness

of his ideas gives a singular solemnity to his repetitions. On

every page his hatred of works done without interior life shows

itself.

{430}

Such works are his abomination. In all his meditations, prayers,

experiences, and contemplations, he condemns them. "This

doctrine," says he, "ought to be attentively meditated by those

who torment and mortify their poor flesh, plucking out the bad

roots which lie hidden around the core of man's heart. My

brother, what has thy body done that thou shouldst scourge it in

that fashion? Those men are fools who act as if they wanted to

beat their heads against the wall. Extirpate thy vices and thy

bad habits, instead of tormenting thyself as thou dost." ...

"There are men in the cloister and in solitude whose soul and

heart are always distracted by a multiplicity of external things.

There are men, on the contrary, who in public places, in the

midst of a market, and surrounded by countless distractions, know

so well how to keep their heart and senses recollected, that

nothing can trouble their interior peace or injure their soul.

These deserve the name of religious far more than the former."

(_Sermons_.)

Tauler goes farther. When those men who place God in external

acts remain apparently virtuous, "the Lord," says he, "turns away

from them. But when, in his mercy, he allows them to fall into

grievous exterior faults, then he returns to them and offers them

forgiveness." Tauler is always in the sky. He never stays long on

earth. "God," says he, "can unite himself to the soul simply,

immediately, _and without image_. He acts in the soul by an

immediate operation; he operates in the depths of the mind where

no image ever penetrates, and which are accessible only to him.

But no creature can do this. God, the Father, begets his Son in

the soul, not by means of an image, but by a process similar to

the eternal generation. Do you want to know how divine generation

takes place? God the Father knows himself, and comprehends

himself perfectly. He sees down to the very source of his being;

and contemplates himself, not by aid of an image, but in his own

essence. Thus he engenders his Son in the unity of divine nature.

In this manner also the Father produces him in the essence of the

soul, and unites himself to her." (_Sermons_.)

All the discourses of Tauler end by a refrain. The chorus of his

song is ever divine unity. Tauler is hardly a man; he is a voice

speaking in the wilderness, calling men to descend into the

depths of their souls. All his doctrine may be resumed in this

word, to which we must give its etymological signification:

_Adieu, à Dieu_. [Footnote 99]

[Footnote 99: The point of these words is untranslatable. The

sense is _adieu_ to creatures; and turn to God--_à

Dieu!_--[Translator's Note.]]

-----------

New Publications.

History of Civilization in the Fifth Century.

Translated, by permission, from the French of A. Frederick

Ozanam, late Professor of Foreign Literature to the Faculty of

Letters at Paris. By Ashley C. Glyn, B.A., of the Inner Temple,

Barrister-at-Law. London: W. H. Allen & Co. For sale by The

Catholic Publication House, 126 Nassau street, New York.

{431}

A work like this furnishes the best antidote to the poison

contained in the writings of such sophists and falsifiers of

history as Buckle and Draper. It substitutes genuine philosophy

and history for the base metal of counterfeiters. It exhibits

truthfully what Christianity--that is, the Catholic Church, which

is concrete, real Christianity--has done in creating the

civilization whose benefits we are now enjoying. The translator's

preface furnishes so interesting a sketch of M. Ozanam's life and

literary career, that we are sure of giving a great gratification

to our readers by transferring the greater portion of it to our

pages.

"A few words may be said as to the career of the author,

Frederic Ozanam, whose name has not yet become widely known in

this country. He was born August 23d, 1813, at Milan, where his

father, who had fallen into poverty, was residing and studying

medicine. His mother, whose maiden name had been Marie Nantas,

was daughter to a rich Lyonnese merchant, and it was to that

city that his parents returned in 1816. The father obtained

there a considerable reputation as a doctor, and died from the

effects of an accident in 1837. His son pursued his studies at

Paris with great success, and was destined for the bar. He took

a prominent place in the thoughtful and religious party among

the students, and his published letters show how he became

identified with the movement set on foot by Lacordaire and

others. He was especially distinguished, however, by the

foundation of an association of benevolence, called the Society

of St. Vincent of Paul, which from its small beginnings in

Paris spread over France, and has at the present time its

conferences, composed of laymen, in all the larger towns of

Europe. M. Ozanam showed, even during his student life, a

leaning toward literary pursuits, and a distaste for the

profession of the bar, to which he was destined; but he joined

the bar of Lyons, obtained some success as an advocate, and was

chosen in 1839 as the first occupant of the professional chair

of Commercial Law, which had just been established in that

city. The courses of lectures given by him were well attended,

the lectures themselves were eloquent and learned, and M.

Ozanam seems to have preferred inculcating the science of

jurisprudence to practising in the courts. But in the course of

the following year, 1840, he obtained an appointment which was

still more suitable to his talent, the Professorship of Foreign

Literature at Paris, and which gave him a perfect opportunity

for the cultivation of his favorite pursuit, the philosophy of

history. Shortly after his appointment, M. Ozanam married, and

the remaining years of his life were spent in the duties of his

calling; in travelling, partly for the sake of health and

pleasure, partly to gain information which might be woven into

his lectures; and in visits to his many friends, chiefly those

who had taken an active part with him in upholding the

interests of religion in France. He never entered upon active

political life, though he offered himself upon a requisition of

his fellow-townsmen as representative of Lyons in the National

Assembly of 1848. In politics M. Ozanam was a decided liberal,

in religion a fervent Catholic. His letters show a great

dislike of any alliance between the church and absolutism, and

a conviction that religion and an enlightened democracy might

flourish together. He wrote in the _Correspondant_, which

embodied the newer ideas, and was frequently animadverted upon

by the _Univers_, which represented the more conservative

party in church and state. His more important works were

developed from lectures delivered at the Sorbonne; and his

scheme was to embrace the history of civilization from the fall

of the Roman Empire to the time of Dante. But failing health,

although much was completed, did not allow him entirely to

achieve the great object which he had originally conceived when

a mere boy; and the touching words in which he expressed his

resignation to an early death, when his already brilliant life

promised an increase of success, and his cup of domestic

happiness was entirely full, may be found among his published

writings. M. Ozanam seems to have continued his literary labors

as long as rapidly increasing weakness would permit, but after

a stay in Italy, which did not avail to restore his broken

health, he reached his native country only to die, September

8th, 1853, in the fortieth year of his age, and the heyday of a

bright and useful career. He was lamented by troops of friends,

old and young, rich and poor--the latter indeed being under

especial obligations to his memory. His friend, M. Ampère,

became his literary executor, and undertook the task of giving

his complete works to the public, for which end a subscription

was quickly raised among those who had known and respected him

at Lyons and elsewhere. From the lectures which he had

completed and revised, from reports of others, and his own

manuscript notes, an edition of his complete works was formed

in nine volumes, comprising _La Civilisation au Cinquième

Siècle, Etudes Germaniques, Les Poëtes Franciscains, Dante et

la Philosophie Catholique au Treizième Sièle_, and

_Mélanges_,

to which were added two volumes of his letters.

{432}

"The work which has now been translated forms the first two

volumes of the above series, and was intended by the author as

the opening of the grand historical treatise which he had

designed. As it was delivered originally in the shape of

lectures, and preserves that form in the French edition, it has

been necessary, in order to preserve the continuity of the

historical narrative, to alter the constructions occasionally,

and to pass over a sentence here and there which refers solely

to the audience of students to which the lectures were

originally addressed."

---

The Illustrated Catholic Sunday-School Library.

First series of 12 volumes, pp. 144 each.

New York: The Catholic Publication Society,

126 Nassau street. 1868.

This is the initial set of a New Illustrated Catholic

Sunday-School Library, now in preparation by the Catholic

Publication Society. It contains 12 handsome volumes, put up in a

neat paper box. The titles of the volumes in this, the first

series, are as follows:

_Madeleine, the Rosière;_

_The Crusade of the Children;_

_Tales of the Affections;_

_Adventures of Travel;_

_Truth and Trust;_

_Select Popular Tales;_

_The Rivals;_

_The Battle of Lepanto and The Relief of Vienna;_

_Scenes and Incidents at Sea;_

_The School-Boys and The Boy and the Man;_

_Beautiful Little Rose;_

and _Florestine, or Unexpected Joy_.

From the above list it will be seen that the set comprises

fiction, history, and adventures. This set of books has been

selected with an eye to give our Catholic youth useful as well as

entertaining reading. The illustrations are good, but might be

better--however, they are a great improvement on the class of

illustrations heretofore printed in our Catholic books. The type,

paper, and binding are excellent. We hope these books will be

extensively used as premiums in our schools, as well as find a

place in every Catholic library in the country.

---

Assemblee Generale Des Catholiques en Belgique.

27 Sept., 1867. Bruxelles: Devaux.

This large volume of 900 royal octavo pages, which has been just

received from M. Ducpetiaux, of Brussels, is a complete record of

the transactions of the late Catholic Congress of Malines. Among

other things it contains the complete report of F. Hecker on the

state of Catholicity in the United States, correctly translated

into French. It is truly surprising to see what an immense amount

of business can be transacted in one week, when all are intent

upon doing the work in hand, and nothing else. Some of our

legislators might learn a valuable lesson in this regard from

this volume. The noisy and vulgar writers for the newspapers, and

the other clamorous declaimers in speech and print, who are

constantly repeating their hoarse outcry of ignorance and

superstition against the Catholics of Europe, would be completely

silenced and put to shame, if that were a possible thing, if the

records of the Congress of Malines could be placed in the hands

of all their intelligent readers. We may safely challenge the

world to produce another similar volume, bearing so clear an

impress of intelligence, good taste, patriotism, philanthropy,

and religious zeal as this. Give us only a sufficient quantity of

Catholicity like this, and we will renovate the earth.

---

Received from Kelly & Piet, Baltimore:

_The Ghost_; a comedy in three acts. Taken from the

French. Pp. 50. Price, 50 cents.

_The Banquet of Theodulus; or, The Reunion of the Different

Christian Communions._ By the late Baron de Starck. New

edition. Pp.204. Price, $1.

From H. M'Grath, Philadelphia: _White's Confutation of the

Church of Englandism, and Correct Exposition of the Catholic

Faith_. Translated from the Latin by E. W. O'Mahony. 1 vol.,

pp. 342. New Edition. Price, $1.25.

---

"The Catholic Publication Society" has in press, and will soon

publish, the second series of the new _Illustrated Catholic

Sunday-School Library_, and a new edition of _Moehler's

Symbolism; Problems of the Age, Nellie Netterville_, and _A

Sister's Story_ are now being printed, and will be ready in a

short time.

----------

{433}

THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

Vol. VII., No. 40.--July, 1868.

A Plea For Liberty Of Conscience.

Foreseeing that we shall be obliged, in this present article, to

present some very unpalatable truths to a portion of our readers,

we assure them in the outset that we do not wish unnecessarily to

revive unpleasant recollections.

Facts are facts, however, history is history, and truth is truth;

and so long as we do not cherish a malevolent spirit, or seek to

embitter and envenom the minds of our fellow-men against each

other, there is no reason why we should not have liberty to speak

plainly, even about very ugly and very discreditable things. On

the present occasion, we use this liberty in defence of the weak

and defenceless against tyranny and oppression, in defence of the

rights of conscience and religious freedom in the case of a

considerable number of persons grossly disregarded and violated.

The right which we undertake to defend is the right to embrace,

profess, and practise the Catholic religion; and the wrong which

we wish to contend against is the system of domestic and social

tyranny by which this right is impeded. It may appear to some a

very curious statement, yet we venture to make it boldly, that in

every part of the world where the English race is dominant,

Catholics have been engaged, ever since the era of Protestant

ascendency, in a struggle for liberty of conscience against

spiritual tyranny, either political, social, or both combined. We

do not propose to go back to the period of penal laws, civil

disabilities, and legal persecution in Great Britain and America,

just at present. This is a chapter in history already tolerably

well elucidated and likely to be still further commented upon in

the future. We will let it pass, however, for the present, and

confine our view to a more recent period, during which,

theoretically speaking, in England Catholics have enjoyed full

toleration, and in the United States equal liberty with other

citizens.

Notwithstanding this theoretical liberty. Catholics have been

exposed, as every one knows, to outbreaks of popular violence, in

which their blood has been shed, their churches and other

property burned and destroyed, and their religion made the object

of denunciation, vituperation, and ridicule in a wholesale

manner.

{434}

The primary cause of this state of things is to be found in the

representation which Protestant preachers and writers have made

of the Catholic religion. On this head we will content ourselves

with quoting the language of a Protestant clergyman, the Rev.

Leonard W. Bacon, of Williamsburg, L. I., which we have just seen

in a report of one of his sermons published in the _Brooklyn

Times_ for March 17th, 1868:

"The duty of considering the question now submitted to us has

required me to stand before shelves filled with volumes of

antipapal literature, and to glance from page to page of its

contents. The character of much of that literature is a shame and

a scandal to the cause in which it is uttered. It is full of evil

and uncharitable talk against Romanists and their clergy, and

deformed with bad temper and bad logic and reckless assertion." A

few sentences further on he designates a certain class of writers

against the Catholic religion as the "scurrilous crew of

antipopery-mongers, who make a trade of the prejudices and

passions of the American public, feeding them with vituperation

and invective."

This description applies to a class of writers in England and

Ireland equally as well as to the class designated among

ourselves. We pass over all that the general body of the Catholic

clergy and people have had to suffer from the general prejudice

against them created and excited by the calumnies and invectives

of these writers and declaimers against their religion. We fix

our attention upon one point only, what those persons have had

and still have to suffer from this prejudice who have become

Catholics from conviction and choice, or who have wished to do

so, and would have done so, had they not been deterred by the

violent opposition they have encountered.

In England, a little stream of reconversion began to set back to

the ancient church during the cruel and despotic reign of

Elizabeth, which continued to run during several succeeding

reigns, but at last was either totally or almost dried up. Its

source received a new supply through the influence of the French

clergy who were refugees in England, and at length the current

began to flow more fully and strongly than ever. Within the last

twenty-five years the movement of return to Catholic unity has

been steadily progressing, until it has become so considerable as

to attract universal attention, and awaken general anxiety

concerning its probable results. In the United States, a few rare

and isolated instances of conversion occurred from time to time

during the early part of the present century, which have become

much more numerous within the past twenty-five years, from

various causes which we need not specify. At present, there are

probably fifty thousand converts within the fold of the Catholic

Church of this Republic, a great many more who would gladly

become Catholics if there were no sacrifices to be made in order

to do so, and an indefinite number of persons who are more or

less favorably predisposed toward the Catholic religion or

partially convinced of its truth. From the first day on which

these strayed children of the holy Mother Church began to retrace

their steps to her blessed fold to the present moment, there has

been essentially the same story to tell of the disregard and

violation of that liberty of conscience and right of religious

freedom which Protestants have been so loudly proclaiming ever

since they have had existence.

{435}

In the earlier period of this disastrous epoch, some have

suffered a literal martyrdom, and all along, down to the present

time, many others have endured a moral martyrdom which is perhaps

harder to bear as well as more lingering in its agony. Very many

have needed a virtue and constancy truly heroic or bordering on

the heroic, in order to nerve themselves to the sacrifices and to

push through the opposition which they have been forced to

encounter as the condition of becoming members of the Catholic

Church and following the voice of their reason and conscience.

Those whose memory goes back over the last twenty or twenty-five

years, can recall the storm of indignation and obloquy evoked by

the first remarkable conversions which took place as the sequel

of the Catholicizing movement originating at Oxford. As a general

rule, the converts in England, even though belonging to the

highest classes in society, including the nobility, and well

known for their exemplary moral character, found themselves

ostracized from the circles in which they had been wont to move,

shunned by their most intimate friends, in many instances

excluded from intercourse wholly or in great measure with the

members of their own families. Some persons of high rank were

obliged to go abroad, in order to find the society of persons of

their own class which they needed for themselves and their

families. It was the same in our own country. A convert to the

Catholic Church found himself treated as an individual who had

abjured Christianity, engaged in a conspiracy against his country

and the human race, or as if he had been detected in perjury or

forging notes. Every one was speculating upon the motives and

cause of his strange conduct, as they have been recently, in

England upon the Rev. Mr. Speke's sudden disappearance and

mysterious rambles. Insanity was the most frequent and the most

charitable reason assigned for an act generally considered as

utterly unreasonable and disreputable. Some were excluded from

the bosoms of their own families; some were disinherited by those

whose heirs of blood they would have been; and others, who were

helpless, dependent persons, were thrown upon the world by near

and rich relations, who had hitherto supported them, and would

gladly have continued to do so had they consented to smother

their consciences. Some have been thrown out of business and

employment, reduced to straits in order to gain a living, or even

to extreme poverty and suffering. We do not allude now to those

Protestant clergymen with families who have resigned their

benefices in the Church of England, or given up their salaried

offices in the Protestant Churches of the United States. The

sacrifices made by these individuals, although very great, were

unavoidably necessary, and cannot be attributed to any injustice

or illiberality in the Protestant community. But we refer to

those cases where persons have been deserted and abandoned by

those on whose previous good-will, patronage, or custom they had

been dependent for the means of gaining their living, for no

other reason than the simple fact of their becoming Catholics. We

may add to these more serious matters the infinitude of petty

grievances and annoyances to which many persons are subjected by

their relatives and friends. Their religion is attacked and

ridiculed, without regard to the proprieties of polite

intercourse, as if a Catholic were out of the category of persons

whose convictions and sentiments are entitled to respect.

{436}

Obstacles are placed in the way of their fulfilling the duties of

their religion. Their children are enticed to eat meat on days of

abstinence, to attend Protestant churches, to read anticatholic

books, to shun the society of Catholics, without regard to the

conscience of the child or the authority of the parent. Every

possible influence is brought to bear upon them to make them feel

that their religion places them at a social disadvantage, and

that Protestantism is more genteel and respectable. In short, if

we try to imagine the state of things which converts to

Christianity had to struggle with in Rome and the gentile world

after the laws had ceased to persecute, but before the Christian

religion had ceased to be a despised and unpopular religion, we

shall have a very good counterpart of the present condition of

Catholic converts in England and the United States.

The trials and difficulties of those who are on the way to the

Catholic Church are even greater than those which have to be

encountered afterward. Not to speak of the interior trials which

are necessarily involved in the process of conversion, even for

those who are perfectly free and independent, or even placed

under influences which facilitate the transition to Catholicity,

there are exterior difficulties in the case of most persons of

the gravest and most distressing nature. Besides the opposition

of relatives and friends, in the shape of argument, entreaty,

expostulation, sorrowful disapprobation, which is the more

painful and the harder to be overcome the more kind and

affectionate it is in manner and spirit, the dread of wounding

and grieving those who are dearest and most respected,

disappointing their hopes and incurring their displeasure, there

is often to be encountered the might of spiritual tyranny, the

violence of a parent's or husband's despotic will, and, in short,

a _persecution_ worse to be borne than would be a summary

trial and execution. Unhappily, these trials are often too great

for the courage of those who have received the inward vocation to

the Catholic faith, and who are required to undergo so much if

they would follow it. Some are afraid of losing caste, some of

being turned out of doors, some of losing their livelihood;

others are afraid of encountering the anger and reproaches of

their friends, or the scorn and calumny of the world, or the loss

of popularity. There are those who are deterred by their dainty

and fastidious dislike of mingling with the poor, and who cannot

bring themselves to go to a church which is humble or mean in its

appearance, to receive the sacraments from a priest of unpolished

exterior. But these last have themselves only to blame, although

we may commiserate their weakness, and lay the chief blame of it

on the false maxims prevalent in the community at large.

It would be easy to cite numerous instances in illustration of

all that we have just said upon this subject, from personal

knowledge or the testimony of others; and if it were possible for

the complete history of the conversions to the Catholic Church

which have occurred during the last quarter of a century to be

written and published, it would be, for the most part, only an

extensive commentary upon the statements we have made. Even then

the saddest part of the story must remain untold, unless all

those who have been deterred from obeying the voice of conscience

could be induced to publish their confessions to the world, and

those who have died in perplexity and distress for the want of

those sacraments which their own cowardice or the refusal of

their friends prevented them from receiving, could come back from

the grave to add their testimony to that of the living.

{437}

The writer of these pages was acquainted with a gentleman of

eminent position in the world, who was for a long time a Catholic

at heart, and who on his death-bed desired to see a priest with

whom he was intimately acquainted, that he might receive the last

sacraments from his hands. This priest, who was a man of the

greatest dignity of character and universally venerated in the

community, called at the house several times, was politely

received, but never permitted to see the dying man. When the poor

old man perceived his last hour drawing near, he called his

faithful Irish nurse to his bedside, as the only true friend to

whom he could open his grief, and confided to her the sorrow that

was darkening his dying moments. He told her that he desired to

see a priest, to make his confession and to receive the last

sacraments, but that his request was denied, so that he had given

up all hope of his salvation, and believed himself doomed to die

in despair. The good girl comforted and soothed him, assured him

that he need not distrust the mercy of God, and explained to him

that in his case a perfect contrition for his sins would suffice

for their full remission. He begged of her to teach him how to

make the acts of faith, hope, charity, and contrition, to recite

prayers by his side, and to help him to prepare for death. She

did so, and through her holy ministrations his soul was

tranquillized, so that he died in peace.

The writer was once sent for by a man of unusual intelligence and

plain, respectable standing, who was in reduced circumstances,

and dying of a slow consumption. He learned from the lips of this

man that he had been for some time perfectly convinced of the

truth of the Catholic religion, and was satisfied that it was his

duty to be received into the church. Nevertheless, it was

impossible to persuade him to act on his convictions, because he

was sure that the assistance of certain societies, upon which his

family depended, would be withdrawn. He hoped to recover, and

promised that, if he did, he would profess his faith openly; but

we never heard anything more from him, and have never heard the

conclusion of his sad history.